A pattern sets in...and then I had a bad accident
In which Teófilo continues the story of his life after Mamá Ana's passing, and tells about his epic bicycle fall of 1972.
The year 1971 went out in a blur, with me crying lamely on St. Sylvester's day, being silly because the year had come to an end. Mom asked me what I was crying about and upon learning of my reason, reminded me how bad the year had been.
I found her riposte reasonable. I stopped crying.
Along with Mamá Ana, 1971 took away our family unity. I didn't know it yet but my golden years had come to an end. The clash between Mom and Titi Gloria would take darker overtones as time went on from 1971. Mom would grow in her resentments toward Titi Gloria in ever greater leaps. Titi Gloria would reply in kind. If I had known how to cut through the evil atmosphere with a knife, I would've.
Mom started developing what she saw as strengths. Her ability to deny any request from Papi and Titi Gloria, no matter how benign it was, was one such "strength." Her "analytical prowess" was another such "strength" she claimed. She thought she could link unrelated events with perceived slights aimed her way. Her insights then became undeniable facts. This ability for casuistry led Mom to believe she had unique insight into other people. Those who disagreed with her facts became persona non grata. Her judgment then spawned more anger, resentments, against those she ranted against. In reality, all these were symptoms her narcissism was deepening its roots within her.
Papi would do nothing to heal their rift. Papi must've thought there was nothing he could do to solve their conflict. Besides, he had his own recent grief to deal with.
I often saw Papi climbing to the roof of the house, often wearing a hat made from a paper bag. That was his way of protecting himself from the sun. He would roll the bag's opening a few times and then wear it on his head as a sort of cheap turban. He would say he was working on the roof doing this or that, but instead would look away toward the cement plant. He did because the cemetery was nearby the plant and that was his way to connect with Mamá Ana. I once heard him crying out of control in his bathroom. The other adults steered me away from the scene and protect Papi's privacy. I didn't understand then why he cried, but I do now.
Mamá's passing removed the glue keeping us together. Her death marked the beginning of a pattern that would govern my young life until I left home forever.
Three Kings' Day brought to me my first bicycle in 1972. I couldn't wait to ride it. Papi put together the bike, ensuring the training wheels didn't touch the ground. Someone thought I would learn to ride the bike in two wheels faster that way. I don't know who had that idea, but I accepted without complaints.
One night I noticed I was riding fast and light. I felt a very smooth ride on my bike. Mom noticed and told the neighbor I was riding in two wheels without me knowing. I felt great and wondered how the training wheels were doing their work.
Eager to repeat the ride and the rush I'd felt the previous night, I asked Papi to take me to ride the bike. It was on C Street. Right away I noticed I wasn't to repeat my prior achievement. I remember I had problems controlling the handlebar. I saw Papi several yards down the street beckoning me. I headed toward him and I remember him extending his right arm to the right...
I remember seeing shades of red and pink in my vision. I had my eyes closed. There was something wet against my cheeks. I opened my eyes and found myself on our sofa. I had lost control of the bike and crashed against a field of rocks peppering the street before Papi. I've had a concussion and lost consciousness. In a voice almost not my own I asked what'd happened. Mom told me I had fallen from my bike.
I looked at myself on the mirror that at that time hung from the living room wall. I didn’t recognize myself. It was pockmarked by several bruises and rips on my skin. My cheeks were swollen. One eye was half-opened. A baby tooth was loose. There were more bruises and scratches on both my forearms and knees. To complete the shame, I had peed on myself. I looked like I've gotten into a fight, and lost.
These were the days before safety helmets and knee-pads, mind you. My Guardian Angel must’ve worked overtime that day. I had no broken bones, just my pride.
My voice was raspy and I felt dizzy. No one took me to the ER, despite the concussion and losing consciousness. These things happened and they were par for the course, they said. I told Mom I didn't feel like going to school the following Monday. She would have none of it. It was her way of teaching me resilience and build up my character.
Next day at la Academia I walked to my homeroom suffering everyone's stares. I knocked at the door suspecting Sister Amelia was there and would open it. She was, and when she opened the door and saw me, a look of shock and then plain horror came over her. She bid me entry right away and I took my usual seat, explaining that me caí de la bicicleta ("I fell from my bicycle"). That was explanation I was repeat a lot that day as every kid would ask me what'd happened to me. It made me the center of attention for a while and I enjoyed that. I had lunch on my school desk.
I would not try riding my bicycle again until the summer of 1973. What happened next will be the subject of my next entry.