Apple of Discord

Lo siento mucho. It’s a condolence used in my culture, resonant of any type of suffering. “I feel
it very much” is a way to convey a heartfelt synergy with loved ones and to provide comfort and
hope. By using these words, Hispanics immerse themselves in the needs of their culture and escape from tragedy not of their own making—tragedy formed from prejudice played out in self-
hate and turned into an obsession with alcohol, borne of an attempt to rid the memories of generational suffering.

Hispanics also hold a place of discord in their collective soul. There is discord made up
of passion and pride. Our passion for life spills over even in times of grief. Our pride engulfs the
physical world and is emblazoned in the food we prepare and enjoy during times of celebration
and mourning. However, a putrid discord is held in the depths of the Hispanic tragedy shown in
the passion we hold for universal grief. We crave suffering, first and foremost as a response to
generational trauma, and secondarily as a responsibility to humanity. We suffer because our
ancestors did. We suffer because we are human.

Our passion engulfs the spirit world, too. Some of us quell the spirits with booze, and
some of us embrace the spirits as our own. Either way, the suffering is the same.
As a young girl, suffering came in many forms. Raised by a single mother who made the
choice to go it alone after one too many beatings at the hand of my alcoholic father, I learned to
take it all in without making a sound. When you suffer from seeing your mother beaten,
everything else is trivial—at least that is what I was conditioned to believe. As a result, I formed
a response to pain void of emotion, and retreated to the safe world of the spirits where brujas are storytellers, too. The stories brujas tell are filled with muck and mire, pulling and coaxing to the
bottle until the habit is firm. Listening to the cacophony late at night, I made amends with lost
souls, and offered my warning to those with less of a view.

Don’t let yourself get sucked in, I would whisper.

Somehow most of my family got consumed by the grief.

Hard to believe La Familia could take such a turn. The descendants of New Mexico royalty with a history beyond statehood, our sight could have been set on the lessons instead of the sin. My forefathers gained an appreciation and respect for the land, as we merged with the original Natives to ensure heart in our clan. My Abuelita, the anchor and grandmother, commanded respect because of her strength, vision, and hope. Abuelita’s strength was evident in having raised eight children and burying a ninth with evidence of a tenth. The firstborn drowned in the acequia when the brujas claimed their stake. Later down the line, another child claimed the same fate. Abuelita’s Native clan taught the Spanish how to live without fear of the spirits. They taught how to co-mingle with pride. We then learned to survive by keeping love for family as the priority in line.

The death of Abuelita, the matriarch of our family, was inevitable but still a big shock.
Having died in her sleep, the brujas lay in wait to witness the pain. Abuelita lay in the cuarto
with no fogón, the coldest room of the house. When I glanced at the coffin during her vigil, I
didn’t recognize the face. Quickly looking away, I focused on the coffin to keep from attracting
the brujas’ attention as they lingered in the high corners of the room.

The kitchen was Abuelita’s pride. Abuelita made tortillas by squishing the dough over
and over again with her tiny warm hands. She would pull and tug, and then slowly massaging
and coaxing the dough into soft squishy balls. Then she would line up the squishy balls of dough in straight rows and count them slowly, touching each with her gentle fingers, tender with
resolve. Now, lying in the coffin, her hands felt cold, dry, and hard. I recoiled in disgust.
Ashamed of my instinct, I pulled at my mantilla and knotted it firmly under my chin.

The death of the matriarch, with a life lived as fully as Abuelita’s, was surely a sign La
Familia would endure. Our people surviving meant coming together at Abuelita’s house. All the
brothers and sisters in one room, smoking and drinking after the funeral. The uncles and aunts sat
at the kitchen table, where the adobe walls in the kitchen had cracked after decades in the dry
New Mexico air. Their voices growing uncomfortably loud with each drink. If the bottle held a
promise, it would be the offering of warmth. The memories too vivid and somehow too strong to
ignore. So, the brothers and sisters each told their stories to show how their mother had forged a
path full of promise drenched in love and compassion. They remembered things differently and
fought over the details. But none could change the reality of the night.

My cousins and I were outside in the orchard, telling our stories as well. Six girls together
one last time. Unaware of our fate, we held flashlights under blankets and told scary stories until
the youngest would cry. I held my breath so no one would know just how scared I was. Mostly, I
held my breath so the brujas couldn’t hear me as they flew overhead. Then, with the strength that
only a clan can muster, we huddled together and lay our last plan. We all made a pact. Whoever
died first, we’d come back in sequence and pull the leg of the ones left behind.

Having made the pact, we all went indoors where the kitchen counter was overflowing
with platters and bowls full of posole, beans, tortillas, and empanadas. The community had come
together to make sure we were fed and offered hushed remarks. Lo siento mucho. The loving task
of cooking left to less capable hands. The empanadas at the end of the counter were smashed and had half-burned edges. They looked rushed and uncared for. The apple filling oozed from the
sides and made them seem tired and worn out.

I remember myself as a child in Abuelita’s orchard, climbing up the apple trees with the ease of a
monkey. I held a firm resolve that came from never looking back. I’ve always preferred bitter
apples, the crisp green ones that hold on until the end. As sure as I’d gone up the tree, I’d find
my way back down, holding the tiny green apples in my shirt, pulled up high on my belly. Once
down from the tree, I’d empty the apples in the wooden bushels piled next to the barn. To get to
those bushels, I’d have to cross the acequia by balancing on a wood beam laid across the water.
The beam was swollen and half rotten. I hesitated and wondered if it was the same beam that had
rolled at the hands of the brujas, throwing my unknown Aunts into the acequia to drown. My
hesitation was quelled by the call of Abuelita. I made my way towards the house with the brujas
at my side. Running faster, I felt the squishing of the fermented familiar apples, too sweet and
sour to ignore.

No matter how early the picking would start, the yellow apples always fell from the trees
and turned mushy and brown. Beneath dozens of feet of children and grandchildren, our weight
was enough for the orchard to rot over. To keep from smelling the stench, we learned to tie our
bandanas across our noses and later let them fall to our neck, when the smell finally turned less
rancid and somehow pleasant in the cool autumn wind.

Just as we became accustomed to the smell of rotting apples in the orchard, our family became
accustomed to the trauma inherent to our culture—generational trauma infused with torrential
alcoholic binges, and as a result, abhorrent cruelty at the hands of our own. Beatings and unrelenting hatred aimed at the weakest of the clan, until the discord borne from our passion was
no longer a source of pride.

As the vigil dismantled, each member of the family more anchored to our passion and pride, I
felt the presence of a resonant discord deep in my belly. Even at my young age, I knew the
divide between the sin and me would be a harsh statement to make. I resolved then and there to
keep Abuelita by my side. In that moment, I felt Abuelita take a place inside of me. I became the
apple that didn’t get spoiled by the sin. I was the one that would hold on until the end. By trading
the lure of the brujas for the spirit of someone bathed in calm, I became the outcast, too good for
my own. Most of the others found their solace in the bottom of the bottle, with the brujas
lingering in plain sight. The familiar discord that arose from suffering would take its toll and
leave a mark for posterity to bear.

One by one, the aunts and uncles exited Abuelita’s house, and with the autumn wind
blowing hard, they habitually held their breath, anticipating the stench.

Susan Griego is a Latina/Indigenous writer who uses her culture and generational trauma as inspiration. As a descendent of the first Hispanic Governor of New Mexico and of Genizaros, she aligns with the fervid spirit of the land. Her most recent award-winning publication focuses on her youth and the unique soil of her home state. Susan lives off-grid in the mountains of New Mexico with her partner and four dogs.