***I HAVE A CHRISTMAS WISH!*** I have spent years, literally, writing my memoir. I wish I could convey how much time and dedicated effort I have spent, but, ironically, I don’t think I could express that in words. It is my wish to share one chapter of it in hopes that you will read it, enjoy it, and in turn share it with as many people as possible. I humbly ask you for a little bit of your time to help fulfill my life’s dream.
Sincerely,
Deanna
Chapter 2: The Man of My Dreams
I arrived to our first practice for a dance performance in a multicultural show on campus. At the time, The College of William and Mary was a largely Caucasian Campus, but I joined The Latin American Club and La Organizacion de Hispanos Unidos because I was proud of my cultural heritage, and I loved Latin music. I loved music period. My parents had me take piano lessons for many years, and my musical affinity was a genetic trait I’d inherited from my father. It was how I connected with him. I would play songs on my boom box so we could listen together, and the music would take us to euphoria. One of my favorite artists I would play was Gloria Estefan. I had all of her cassette albums and videos and concerts on VHS. I loved her music, her voice, her beauty, and her spirit; I wanted to be just like her in every way. I even cut out photos and articles about her and glued them on the pages of a scrapbook. I’d watch her videos to teach me how to dance and sing along to every song. Dancing was another passion of mine to learn and show off my skills. I had natural rhythm and a foundation of some moves from watching Gloria, but I didn’t have any formal Latin dance training.
Now at our practice, I noticed one of the men in the room. I’d never seen him. Before beginning to learn the choreography, our teacher needed to determine partners by height. For once, my height was an advantage because it allowed me to be paired with the man that I had never seen.
“Hi. My name is Jorge Andres,” he said with that Latin accent, charm and smile. I was a sucker for that Latin look and charm, something I had inherited from my mother. My father was handsome, charismatic, and hilarious. Jorge Andres was tall, tan, and beautiful. His style was classic with khaki pants and button-down shirts. Jorge Andres stepped right out of my dream and stood before me.
I learned that he was from Ecuador and was seven years older than me, but a junior and a finance student in the the business school, something we had in common. Since the dance was a combination of Brazilian dance, Salsa, Merengue, and Flamenco, the choreography was very sensual, which for me was both exciting and uncomfortable. The chemistry magnified as he moved me across the floor. I couldn’t believe I got to dance with him. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.
One night while we were practicing, he was trying to show me a Merengue turn. “Put your left hand behind your back,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied and did as he asked.
He put his left arm behind my back and grabbed that hand.
“Put your right arm through my left arm and around my back and grab my right hand.”
I followed. With our arms tangled, he pulled me in so that my pelvis was pressed against his and my right leg was in between his legs. The position made me avert my eyes from his. He led me to begin the basic Merengue step, which was just alternating steps with my right foot and my left foot.
“Now you’re going to turn to your right while I turn to my right and come back to face me without letting my hands go.”
We turned simultaneously and returned back to the original position, hands still holding while continuing the basic step. It was the sexiest move I had ever learned.
His charm, infectious smile, and flirtations overpowered me. I’m sure I remained flushed the entire time we danced. We shared a love of Luis Miguel who sang romantic Latin classic ballads. My father used to make me cassette copies of his albums. I let Jorge Andres borrow one of the tapes. We would listen to his songs. I felt like I was in my own romance with Luis serenading and the violins playing.
One night after practice, he offered me a ride home. We walked to his car and got in. He leaned over to kiss me. It was so magnetic that I climbed over the center console into his lap to further indulge in his mouth. I can’t believe I actually did that! He wasn’t phased by my reaction, and our mouth discovery continued for a good while. It was my first real kiss. Technically, I pecked a boy named Javier in my abuelita’s (grandmother’s) neighborhood in Cali, Colombia when I was thirteen, but this kiss erased that one from existence. I was instantaneously hooked and beyond all reason. I sat in marketing class with butterflies in my stomach and my head in the clouds, convinced that God had delivered me a tall, attractive, Latino all the way to the most unlikely place – the predominantly Caucasian, small, Colonial Williamsburg. He was the man of my dreams, and we were meant to be.
Or at least I had thought.
After that night, things changed, and he completely ignored me. I didn’t understand what had happened, and I was crushed. Just like that my inner teenage kid returned. Back then, my body parts were growing in a direction of their own without conferring with the rest – what I call the alien stages. My assortment of oversized plastic-framed glasses didn’t help my case either. I had been wearing them since I was in the first grade. The vision in my left eye was so bad that the lens was thicker than the frame. And there was my thick, frizzy, and long hair. I didn’t wear my hair; it wore me. My ears also stuck out from my head.
I didn’t fit in with my classmates. Since I attended the same private school from 1st grade until senior year, a lot of the same kids were in my class from year one, so I was a misfit from early on. I was the shy, quiet, nerdy kid who was socially awkward. Unpopular was my middle name. Many of the most popular girls were spoiled obnoxious brats and were “fake nice” to me, or they just didn’t talk to me at all. These girls weren’t necessarily pretty, but they were the cool kids. My class had a large concentration of attractive boys, many of which I had crushes on. I daydreamed of being with them. None, to my knowledge ever gave me a second look. Some of the boys would speak to me condescendingly, but most just didn’t even know I was there. I’m not sure what was worse – being undervalued or being invisible.
Conversely, my sister Karen was the opposite. She was very visible and was asked to many dances. I would style her hair and do her nails for those occasions, but was never asked myself. Although I had longed to be the girl that all boys stood in line for, my life would’ve been very different. The Dave Matthews Band’s song “Dancing Nancies” describes it best. If I had been popular, “could I have been” the girl who didn’t get into a good university because of a boy? Or perhaps the girl who was pressured to drink, smoke, or do drugs. Or maybe I would have had a “Dancing Nancy” a little too young. Instead, I was the kid who was best friends with the TV, and mastered songs like “Clair de Lune” on the piano.
Insecurity took root. I began to think I was abnormal from everyone else for reasons I won’t get into. I made an assumption that for me was the truth. That assumption was that everyone was better than me. I’d get fixated on those feelings which manifested into dissolution and guilt, creating physical pain in my stomach. The only way I could be freed from this feeling was when I shared with my mother what made me feel that way. I was always terrified to do so, afraid I was going to tell her something that would make her confirm I was truly abnormal or unworthy of love. I’d find some excuse to go talk to her, often when she was alone cleaning the kitchen and finally had the courage to reveal what was weighing on my mind. It was the only way I could release the weight and the pain.
“You’re normal. I don’t know why you don’t think you are,” she said.
The validation made me feel good for a short while until I questioned myself again just because that’s what I did. It was a vicious cycle that continued for years. My confessions took a toll on my mother. She didn’t know how to convince me that I was normal. She could have said it a thousand times, but it didn’t matter. I simply wrote it off as She’s my mother, and she has to say that.
Popularity was all I wanted back then. That was the only validation that mattered. I had my brain and my good grades, but that had less value. I tried so hard to fit in with the cool kids. At lunch, I would sit down at their lunch table uninvited, hoping they would accept and like me. Sometimes I even ditched my friend, also unpopular, for lunch because being accepted by them was more important to me than befriending her. Some of the cool girls would ask me to lend them lunch money, and I acquiesced. That investment never got me into the cool club. I was just overlooked, and these memories affected my relationships for many years to come. I’ll get into that later. Most of the time, I just ate alone. I avoided that embarrassment my senior year by volunteering to answer the phone at the front desk during lunchtime. I just didn’t know that table for one would become a normality in my future. I wore that scarlet “U” until I graduated.
And now not hearing from Jorge Andres brought the rejection and insecurity rushing back. I straightened my hair because I always had thought it looked prettier that way, and I tried to dress in outfits to make him notice me if I happened to run into him. My efforts were fruitless. My self-esteem was broken.
I finally saw Jorge Andres on campus, and we made plans to meet in my dorm room that evening. I tried to look my best in a short black and white plaid tank dress, hopeful that I could make him like me again. We sat on my bed to have a talk.
“I have a girlfriend,” he confessed.
Those four words both returned my sanity and punched me in the gut. The truth had finally come out, and it was too late. Emotion had already overtaken me. Although I’m sure he intended to tell me so that he could end things with me, he leaned in to kiss me again; powerless, I didn’t stop him. He stayed with me that night. No one had ever stayed with me before. I awkwardly navigated through it. Both fully clothed, he pressed his body against mine repeatedly and kissed me passionately, but it didn’t go beyond that. He left the next morning. I plummeted from the high of that drug. Devastated, I hoped there was some way to get him back. I still had the chance to dance with him at the show.
The night of the show arrived. I dressed myself up as prettily as I could in my costume—a red shirt, a black swirly skirt, black pantyhose, and black Mary Janes that resembled Flamenco shoes. I had double the nerves, and I could feel my blood pounding against my chest. I was going to be dancing in front of a crowd for the first time in my life with Jorge Andres. As expected, he looked so handsome in his white button-down shirt and blue jeans. Once the music started, we were in the spotlight and it was on – both my performance for the audience and my performance to get Jorge Andres back. During the Flamenco piece, each pair had one arm curved upward and one arm curved downward behind our backs in opposite directions from one another as we stared at each other intensely, dancing around the other in a circle. It was symbolic of the passion and the tension. It was nerve-racking and exhilarating to be in front of an audience dancing with Jorge Andres. Besides one abrupt turn he led, I think we put on a great performance overall. It was over so quickly.
After the show, all of the dancers gathered to take pictures together, but Jorge Andres had left. It was my last dance with him. The man of my dreams appeared instantly out of nowhere and the romance was gone just as quickly. I cried and felt like I would never get over it. My good friend Meredith tried to cheer me up. Like Luis Miguel’s ballad, it was Todo y Nada (Everything and Nothing). It was an illusion, one of many I would encounter and fall for. It took me a long time to realize that someone attractive on the outside doesn’t often correlate with attractive on the inside.