Illustration
This is the illustration I did for the short story "To Kill a Mariposa" by San Francisco based writer Juliana Delgado.
{San Francisco, USA. 2012}
{San Francisco, USA. 2012}
To Kill a Mariposa
by Juliana Delgado Lopera
"Alright Honey, tie the masking tape around their wrists. Así no, Manuel! You have to hold the wrist tight to the chair then you wrap the tape around, otherwise it don't work papi. A ver, let me see you
do it."
Manuel is of no use when it comes to handiwork. His thick fingers stick out of his miniature hand like greasy chorizo, sweaty and slippery, and he gets nervous, insecure. I asked him to help me because well, he is my boyfriend and, well, we need to spend time together doing things that don't require penetration—although I'm beginning to question the plausibility of using my boyfriend for anything other than spanking his impeccable round ass.
"That's enough cariño, you don't wanna cut off their circulation! Did you bring your boom box Manuel? Perfecto, because my stereo is broken and I need music when I’m in drag. Light me a cigarette Hun, would you?"
Still wrapping the last piece of black tape around Moms’ wrists, squatting, while eyeing his clumsy chorizo hands in anapparent amazement, Manuel spoke to me in chopped English like he was a tweaker from Hialeah:
"Mario don't you think we are exagerando a little? I mean you are. I mean we are. I mean we could just have painted a big rainbow in their room as we planned. Why don’t we do that? I mean you should do it. I mean, why do we haveto tie them? Don't you think it's too much? Of course you don't. But don't you think they are gonna whop your ass again, and probably mine, once they are not tied? ”
Manuel is a 17-year-old ballet dancer who grew up in the depths of La Sagüesera with his robust, first generation Cuban matriarch who loves and adores his little mariconcito of a son. Doña Celia is the kind ofmadre who prayed to La Santisima Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre, walked endless pilgrimages and lit too many unscented candles so she may get a maricón with good taste who would clean and help her around the house instead of another Cuban macho man que no sirven para nada[1] and lay all day on the couch like a cerdo waiting to be served. And she did. She got Manuel. Doña Celia’s pampering of my boy is the reason Manuel was sucha fragile princesa tying up my parents and helping me out.
"Oh sweetie, the only ass that is gonna get whopped is yours for being such a bad boy! Somebody has to teach Moms and Papsto have some fun! Now please cariño, get me a cigarette".
While Manuel fetched me a Lucky Strike I sat onthe carpeted floor in front of Moms and Paps. They were comfortably seated on two wooden chairs I brought up to my room from the dining room (from the set with the flowered-plastic upholstery I advised my mother not to buy at Rooms To Go two years ago, to which she pay no attention, and now our dining room looks like somebody puked trailer park Florida all over the place. It’s not enough to be a tacky Cuban, no señor, Moms had to go all the way picuo trash).
To my right, Moms' eyes were popping out oftheir sockets. She had glossy fish eyes revolting in her face as if they were teenagers hooked on black metal. She wore a gold rosary around her neck that vibrated on her chest as her screams pulsated on the black tape covering her mouth. The tiny Jesús at the tip of the rosary was bungee jumping on her breasts and it seemed he was going to die, again, on the cross while practicing extreme sports on my mother’s tetas.
I meticulously cut the two pieces of black tape and carefully placed them on her mouth while asking Moms if her lips were comfortable or if she needed me to adjust the tape so she may feel better; but Moms is rude and spat at me.
I remember two years ago when I was thirteen and spat at her.
I remember she was barking at me from the kitchen, Mario baja a comer, come down to eat now, coño, now! Qué tu hace? What’s all you are going in that room? I remember her opening my door to find me in laced gothic couture with 2-inch lashes and 10-inch leather boots I’dbought at the Goodwill on 40 thstreet. I remember how her brown, Cuban face turned into a ghostly mime when she glimpsed at my shaved eyebrows while Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien from Piaf played in the background as I extended my arms in front of the mirror; wanting to fly like a vat out of that house.
She had pulled my gorgeous curls and hadslammed them on the floor as she cried and cried and ripped and ripped, her heavy body a stone gargoyle madly spilling her fists on me and ruining myentire attire:
Hijo de puta! In this house there is NOmaricón, oiste? Ay díos mio are you listening, Mario? Que te quede bien claro: here there are only men, nada de pájaros. I rather see you dead than a faggot.
That’s when I spat at her. It took me two hours that day to do my makeup. Two hours she destroyed in ten seconds. She did not apologize for permanently damaging my favorite dress or breaking my lashes or, god forbid! She did not apologize for the unflattering black eyes I wore the next week to school (which, I have to note, did not even camouflage under the layers and layers of foundation I applied). Oh dear, I had to tend to my eyes with bags of chamomile tea every day for the next two weeks. But, worse of it all, she did not apologize for damaging the entire energy of my room with her flat, unaesthetic presence beating my delicate face and calling me, ME, right under Ms. Piaf’s voice, a faggot.
While seated in front of her, her big thick curls hanged on her bow-down face as she moved her head to the sides indisapproval. Moms resembled a chicken right after its head has been butchered and the body continues to dance in an epileptic seizure.
"Ma, do you want me to change your tape?Are your lips okay?"
Her head came to a stop but remained bowed. She remained silent.
"Okay, just checking."
Manuel handed me the lit cigarette as I wasabout to check in on Paps. I took a long drag. Paps' nose was bleeding.
I remember a year ago when my nose bled.
It had to be a Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday because Paps’ gets home from work at 7pm sharp on those days. Back then my haircurled down to my shoulders. Back then my hair will put those Pantene commercials to shame. That Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday I'd spent the entire afternoon teasing out my curls, applying hair spray and bobby pins to resemble a frizzed just-before-prison Gloria Trevi. I knew my father would come home by seven and I was trying to keep up with time, but I got caught in my 80's Latin pop overdose frenzy in front of the livingroom mirror.
I wore Wonderwoman underwear and big hair. Nothing else.
I imitated Gloria by throwing my head from side toside, drawing semi-circles with my arms, holding Moms' statue of the Virgen, with extended palms and bloody eyeballs, as my microphone. I looked like Jesúson the cross with my ribs sticking out and my arms perpendicular to my body. The apartment smelled of hairspray and rotting frijoles.
Then I heard the cling cling cling of someone'skeys murmuring at the door and the key penetrating the lock. I heard it unlock. I heard the knob rotating to the right and heard the hoarse cough of my father. I stood paralyzed watching it all. My taxidermic body anchored to our stained carpet like I had iron muscle mass.
"Qué está pasando aquí Mario? What the fuck is happening here?"
Paps resembled a wrestler right before he throws himself onto the losing enemy. His face grew a labyrinth of veins pulling at the skin, his eyes enormous and sad, his unibrow reminded me of a wired fence.
"Nothing" I said walking towards the bathroom
"I was just about to shower".
I felt my ribcage slightly tighten and my lungsgasp for air. Paps looked so ugly and wrong. He was one of those muscular monstrous toys with spades and war gear I'd get for Christmas every single year to then decapitate and hide under my bed. And just like those horrendous masculine plastic toys he was angry, he wanted to fight ME like a man.
"Come here maricón de mierda! come here, te digo" he moved his wormy index finger at me.
I saw my body in the mirror before turning to Paps, I looked like a brown Aphrodite with an afro.
"I want you to take a seat inside the kitchenand wait for me there" his saliva sprinkled my nose.
"What for?"
I sat on the stool in my Wonderwoman panties insideour grey kitchen staring at a Cuban flag stickered on the fridge. It was 80 degrees Fahrenheit outside and my legs were shivering. My metallic purple toe nails played with the wooden bar near the floor holding the stool together. My hands
Manuel is of no use when it comes to handiwork. His thick fingers stick out of his miniature hand like greasy chorizo, sweaty and slippery, and he gets nervous, insecure. I asked him to help me because well, he is my boyfriend and, well, we need to spend time together doing things that don't require penetration—although I'm beginning to question the plausibility of using my boyfriend for anything other than spanking his impeccable round ass.
"That's enough cariño, you don't wanna cut off their circulation! Did you bring your boom box Manuel? Perfecto, because my stereo is broken and I need music when I’m in drag. Light me a cigarette Hun, would you?"
Still wrapping the last piece of black tape around Moms’ wrists, squatting, while eyeing his clumsy chorizo hands in anapparent amazement, Manuel spoke to me in chopped English like he was a tweaker from Hialeah:
"Mario don't you think we are exagerando a little? I mean you are. I mean we are. I mean we could just have painted a big rainbow in their room as we planned. Why don’t we do that? I mean you should do it. I mean, why do we haveto tie them? Don't you think it's too much? Of course you don't. But don't you think they are gonna whop your ass again, and probably mine, once they are not tied? ”
Manuel is a 17-year-old ballet dancer who grew up in the depths of La Sagüesera with his robust, first generation Cuban matriarch who loves and adores his little mariconcito of a son. Doña Celia is the kind ofmadre who prayed to La Santisima Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre, walked endless pilgrimages and lit too many unscented candles so she may get a maricón with good taste who would clean and help her around the house instead of another Cuban macho man que no sirven para nada[1] and lay all day on the couch like a cerdo waiting to be served. And she did. She got Manuel. Doña Celia’s pampering of my boy is the reason Manuel was sucha fragile princesa tying up my parents and helping me out.
"Oh sweetie, the only ass that is gonna get whopped is yours for being such a bad boy! Somebody has to teach Moms and Papsto have some fun! Now please cariño, get me a cigarette".
While Manuel fetched me a Lucky Strike I sat onthe carpeted floor in front of Moms and Paps. They were comfortably seated on two wooden chairs I brought up to my room from the dining room (from the set with the flowered-plastic upholstery I advised my mother not to buy at Rooms To Go two years ago, to which she pay no attention, and now our dining room looks like somebody puked trailer park Florida all over the place. It’s not enough to be a tacky Cuban, no señor, Moms had to go all the way picuo trash).
To my right, Moms' eyes were popping out oftheir sockets. She had glossy fish eyes revolting in her face as if they were teenagers hooked on black metal. She wore a gold rosary around her neck that vibrated on her chest as her screams pulsated on the black tape covering her mouth. The tiny Jesús at the tip of the rosary was bungee jumping on her breasts and it seemed he was going to die, again, on the cross while practicing extreme sports on my mother’s tetas.
I meticulously cut the two pieces of black tape and carefully placed them on her mouth while asking Moms if her lips were comfortable or if she needed me to adjust the tape so she may feel better; but Moms is rude and spat at me.
I remember two years ago when I was thirteen and spat at her.
I remember she was barking at me from the kitchen, Mario baja a comer, come down to eat now, coño, now! Qué tu hace? What’s all you are going in that room? I remember her opening my door to find me in laced gothic couture with 2-inch lashes and 10-inch leather boots I’dbought at the Goodwill on 40 thstreet. I remember how her brown, Cuban face turned into a ghostly mime when she glimpsed at my shaved eyebrows while Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien from Piaf played in the background as I extended my arms in front of the mirror; wanting to fly like a vat out of that house.
She had pulled my gorgeous curls and hadslammed them on the floor as she cried and cried and ripped and ripped, her heavy body a stone gargoyle madly spilling her fists on me and ruining myentire attire:
Hijo de puta! In this house there is NOmaricón, oiste? Ay díos mio are you listening, Mario? Que te quede bien claro: here there are only men, nada de pájaros. I rather see you dead than a faggot.
That’s when I spat at her. It took me two hours that day to do my makeup. Two hours she destroyed in ten seconds. She did not apologize for permanently damaging my favorite dress or breaking my lashes or, god forbid! She did not apologize for the unflattering black eyes I wore the next week to school (which, I have to note, did not even camouflage under the layers and layers of foundation I applied). Oh dear, I had to tend to my eyes with bags of chamomile tea every day for the next two weeks. But, worse of it all, she did not apologize for damaging the entire energy of my room with her flat, unaesthetic presence beating my delicate face and calling me, ME, right under Ms. Piaf’s voice, a faggot.
While seated in front of her, her big thick curls hanged on her bow-down face as she moved her head to the sides indisapproval. Moms resembled a chicken right after its head has been butchered and the body continues to dance in an epileptic seizure.
"Ma, do you want me to change your tape?Are your lips okay?"
Her head came to a stop but remained bowed. She remained silent.
"Okay, just checking."
Manuel handed me the lit cigarette as I wasabout to check in on Paps. I took a long drag. Paps' nose was bleeding.
I remember a year ago when my nose bled.
It had to be a Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday because Paps’ gets home from work at 7pm sharp on those days. Back then my haircurled down to my shoulders. Back then my hair will put those Pantene commercials to shame. That Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday I'd spent the entire afternoon teasing out my curls, applying hair spray and bobby pins to resemble a frizzed just-before-prison Gloria Trevi. I knew my father would come home by seven and I was trying to keep up with time, but I got caught in my 80's Latin pop overdose frenzy in front of the livingroom mirror.
I wore Wonderwoman underwear and big hair. Nothing else.
I imitated Gloria by throwing my head from side toside, drawing semi-circles with my arms, holding Moms' statue of the Virgen, with extended palms and bloody eyeballs, as my microphone. I looked like Jesúson the cross with my ribs sticking out and my arms perpendicular to my body. The apartment smelled of hairspray and rotting frijoles.
Then I heard the cling cling cling of someone'skeys murmuring at the door and the key penetrating the lock. I heard it unlock. I heard the knob rotating to the right and heard the hoarse cough of my father. I stood paralyzed watching it all. My taxidermic body anchored to our stained carpet like I had iron muscle mass.
"Qué está pasando aquí Mario? What the fuck is happening here?"
Paps resembled a wrestler right before he throws himself onto the losing enemy. His face grew a labyrinth of veins pulling at the skin, his eyes enormous and sad, his unibrow reminded me of a wired fence.
"Nothing" I said walking towards the bathroom
"I was just about to shower".
I felt my ribcage slightly tighten and my lungsgasp for air. Paps looked so ugly and wrong. He was one of those muscular monstrous toys with spades and war gear I'd get for Christmas every single year to then decapitate and hide under my bed. And just like those horrendous masculine plastic toys he was angry, he wanted to fight ME like a man.
"Come here maricón de mierda! come here, te digo" he moved his wormy index finger at me.
I saw my body in the mirror before turning to Paps, I looked like a brown Aphrodite with an afro.
"I want you to take a seat inside the kitchenand wait for me there" his saliva sprinkled my nose.
"What for?"
I sat on the stool in my Wonderwoman panties insideour grey kitchen staring at a Cuban flag stickered on the fridge. It was 80 degrees Fahrenheit outside and my legs were shivering. My metallic purple toe nails played with the wooden bar near the floor holding the stool together. My hands
were wet.
Paps entered the kitchen carrying a black razor. Hewas so ugly. He looked like a guest from a Cuban segment of the Jerry SpringerShow.
"No te muevas. Don't you dare move Mario."
Two roaches greeted me from behind the sink before Paps shaved my head. Gross. My beautiful, silky curls fell to the ground like debris on a construction site, or like rose petals sprinkled by a little girl with a red dress down the aisle of a wedding ceremony.
The sound of that cheap buzzing razor butchering my precious hair! MY precious hair like it was some cheap weave you'd get at the dollar store!
I stared at the Grocery List next to the Cuban Flagon the fridge. Paps stumbled his lazy, macho ass away. My face felt like a damp vagina.
Tears gave me a bloody nose.
"Ay carajo papá you're bleeding! Let meget you a Kleenex. Honey! Could you get me some Kleenex from the bathroom? Mydad is bleeding. Oh dear, look at your shirt. Isn't that the Calvin Klein shirtMoms got you for Christmas? Look Ma, Paps already ruined the shirt you got himfor Christmas. Pa, you know how much Ma hates it when we spill liquids on ourclothes! Let me clean you up."
I got some Shoutand sprayed it on Paps shirt. I was trying to clean him up but he just kept onmoving and throwing himself at me to the point that he fell with the chair onthe floor. Both Manuel and I had to lift him—and the chair—up. It was almostimpossible--between Manuel and I there are only 180 pounds of body fat-- and ittook us a good fifteen minutes to pull them both from the floor.
"I'm gonna have to leave you all dirty Pa, porque tú no te ayudas[2]."I told him panting.
I turned to my tocador[3] after watching Paps' eyes open and close in anger. The wrinkles around his eyes grew thicker; they looked like sewage canals or cracked foundation or spiderwebs.
"Don't look at me like that, Pa. No me mires así, it is not my fault that your nose vessels are so sensible and that Ma always gives you pastel-colored polo shirts. You do look like shit though."
And he did, but then he didn't want any of my help. My parents are very stubborn. They both pretended I was going to hear them with that piece of thick black tape on their mouths; they both swore I understood their incongruent mumbling and desisted on halting their stupidity. So I made no effort in trying to me courteous: they did not want my help. I turned again to face my mirror; I joined Miss Holiday’s voice and initiated the metamorphosis—from maricón[4] to mariposa[5].
"You know, this is not very comfortable for me either. Do you think I enjoy having both of you tied up in a chair staring at my beautiful face while I put make up on? Of course I don't! I mean, you two look so unattractive right this second, Ozzy Osbourne could well passfor Anna Karina beside you. Manuel, mi amor, come sit close to me and turn upthe music; I love listening to Billie Holiday while
"No te muevas. Don't you dare move Mario."
Two roaches greeted me from behind the sink before Paps shaved my head. Gross. My beautiful, silky curls fell to the ground like debris on a construction site, or like rose petals sprinkled by a little girl with a red dress down the aisle of a wedding ceremony.
The sound of that cheap buzzing razor butchering my precious hair! MY precious hair like it was some cheap weave you'd get at the dollar store!
I stared at the Grocery List next to the Cuban Flagon the fridge. Paps stumbled his lazy, macho ass away. My face felt like a damp vagina.
Tears gave me a bloody nose.
"Ay carajo papá you're bleeding! Let meget you a Kleenex. Honey! Could you get me some Kleenex from the bathroom? Mydad is bleeding. Oh dear, look at your shirt. Isn't that the Calvin Klein shirtMoms got you for Christmas? Look Ma, Paps already ruined the shirt you got himfor Christmas. Pa, you know how much Ma hates it when we spill liquids on ourclothes! Let me clean you up."
I got some Shoutand sprayed it on Paps shirt. I was trying to clean him up but he just kept onmoving and throwing himself at me to the point that he fell with the chair onthe floor. Both Manuel and I had to lift him—and the chair—up. It was almostimpossible--between Manuel and I there are only 180 pounds of body fat-- and ittook us a good fifteen minutes to pull them both from the floor.
"I'm gonna have to leave you all dirty Pa, porque tú no te ayudas[2]."I told him panting.
I turned to my tocador[3] after watching Paps' eyes open and close in anger. The wrinkles around his eyes grew thicker; they looked like sewage canals or cracked foundation or spiderwebs.
"Don't look at me like that, Pa. No me mires así, it is not my fault that your nose vessels are so sensible and that Ma always gives you pastel-colored polo shirts. You do look like shit though."
And he did, but then he didn't want any of my help. My parents are very stubborn. They both pretended I was going to hear them with that piece of thick black tape on their mouths; they both swore I understood their incongruent mumbling and desisted on halting their stupidity. So I made no effort in trying to me courteous: they did not want my help. I turned again to face my mirror; I joined Miss Holiday’s voice and initiated the metamorphosis—from maricón[4] to mariposa[5].
"You know, this is not very comfortable for me either. Do you think I enjoy having both of you tied up in a chair staring at my beautiful face while I put make up on? Of course I don't! I mean, you two look so unattractive right this second, Ozzy Osbourne could well passfor Anna Karina beside you. Manuel, mi amor, come sit close to me and turn upthe music; I love listening to Billie Holiday while
I get ready."
My parents hated Billie Holiday when I was theone singing Billie Holiday. They also hated my voice as Edith Piaf, Monica Naranjo, Dinah Washington, Gloria Trevi, Lila Downs and Janis Joplin. Tonight I was going to be a Mercedes Sosa meets 1985 Like-A-Virgin-Madonna.
"Alright, are you both ready? This is how your boy, that is, me, that is, Mario, puts on his mariposa makeup. Ma, you should watch closely because I've seen the way you use that eyeliner like you are about to murder your eyes! And you do. Dios mio Ma, your makeup is truly terrifying. Did Pa ever tell you how horrifying you look? He didn't? Oh, well he is just being polite and not completely honest with you. Okay, let's start with the basics."
I spent forty minutes blending my foundation, creating contour around my face with red blush, doing my eyes with silver glitter and black eye shadow so that it resembled a strobe light when I blinked. I glued white eyelashes with silver tips. I transformed my eyes intored fireballs with contact lenses and my hair into a volcanic eruption of thick black curls with my favorite wig.
Both Moms and Paps were silent for most of my makeup session. I watched their wobbly bodies from the mirror like obsolete hand puppets left hanging on the curtain, waiting for the puppeteer to pull their strings and bring them to life. Manuel was sitting on the stool next tome suggesting Mario, maybe we should stop this. Mario, tu mamá is turning pale green and your father looks like a bloody zombie. Baby, this is not fun any more and you said it was gonna be fun but I'm not having fun.
"Manuel, of course they are happy and we are having fun! Neither of them has ever seen me as a Reina, as the true queen that I really am! So stop the non-sense and turn the music up. Everyone here is having a blast!"
As Billie Holiday's voice faded in the lastverse of All Of Me, as I outlined mylips and filled them with jet-black lipstick; as the little glow-in-the-darkstars shone above in my ceiling, I carefully opened the first drawer of my tocador and pulled out my gun.
[1] Good for nothing
[2] You don’t help yourself
[3] Dressing table
[4] faggot
[5] Butterfly
My parents hated Billie Holiday when I was theone singing Billie Holiday. They also hated my voice as Edith Piaf, Monica Naranjo, Dinah Washington, Gloria Trevi, Lila Downs and Janis Joplin. Tonight I was going to be a Mercedes Sosa meets 1985 Like-A-Virgin-Madonna.
"Alright, are you both ready? This is how your boy, that is, me, that is, Mario, puts on his mariposa makeup. Ma, you should watch closely because I've seen the way you use that eyeliner like you are about to murder your eyes! And you do. Dios mio Ma, your makeup is truly terrifying. Did Pa ever tell you how horrifying you look? He didn't? Oh, well he is just being polite and not completely honest with you. Okay, let's start with the basics."
I spent forty minutes blending my foundation, creating contour around my face with red blush, doing my eyes with silver glitter and black eye shadow so that it resembled a strobe light when I blinked. I glued white eyelashes with silver tips. I transformed my eyes intored fireballs with contact lenses and my hair into a volcanic eruption of thick black curls with my favorite wig.
Both Moms and Paps were silent for most of my makeup session. I watched their wobbly bodies from the mirror like obsolete hand puppets left hanging on the curtain, waiting for the puppeteer to pull their strings and bring them to life. Manuel was sitting on the stool next tome suggesting Mario, maybe we should stop this. Mario, tu mamá is turning pale green and your father looks like a bloody zombie. Baby, this is not fun any more and you said it was gonna be fun but I'm not having fun.
"Manuel, of course they are happy and we are having fun! Neither of them has ever seen me as a Reina, as the true queen that I really am! So stop the non-sense and turn the music up. Everyone here is having a blast!"
As Billie Holiday's voice faded in the lastverse of All Of Me, as I outlined mylips and filled them with jet-black lipstick; as the little glow-in-the-darkstars shone above in my ceiling, I carefully opened the first drawer of my tocador and pulled out my gun.
[1] Good for nothing
[2] You don’t help yourself
[3] Dressing table
[4] faggot
[5] Butterfly
