Cullets
by Shemiah Morris
Chapter One: The Sins of Our Glass
If you couldn't hear a pin drop, it was because you weren't listening. The heavy silence filling the room was enough to make a person think they'd gone deaf. This type of silence cut you. It bled you dry and left no room for regret, only incomparable pain. Pain that couldn't be said in the first ‘hello’ or the last ‘goodbye.’ This pain lingered around long after death. It could be felt through generations. And right then, in that very moment, as the clock struck six on lucky day number seven, you felt that pain. We sat there. All of us. Waiting for the next person to speak. The silence was discomforting. I should be dead. I survived. But no one said a word.
--
They don’t build houses like these anymore in southern Louisiana. My house is almost completely made out of glass, the kind of glass that mirrors an illusion. You could walk right through it if you weren’t paying attention. Ria James, who lives on the corner of Jackal Street and Crystal Avenue, has a similar house. It was passed down from her Mammy and her Mammy before that. She's been livin’ in that house for well over 40 years. I don't know how much livin’ she been doing now that she's off the rock. Messed her up so bad, she had to leave that nice house for five years. Five. And wasn't nobody in the house to look after it. That beautiful translucent house turned opaque. Ria ain’t got no kids, no man, no pets to count neither. Just herself. After her Mammy passed, the Thomas home was still. Ria took it harder than ever. Since she been home, she ain’t come to talk to nobody; nobody seen her in months, even with all that glass.
The moon leveled right at the base of my glass wall. I gazed at the dark blue-black sky. Nothing. And in nothing, I found comfort. I was up before the sun and after the moon. In the gray area, I felt my best. Disrespecting the night; I had no business being up late. I sauntered downstairs to prepare my chamomile tea, believing it would invoke sleep. In the distance, I heard faint voices.
“There's no reason for you to be up this late, Momma would be mad.”
From behind the sleek couch appeared my two sisters.
“Velin. Elois. What are you doing down here?”
“We were just playing hide-and-seek, Selea,” Elois giggled.
“At two o’clock, Ellie? Vel, did you put her up to this?”
“She said she couldn't sleep. I’m only providing support, like any good older sister should,” Velin murmured.
“Yea? Well, any good sister also knows when it’s time to rest. Come on go back to your rooms before Momma comes down here and we all get in trouble.”
“You’re one to talk, what are you doing up at this hour, Elea?” Velin asked.
“Minding my business. Now go!”
I’m the middle child. At 15 years old, I felt like the oldest and the most responsible. Me, Velin, who was one year younger, and Elois, who was half my age and still lived at home. My older brother, Ieval, had already left for college. My oldest sister, Nilca, had been married since she was my age and was working on her third child. A boy. We’ve never been a close family. The only thing we have in common is the diversity of our names. Momma loved names with substance and class, names that held and told a story. When she was 18, she legally changed her name.
“I wanted my name to say something. Anything other than what it was saying before.”
She refuses to tell us her old name. “I’m Giel Alvia to everyone else, but Momma to you, hear?”
Nilca got her name from an old series Papa introduced Momma to called “de La Hora.” Nilca was the name of the Princess warrior who saved her people from being enslaved. Nilca literally translates to Princess warrior. Ieval was named by Momma. She said his name meant “the servant of the Dark Lord.” The night of his birth, Momma dreamed of a fiery red Phoenix with eyes made of piercing black gold. The Phoenix had horns coming from its head. Momma said when she saw the Phoenix, she knew she had to bow in awe of this titular creature. The moment she woke up she realized she was in labor. They had to call Gretchen, Ria’s mom, who was a doula. Momma said when Ieval was born, she saw that he had dark gold pupils, and that’s when she knew.
My name, Seleyi, means “loved by the Gods.” Momma let Papa name me. He said that I belonged to the Gods, and I owned the desires of their hearts. Momma thought the name sounded vapid, and Papa agreed to change my name to Selea. Momma still didn't like it but figured it was better than whatever nonsense name I had before, and at least it meant something. After I was born, Momma said Papa couldn’t name any more children. He didn't have enough flair to name her children.
When Velin was born Momma knew exactly what name to give her. Velin, “to look beyond the stars.” Velin was a sign of hope for Momma, a sign that her darkest days were behind her. Elois was an accident child. When Momma found out she was pregnant again she was overwhelmed. Not only did she have five children, but four out of five were girls. Momma said Elois would be her last and gave her a particularly distinct name. Elois certainly lives up to it, “blessed child of the family,” which was just a fancy way to say the last and the most spoiled.
Here we were, the children of a widow. My father, Ama Alvia, passed when I was ten; he went to Panama and never came back. He was from a podunk town in Panama right off the Caldera River called Boquete. It was his family home. At nineteen, he came to the U.S. to start a new life. Him and Momma met when they were 22. “It was love at first sight,” she said. “I’ve never met a man so perfect.” My Papa would tell us stories about how he grew up in Panama. “Seleyi, you would love it there, negrita. Your family has been begging to see you. All of you. But especially you, Seleyi.”
It seemed as if only me and Papa were close in this family. Nilca said that I was always Papa's favorite, and I don’t disagree. Nilca and Mama loathed Papa’s favor towards me. Right before my Papa passed away, I overheard Momma and Papa talking about me.
“Ama, Nilca is your first born. How come you don’t love her like you love Selea?”
“Selea is the daughter the Gods gave to me as a gift. She is designed after my heart’s desires.”
He always said no matter his love for me, he still loved all his children the same. How ironic that Momma was always bitchin’ about me being Papa’s favorite. It’s not like everyone didn’t already know that Ieval is Momma’s favorite, maybe because he’s the only boy. Every year on Christmas, Momma would get him exactly what he asked for. One year, Ieval wanted an electric guitar because he went through a rock star phase. Even with Momma and Papa being so low on funds, being that they just recovered from recession, Momma found a way to get him that guitar. Gibson Les Paul Standard '60s Electric Guitar. It cost her $2,499. Two thousand four hundred and ninety-nine dollars. Momma and Papa were in the hole for six months. Papa was so upset that he slept on the couch for three months. It didn't stop Momma from getting Ieval anything he sought after. When Momma had me, Papa finally understood the favoritism Momma had for Ieval.
This morning, I didn't even get the chance to close my eyes before my mother started her daily morning rituals in which she made it a habit to make me get up and clean without purpose.
“Selea!”
My momma has this way of saying my name that was filled with disgust and disappointment.
“Yes, Momma.”
“Get up and clean this kitchen!”
“But, Momma, Velin was supposed to clean the kitchen.”
“So? I asked you to do it, dammit! I swear every chance you get you prove just how useless you are.”
“Momma, you know I'm sick. I can’t get up and clean the dishes by myself.”
“Shit! When I was your age, it didn't matter how sick I was. I could be as sick as a homeless man in winter and my mammy still woke me up and made me clean the whole house. Nah-uh, you ain't got no excuses. Get up, clean this kitchen.”
Walking to the kitchen, I could feel my sore bones begin to loosen, as if my body was finally starting to wake up with every step. If I knew what was best for me, I’d hurry down to the kitchen and get started on these dishes.
The TV was on the news channel in the living room. It was faint, but I could still hear everything they were saying. Today marks the first day since 2014 that Flint has had clean water. It's about time. I never been to Flint, but I could imagine life with lead water. I don't even think lead water would get to our part of town. Middle class folk don't have those types of problems. Next up, reasons why you should recycle your cullets. Cullets?
“Hey Siri, what is the definition of cullets..”
“Cullets. Broken or refuse glass usually added to new material to facilitate melting in making glass.”
Oh. Broken glass. Remnants of glass weren’t rare around this area. With all these glass houses, the trash outside was nothing short of broken glass pieces from mirrors or remains from glass pots that fell on the floor because somebody wasn't paying attention, or old glass walls that were shattered and had to be replaced because the kids were playing football in the house, even though that behavior was against their parents wishes. In this house, we’ve had to throw away at least 2 bags of glass fragments a week. There's always something breaking.
Sponge. Water. Soap. Water. Scrub. Rinse. Place. Repeat.
I'm convinced that Mama is going to make me clean everyday until I'm 18, which at that point she can't make me do anything because I'll be long gone to Arizona to live in a glass house of my own. Momma thinks I forgot about the inheritance money Papa left me. I mean sure I was only ten, but I wasn’t dumb.
“Is that all, mister?” my mom said to the lawyer after my father had passed.
“The last part of this will is to be read to Selea and Giel, only. I’m sorry, but, your other children will have to wait outside.”
“Nilca, you and Ieval take your sisters and wait outside.”
“Mister, what's this all about?”
“Mr. Alvia requested that this section be read to Selea. However, seeing that she is a minor and you are her mother, you are permitted to stay.”
“Okay, well, what's it say?”
“According to Mr. Alvia’s will, he’d like Selea to receive all of his inheritance money.”
“What!?”
“That is all, Mrs. Alvia.”
Momma didn't speak the whole car ride home. I remember thinking why my Papa would reserve so much money for me. I did not understand at the time, but as I grew older I began to see that adults need money of their own for families of their own. If you counted every grain of rice in a one pound bag and added some zeroes, that's how much my parents are worth. We aren’t rich, but we aren't poor. Papa calls it wealth. My Papa was a successful pediatric surgeon, and Momma is a highly paid international affairs lawyer, mainly representing immigrant family cases. Money is not an issue in our home, and yet Papa left me all this money anyway. Did he think that I’d be the least successful in the family?
I had washed all the dishes, mopped, swept and did laundry. And at 3 PM, I deserved to sleep.