My Great-Grandma was sold for a bottle of Rum




My nationality is a mixture of folklore and reality. On my mother's side which will probably be a whole other story, I am Puerto Rican and Taraskin Indian. On my father's side, I am Puerto Rican and French. Growing up, I always had people stop me on the street, "Are you Gloria's daughter?" I could have been my mother's clone. Walking down the street, with my mother and her identical twin, we looked like triplets. But still, I always felt like an outsider; like the Black Sheep. My pallet was different. Even with our customary family dinners, I added my own condiments to make them taste different. The way I responded to situations was different. I was more empathic and sensitive. I was more studious and less into my looks even though I grew up with women who would yell at me for leaving the house without make-up or jogging pants. My idiosyncrasies were also different. I have OCD to the max. Everything has to be perfect and I am a bit of a know it all. This could be another discussion all together~ Nuture versus nature, but being nutured by shallow and flat women who were only obsessed with looks may seem a bit strange since I turned out the complete opposite. Don't get me wrong. I love my mom, but we just don't mesh. 

I am a product of a teenage mother. I never met my biological father in person. I heard all kinds of stories about him. I heard he was a drug addict, a violent, vicious man who beat and cheated on my teenage mother. I heard that when my mother and I went to Puerto Rico to live with his family, mainly his mother and his sister, that they starved me to death. It was alledged that I was only fed bean juice and water from the river. The land that we lived on had no plumbing or electricity. My biological father was apparently doing drugs while we were poor and starving to death. My maternal grandma rescued us. My mother one day packed her things and waited by the side of the road until my grandmother and her brother drove up. The only good thing I heard from my paternal father's side was that my grandmother was an angel who was loved by all and her daughter Chela was a saint. Chela's brothers including my father and my grandfather behaved like inbred pit bulls.

Anyway, we flew back to Chicago when I was a year old because my mother was apparently a city girl. As I mentioned, earlier, I was a bit of an odd ball. I could remember as far back as three years old. I could see angels and demons. I would lie very still hoping not be noticed by any “beings” that were surrounding me. Since I was a product of a teenage mother and her only child, I was a latch key kid. I mainly took care of myself since I was seven. I would even take myself to church.  I spent my days in church and I even learned sign language. During winter break when I was eight years old, my aunt, my mother's twin took me to Brazil. On the plane on the way, I sat next to a Catholic priest. The priest told me that I had a special gift from God. He said I had a prophetic gift. As a young girl, I had the ability to read people and I was always right. I was very lonely growing up and socially inept. I had trouble keeping friends, so church was my thing. As I grew closer to God, the visitations from the “beings” became stronger and stronger. This began to scare me.

But then my life turned for the better. I transferred schools and I fit in better with the new crowd. I drifted away from the church and my visitations were becoming fewer and fewer.

When I turned 18, things all changed. I felt like I needed to find someone or something. This became like a fixation, which is very typical for a person with OCD. I began researching my roots. I always had the feeling like I had siblings out there in the world. My grandma finally told me that I had a sister from my biological father, but her mother is in hiding because he apparently tied her up onto a chair with wire and tape. He beat her and left her for dead. This too can be another story, but sister needs to tell it.

Knowing about my sister made me dive into my search even more. During this time, I was able to tell people’s futures by reading palms and I was never taught. I would read someone’s palm, and my mouth would just say whatever came to my mind. I began to get a consistent "visitation" from this woman who wore this long flowing skirt, with a peasant blouse, and a belt. She wore her hair in a tight bun. She would visit me while I was sleeping and sit on my chest. She would strangle me and paralyze me. I knew she was coming when I would hear buzzing bees. She also visited my best friend in a dream and told her to tell me to "stop looking."

When I got married and had children, I stopped reading palms, going to church, and researching. I wanted to clean myself of evil. Then in 2008, I was noticing that my son was having the same type of “visions” I was having. He was also three at the time. I showed him how to "pray them away." This sparked an interest for me to search again. I went on Myspace and typed in my grandmother’s last name on my father’s side in the search box. I used her name because it is an uncommon French name. I found my father’s brother, my uncle, the least crazy out of the males in the family.

He introduced me to my sister, Yazmin. She is wonderfully like me in every way. Our taste buds, the way we react to things, our creative talents, and she could even picked things up with feet. We are very talented with our toes. It is a bit of a freakish quality that we both share. My husband and her fiancé were in awe about our similarities. We even crinkle up our noses the same way when we are pissed off. My sister and I began corresponding regularly on Myspace and then on FB.

She sent me a picture of my great-grandmother. I was in complete shock. It was the same woman who was “visiting” me and strangling me. ~Did chills go down your back? I just felt them...

My sister receives regular visits from a man dressed in clothing from the same era. I think it’s my great-grandfather. The man is also evil. So, she and I began digging. We contacted our biological father. He was a bit of a flake and crazy. We decided to leave him alone. We found his other brother. He was the oldest and had the whole story.~

My great-great grandfather was an alcoholic. He was a happy drunk and his wife was a bit of a control freak, sort of like my sister and me. Well, they had several kids. The oldest being my Great-Grandmother (the same woman in the picture who was visiting me). She was stunning, absolutely beautiful. My great- grandfather was a part of a travelling theater from France. He was so enamored with my great-grandmother. She didn’t want anything to do with him because he was a bit of a womanizer. He wanted her so bad so he decided to bribe my great-great grandfather. He went and bought the best rum and offered the rum to my great-great grandfather in exchange for my great grandmother. My great grandmother was forced to marry him. She was apparently a very miserable woman.

She gave birth to many children as well, the oldest being, my grandmother. My grandmother didn’t know how to pick men because she picked the most evil man any woman would ever marry. This could be a whole other story, but he beat his children, his wife, molested his children, and practiced Santeria. My uncle said he could see demons run through the house until my grandmother would pray them away. My grandmother was a very spiritual woman.

In essence, I wouldn’t be alive today, if it wasn’t for a bottle a rum…Go figure!

 Puerto Rican Rum is the best, you know!

 

Love it! by Aissar Elkhailani