Abuela Used to Dance Bachata

Steven Luna

"Let This Torn Flag Be Fuel.” Steven Luna. Medium Format, shot on 120mm film Kodak Tri-X. Shot in the Summer of 2020.

for Dolores Altagracia Mena

I arrived at JFK Airport on March 10, 2020, following an eight-month trip abroad. I wore a mask the entire trip, and went through customs excited to spend a couple days with my abuelita, who lived in the city. I planned to spend the week in New York visiting my cousins and spending some time with my tía and tío as well.

I visited my abuela the day after I arrived. We spent a good portion of the day laughing and catching up. I gave her a pair of small wooden butterfly earrings that I’d purchased abroad, along with a small container of Stevia, at which she grimaced and assured me she would not use. We drank Café Bustelo in the day and wine as evening approached. Meanwhile, she lamented her aching knees.

“You’re too young to be complaining about such things,” I told her.  

She smiled and waved me away, even though I was serious. My abuela would still throw her cane aside and start dancing as soon as some proper bachata came on, and we both knew it.

We spent the afternoon sipping wine and watching Univision. During a segment on astrology, she told me we were compatible because she was a Pisces and I was a Virgo. All the while, she proudly flipped through her little coloring book and showed me her tin of endless colored pencils.

The next night, the NBA suspended its season, signifying an escalation of the perceived severity of the pandemic.

I visited abuela one last time, on March 12, to say goodbye before a friend drove me to stay with my mother and stepfather in Rhode Island.

Ven conmigo, Abuela. será más seguro en Providencia.

No. Todavía tengo citas aqui y cosas que hacer. A fin de mes, a fin de mes…

I wanted to push harder, but I didn’t. She seemed firm. Besides, she was right. She was supposed to come to Providence at the end of the month anyway, and my parents were setting up a bedroom for her, hopefully to stay permanently.

I left that night not knowing that it would be the last time I experienced my New York. My other home. In Providence, I returned to a job I would never fully start and a home that would now only feel a little emptier.

On the morning of March 25, I watched my mother cry.

“Abuela is sick,” she told me. 

“She’ll be ok,” I responded, and had to convince her not to rush to New York to care for Abuela. At the time, we didn’t know what she had. My mother works at a supermarket, so we were worried that either person might likely infect the other.

When I called my abuela the next day, she told me she was feeling fine, with the exception of some body aches and a slight fever.

Por favor, abuela. Por favor llamame, o llama a Titi Tere o a mi mamá si tienes problemas respirando, I pleaded. 

Ok, papi. bueno.

Te quiero mucho, Abuela.

Te quiero.

Abuela was rushed to the hospital the following day. She couldn’t breathe. Mom called me, hardly able to speak through the sobs. She rushed from Rhode Island but didn’t make it to New York in time to see her. They didn’t let her into the hospital.

As I’m writing this, at least 230,000 people have died from COVID-19--and that’s just in the US. I keep thinking about what I could have done to stop one of those deaths. I keep thinking about how the world would look if we cared for each other the way trees lend shade to all who want it—rent-free. I keep crying, feeling angry and frustrated at the state of things, and then crying some more. I keep wondering if we could have done things differently.

Abuela fought COVID-19 for three weeks. Three weeks of torture for me and my family. Every night, I prayed for her return. Every night, I numbed myself with alcohol and marijuana. Every night, I considered driving to New York to storm the hospital just to hold her hand, feel her skin, run my fingers through her coarse grey hair. I could hardly function. Sometimes I still can’t. Sometimes I want to scream, because I know she can’t. And sometimes I shake until I fall asleep.

In Memoriam

Dolores Altagracia Mena

Steven Luna is an afro-latinx visual artist from Queens, NY, currently residing in Providence, RI. He is a free lance cinematographer, photographer, video editor, writer, and film director. Starting late October, Steven will be the lead teaching artist for the Artists and Writer’s Collective, a teen program at the Institute of Contemporary Art. @stevenbluna