fearless

Growing up in Little Havana, ghosts were as much a part of my family as my mother, sister, aunts and uncles. They appeared to my mom as frequently as Florida thunderstorms, and rarely caused her more than a moment's pause. I always knew when she was seeing someone because she'd become distracted for a moment in the middle of a conversation, would furrow then raise her eyebrows as she recognized the shape, and then go back to whatever she was saying without missing a beat. Acutely aware of her actions and reactions, I recognized the signs from a very early age and never got used to the visits. Every single time, my body would tense up, nearly paralyzed with fear, and I'd move immediately as close to her as possible. My mom, on the other hand, hardly seemed to mind the interruptions and seemed at times even comforted by the presence.

Other times, the visits were ominous. Plates would rattle inside the cupboards, windows would slam shut, or loud knocks would be heard from the other side of a door to an empty room. The knocks became so frequent, my family named the ghost Tun Tun, Spanish for Knock Knock. As my parents' marriage deteriorated, the visits became more frequent and more violent. My mom would comment to my aunt or grandmother that, "Tun Tun was in a real mood last night. No me dejo pegar los ojos. I didn't sleep a wink".

One day, I remember coming home from school to a priest sprinkling the house with holy water while some ladies I'd never met followed him around and prayed. Then, when I was 6 or 7 years old, I became convinced that there was a girl who lived in my closet who came out to smell my breath as soon as I fell asleep. I became so afraid of the dark that my heart would sink every evening at twilight, and most nights I slept with my TV on, watching reruns of M*A*S*H and Taxi until the sun came up.

We didn't live in that house for very long after that, but the ghosts seemed to follow us everywhere we went. Even in Costa Rica, in two separate houses, we had family ghosts. They foretold improprieties ("Ayleen, me dijeron that someone would become pregnant. Are you being careful?"), they whispered business venture ideas, and sometimes even brought in a little extra cash with lucky lottery numbers. But I always hated them, and I never stopped being afraid. Until I moved out and went away to college.

By my last year at New College, I had managed to trade in my childhood ghosts in exchange for Gabriel Garcia Marquez's, and was finally able to see the magic of Tun Tun. I've even grown to like the dark, and will only occasionally become spooked by a creaking house.

After having kids, the fear of ghosts has been eclipsed by fear of my own mortality and theirs... plane crashes, sharks, cancer... things that are much more rooted in reality though almost as irrational. A friend cautioned me the other day against living in the tragedies of the future, and I find myself repeating that phrase, over and over, when I start to make a tumor out of a headache. Cuban exaggeration is one thing, but living in hyperbole is not all it's cracked up to be, and I have got to get a grip before I impart my neuroses on my fearless kids.