Pink Boots and a Machete Read Online Free

aunt Ica; and my grandmother, forever remembered as Mima. My father, as my mother would later explain, was in medical school when she became pregnant. They’d met while taking an English class at the University of Miami. He was an exchange student from Madrid—tall, handsome, and witty. My mom fell hard. When Mom announced she was pregnant, my father replied that he didn’t want kids. To him, having children at that time would interfere with his career plans and mean giving up on the very dream my mom had relinquished years before. My mother never married, and I would never have any brothers or sisters. I would also never meet my father. I suppose that technically I did meet him once, but from what I’m told it was only for a few seconds when I was ninemonths old. A few seconds was all it took for him to slam the door once he saw it was us. My mom thought if he met me, he would change his mind. I sometimes felt a void because of this, but my mom was both mother and father to me, and I observed the strength and integrity with which she handled both those roles. I may have lacked the physical presence of a father, but I never lacked a strong role model in my life.
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    The majority of the more than two million Cuban exiles in the United States live in or around Miami. So, though I was born and raised in Miami, I might as well have called Cuba my motherland. Only Spanish was spoken at the house, as neither my mother nor Mima spoke a word of English. I didn’t learn to speak English until I was five years old and had entered the American school system. To this day, when I’m asked my nationality, my immediate response is “Cuban.” That response nearly got me arrested in Mexico, when officials thought I must be presenting them with a fake passport. But that’s how strong my Cuban roots grow.
    It wasn’t always the case. Like most kids, I disliked anything that made me different. Not knowing a word of English at the age of five was a nightmare. As a little girl, I thought my Cuban roots were a hindrance. I’d have given anything to be named Jennifer or Beth, something other than the very Spanish and weird-sounding name bestowed on me (which no one could pronounce). I would shudder when my mom started speaking her foreign tongue in front of my friends.
    My upbringing was fit for a princess, a Cuban princess,complete with homemade frilly dresses that my grandmother sewed and more dolls than I could have ever hoped for. But to my mom’s dismay, I would get home from school and instantly rip the dresses off, opting for shorts and tees. I often thought I would have made the perfect son. My interests all involved the outdoors—climbing trees, catching lizards, and going fishing. To feed my girlie side, Mami, Ica, and Mima countered with pink dresses, ballet, and piano.
    Fortunately for them, growing up in a big city, I didn’t have too many opportunities to experience wildlife in the backwoods. But we did spend lots of time on the beach, and while most kids were playing in the surf, I would wander off with a net, collecting anything unlucky enough to swim into it. Occasionally, I was swift enough to catch a hermit crab scurrying into a sandy hole. I spent hours observing the birds hunting for meals, and many times supplied the bread from my ham and cheese sandwich.
    Despite not supporting my desire for merit badges and sleeping in the great outdoors, my mom did tolerate and even encourage my love of animals. I had a lot of pets as a kid. The family room was lined with birdcages; tanks of fish quickly took over the rest of the house.
    Our house was basically a zoo, and I considered charging admission to support my animal habit. The menagerie included several dogs of various colors, shapes, and sizes; cats abandoned by neighbors; rabbits; hamsters; fish (both saltwater and fresh); birds; and even a chicken named Maggie, an Easter present. She came to me as a chick small enough to