Beaches, Budweisers, and First Loves

Growing up in a home filled with chaos, my friendships and relationships outside the house became my saving grace. They were little windows into a world that felt different sometimes safer, sometimes more confusing, but always teaching me something.

My closest friend during my early teen years was a young Caribbean girl whose mother ruled her home with an iron hand. Strict curfews, chores every night, and a weekly ritual of ironing clothes for the week ahead her life was structured in ways mine wasn’t. There was a part of me that wished her mom was my mom. Tough love or not, it was a form of stability I often longed for. Her stepdad drank every day, but unlike mine, he never transformed into a monster.

Looking back, before my dad’s temper turned violent, I was his little girl. He was the one who taught me how to sit properly in a dress and the one who sparked my love for outings to the beach and park. Weekends meant my mom frying chicken or pork chops, packing them up, and us riding the subway to the shore. I can still smell the bakeries near the station, warm Italian bread tucked under our arms to pair with her meals. When money wasn’t wasted on his addictions, he’d treat me to the movies once a month.

But weekdays were a different story. Each night, I was sent to fetch groceries, VHS tapes, and without fail—two Budweisers for my dad. Fridays were darker; a bottle of Bacardi joined the lineup, and I knew the monster was on his way.

Amid all this, my first experiences with boys came tumbling in. My first boyfriend was a Puerto Rican obsessed with Jean-Claude Van Damme, but the first boy to touch me wasn’t him. It was a Trinidadian man five years older, a drug dealer by night, construction worker by day. I’d see him stepping off the train, wavy hair brushing his shoulders, boots dusty from work, lips that always looked wet, and eyes that seemed to smile just for me. My parents’ grocery lists became detours to his room. Just before my sixteenth birthday, curiosity took over, and he took my virginity.

I kept it to myself, knowing what kind of war it would spark at home. Around the same time, my mom threatened to cancel my Sweet 16 party over school troubles, and though I didn’t care much—our money could never stretch to match the fairytale Latin quinceañeras I suspected she was planning something anyway. Sure enough, the party happened, and to my shock, he showed up. For a brief moment, I felt seen, chosen. But soon enough, reality hit, and I outgrew that fling.

Each friendship, each relationship, each stolen moment outside of my home shaped me. They weren’t perfect, and many were messy, but they carved out spaces of belonging and exploration that I couldn’t find within four walls that echoed with fear.

On to the next phase…