Excerpt from Bendito
Chapter 1
Omi’s Opening Day
If Maritza Cruz had to attend yet another one of her boyfriend’s art exhibits, she was sure she would be sick. And this was Omi’s seventh fucking solo show.
“Maritza, you must be so proud of Omar. This is his seventh solo exhibition before his twenty-eighth birthday!”
Maritza almost choked on her champagne. As she glared at her boyfriend’s paintings, she had to be careful what she said to Angela Castillo, the longtime journalist for Santa Lucia Herald, the local newspaper in Santa Lucia, Pennsylvania—anything could be used as a quote for an article. Angela, who was about forty-five, petite in stature, and known to form an attachment with the bartenders at any event she went to, was dressed head to toe in black: black turtleneck dress with long sleeves, thick wool stockings, and ankle boots with a kitten heel. She kept an unwavering gaze on Maritza as she raised her own glass of champagne to purple-stained lips, a spunky shade of lipstick Maritza thought looked foolish on her.
“Of course I am,” sputtered Maritza. She patted her mouth to prevent any true feelings from spewing out. “He’s always been a great artist.”
She straightened her red leather mini skirt and unnecessarily tugged on her blouse; only ten minutes ago, she had fidgeted with her outfit, which she had so confidently picked out the day before the opening of Omi’s latest exhibition at the gallery. She prayed Angela wouldn’t describe her sudden restlessness to her readers, but if she knew the reporter at all (and she did because Angela had not only covered the arts section of the newspaper for years, she also prioritized following Omi’s bright career ever since his high school days, attending every exhibition he displayed his artwork, highlighting him in her stories whenever she could), her response as Omi’s girlfriend would certainly be fit for the paper. To the nearly 80,000 residents of Santa Lucia, he was their goddamn hero.
“Yes,” Angela exclaimed, draining her cup, “his pieces never disappoint—such flair and richness of color. He’s always so authentic to his roots and message, centering people of color in his work. We need his optimism now more than ever, what with people killing themselves over this whole Y2K nonsense. Imagine the world ending over a computer crash.” She rolled her eyes and placed her empty cup on a waiter’s tray, automatically picking up another. She ran her fingers through her short dull brown hair, invaded by hundreds of gray strands, stretching her locks for some volume. Maritza bit her bottom lip; no matter how hard Angela tried, her hair remained flat, firmly stuck to her scalp. “You and Omar are some of the few I know who aren’t getting themselves all worked up over nothing.”
This was true, Maritza thought. They had only stored a few gallons of water in their basement in the unlikely event the apocalypse occurred.
“He’s going to be very pleased with my review for the paper.” Angela’s eyes were shiny, less, it seemed, from admiration for Omi than the alcohol she’d consumed that night. “Although,” she continued, “I know he doesn’t pay much attention to the compliments. He’s going to leave a legacy behind as big as Basquiat’s, but do you think he mentions it? Nope. He’s too humble for his own good. What’s new with you? We’re always talking about Omar. Are you still working at PALM?”
Preparing Adolescents’ Lives with Mentorship (PALM for short) was the non-profit organization Maritza began working for soon after she graduated college at twenty-one, three years ago. Her job was to recruit and match mentors to underprivileged high school students who were selected by their teachers to participate in the program. (She imagined it didn’t hurt that the teachers got a break from their rebellious attitudes by sending them away for the morning.) She was also responsible for holding creative arts sessions and finding activities and events in the community where PALM could transport mentors with their mentees for opportunities in building leadership and confidence skills. She hiccupped. The chicken quesadilla she had for dinner was now in her throat.
“Yeah, I’ve been there two years. Well, tomorrow will be three. Can you excuse me?” she asked, setting her glass on a passing tray.
Angela nodded and spun on her heel, ensnaring an unsuspecting woman engrossed in a painting with a question about Omi’s use of color and text. Maritza bobbed and weaved through the buzzing crowd of spectators who had come to Omi’s exhibition at Armando’s Galería in Santa Lucia. She ducked her head to avoid eye contact; as the girlfriend of the prominent painter, a prodigy since practically a preschooler—well, maybe not that young—she would undoubtedly be bombarded with questions like Angela’s, and she didn’t feel like faking her enthusiasm again. Over The Roots’ “You Got Me” playing on the speakers, Maritza scurried under an archway to escape to the bathroom in the back lest she vomit in front of everyone. She really did feel sick now. She entered the restroom, its white marble walls silencing the music; however, it did nothing to ease her queasiness. She threw her metallic slinky purse on the couch and click-clacked to the vast sink, where she threw up half her quesadilla. She groaned and wiped her mouth, staring at herself in the gold oval mirror. Her light brown baby doll-shaped eyes were clouded and downcast. She tucked a strand of sleek black hair behind her studded ear. Yesterday she had spent four hours at her best friend’s family-owned Dominican salon, sweating under a dryer for two of those hours as her thick curly locks unraveled. A flash of white near the faucet caught her attention. It was the press release for today’s exhibition, which someone left behind:
“Life in the Millennium: Looking to the Future” is artist Omar Rivera’s seventh solo exhibition. The exhibition opens October 16, 1999, at Armando’s Galería 6:00 p.m.-9:00 p.m. in Santa Lucia, PA. Rivera’s new paintings on canvas display the thoughts of an introspective artist who, throughout his pieces, continues to be inspired by his Latino heritage and highlights inner-city life. Using oils to dress his subjects in vibrant colors, frequently alongside text and graffiti, he fearlessly denounces racism and inequality. Rivera paints brown and black folks in their authentic spaces, behaving the way they would if the white gaze were not upon them. In his world, his people are second to none. In this new collection, Rivera envisions a world that survives the Y2K fears with a people emboldened to live and survive in this new world as they have always done before.
Omar Rivera, 27, is of Puerto Rican descent, born to parents who were born in Puerto Rico and left the island in their late teens. His parents raised Rivera in the projects of Riverside in Santa Lucia, PA, until they separated when he was five. Displaying a precocious talent for drawing and painting since he was eight years old, the prolific artist has been featured in The New York Times Magazine and had his artwork displayed in exhibitions since the age of 21 in such places as the Institute of Contemporary Art at the University of Pennsylvania; the Whitney Biennial at The Whitney Museum of American Art and Tony Shafrazi Gallery in New York; Kohn Gallery and Bruce Lurie Gallery in Los Angeles; Opera Gallery in Paris.”
Maritza groaned and splashed water on her flushed face, careful not to wet any baby hairs. She combed her thick eyebrows with her fingernails and reapplied her peach-colored lip gloss to her full lips. She examined herself in the mirror; her face was looking a little fuller these days. She scowled at the press release and crumpled it up as she marched to the trash can. She reminded herself that she was proud of Omi before tossing the paper. His talent was what enamored her when they started dating her sophomore year of high school, his senior year. It was Angela’s question—Are you still at PALM? —that unnerved her. She wasn’t supposed to be at PALM that long and the inquiry was an acrimonious reminder that while Omi was exactly where he wanted to be in his career, she still wasn’t. She took a deep breath, grabbed her purse, and left the bathroom. The boom of a microphone directed Maritza to the center of the room where her boyfriend’s six-foot-three frame, bolstered by his Timberland’s, towered over the gallerist, Armando Figueroa, one of Omi’s closest friends and supporters. Reticent to show off his wealth, Omi eschewed labels, preferring to dress in basic T-shirts, jeans, and sweats, reserving his swag for his Jordans. Tonight was no different. He showed up to his own show in streetwear; his dark brown textured locks, which were braided in cornrows that traveled a little past his shoulders, framed his caramel skin while his hazel eyes roamed the crowd. She knew he was looking for her, so she picked up another glass of champagne and walked toward the front of the assembly.
“Thank you all so much for being here tonight,” Armando beamed. His fair skin turned rosy as it was accustomed to do when he addressed the fervent crowds at Omi’s exhibitions. His single gold earring glistened beneath the fluorescent light, which illuminated his silver ponytail. Dressed fashionably in a navy suit, you would’ve thought he was the one presenting his artwork tonight. “We’re so proud to display one of our own from Santa Lucia in this gallery,” he continued, cracking a wide smile. “He could’ve gone anywhere, folks!” Applause broke, and Armando clapped a hand on Omi’s shoulder, handing him the microphone, grinning from ear to ear.
Maritza chuckled behind her glass. Armando was something of a father figure to Omi, who had a non-existent relationship with his own dad. Omi wouldn’t have gone to any other gallery, but Armando was a showman, and he liked the drama. She caught Omi’s eye, and he winked at her, motioning her to come closer. She squeezed through a couple of people and walked straight into his arms; beside him was the safest place she knew.
“I want to thank everyone for coming out and showing me support,” began Omi, swiveling his head as if to catch everyone’s eye. “It means a lot to me, especially during these times of great fear. People are anxious about the end of the year, the Y2K, survival…” He shook his head. “We all worry about dying and when that will be, but death is predestined. We need to focus on living life because it’s ephemeral. Friends, family, dreams—those are the things worth having.” He squeezed Maritza’s waist and raised his drink. “How do you know you were blessed if you have nothing to lose?”