Pink Boots and a Machete Read Online Free Page A

fitin a teacup and quickly grew to be my favorite pet. Despite county zoning laws against chickens, my otherwise law-abiding grandfather, Pipo, built her a huge, wire-mesh cage. I pretended, or perhaps really believed, I was a farmer. I still have memories of throwing on overalls and getting ready to feed my chicken. In the mornings I would collect the eggs that Maggie had left for us and then go in for breakfast. It would be years before I realized those eggs had been planted by Mima. Such was the life of a Miami farmer.
    My menagerie grew exponentially when I became old enough to walk home from school. Growing up, I thought myself a dog whisperer. If there was a stray dog within a two-block radius, it found me and followed me home. Once there, it became part of the extended family. But as much as I loved my pets and capturing bugs and lizards, it was mostly the freedom of animals I reveled in. Butterflies were of huge interest simply because they seemed to embody more freedom than any other creature, with their aimless, carefree fluttering. My interest led to a butterfly garden that enraptured my mom and me each morning over our cafés con leche. To this day, I am mesmerized by the beauty of butterflies, and my garden is full of the kinds of flowers that attract them.
    Unbeknownst to my mom (Mima knew), I kept snails, worms, and an array of creepy-crawlies under my bed. Technically, it was our bed: mine, the snails’, the worms’, and my mom’s. It was a small house, so I had to share a room with my mom, and my secret was safe until she accidentally freed them while cleaning under the bed. The memory of her shriekstill sends chills down my spine. She unequivocally put her foot down when I wanted to leave the bedroom windows open with lights on to attract moths.
    In the end, it was a turtle that got me into the worst trouble. My fascination with turtles began not by the water but on my front porch. One day, there sat a turtle no bigger than a softball. My mom agreed that I could keep it after much whining and wheedling from me, skills I mastered to talk her into every animal I wanted. My plastic pool became the perfect island home for the turtle. I loved watching it swim, its little legs pedaling like crazy. So I named it Bicicleta. It quickly grew, and in hurricane season we would transfer it to our bathtub for protection. During one of those bathtub transfers it refused to let go of my grandmother’s finger. I had made my first personal scientific discovery: a snapping turtle!
    After that, my mom and Mima insisted Bicicleta be returned to a nearby canal, its likely original home. With tears in my eyes, I let it go. It was my first heartbreak. Mom had suggested I paint a little pink dot on its shell so I could spot it in the future, but I never expected to see it again. Fast-forward several years, and you can imagine the shock when I once again found Bicicleta, with its perfect pink dot, sitting on my front porch. I don’t know how it found its way back home from the canal. Or how it had gotten across a very busy street that even I wasn’t allowed to cross. I returned Bicicleta to the canal once again, satisfied that it knew the way if ever it wanted to visit.
    Eventually, I got over the turtle. In fact, the turtle was theleast of my future heartbreaks. But it taught me two life lessons: “What is meant to be will be,” and “If you set something you love free, if it’s yours, it will come back to you.”
    Having three mothers with Cuban tempers wasn’t easy. The fiery temper of a Cuban woman may be a stereotype, but it is also a reality. However, my collective mothers instilled in me a boundless resilience, confidence, and strength. Little did I know that the strength these women possessed, that allowed them to leave their own country, would be essential for me in my future calling. Then there was the daily diet they fed me of Cuban rice and beans: For months at a time in the