A Tale of Two Sisters

A TALE OF TWO SISTERS 

Where “Half” is the Dirty Word 

 

Jessica Guizar-Olivera.  

That is the name on my birth certificate, but it isn’t my name. Jessica is a frazzled nurse who hands a baby to a child who can barely speak because English tastes like lemons and pickled ginger. However, the child recognizes the name on the nurse’s tag; it is as familiar as the pozole de cerdo waiting for her at home, a name she can pronounce, the name of the only person with her in the hospital room.  

My father’s name is on a woman in Mexico and on another in Louisiana, but never on my mother and never on me. It is a name that fades on the court papers that prove he was an encantado who had enough of the land and returned to the water. I become the child of my mother and my grandmother, until my mother marries and sheds the skin of Guizar. Years later I try to do the same, to peel off the skin like an onion, but my mouth cannot form the words; it is a foreign language I cannot speak.   

“Who am I?” 

A poem by Crystal Sosa 

[DEER PARK, TX, February 6, 2025—] I once slapped my sister Jessica in the face. I don’t remember why, but I remember that she deserved it. Still, I am glad she slapped me back. Whatever incident plagued us died there. I am not sure if she remembers the incident. Jessica’s always focused on something different than me. I have borne my soul to her before, only for it to fade into the background for a designer handbag or Ariana Grande getting cast as Glinda in Wicked (the latter which does make me miss the the odes to Michael Kors). Maybe I will show her this blog post someday. Maybe I won’t. Either way, it will be fine. Because that is our relationship. Fine. 

If I ever meet the other half of her DNA though, I am prepared to do much more than slap him. Thankfully, I am only a relative pacifist. 

I have three sisters, and I am the second oldest, though by far the most mature. Jessica has the superficialness of an only child and is too much like our mom for comfort. Though, it makes sense. They were raised by the same woman. 

I was raised by both my parents (though, I would argue, I did most of the raising with my mother). Jessica was raised by our grandparents. I don’t know why, and I never will. I doubt Jessica does either. However, for years I was resentful of what I had lost. I just wanted her to be there for me, to be considerate of my feelings.  

But I also feel guilt. 

It’s unfair, as a baby hardly had any say in whether her sister did or did not live with her. But guilt does not care about fairness. No, it transforms into rage and wants to decimate anyone who ever harmed the little girl my sister once was. It wants to ask why the grownups why they couldn’t do better. At least time has given me my sister. Flawed, selfish, and superficial. But also, incredibly kind and sympathetic. Spoiled, but non-judgmental.  

Fine is better than nonexistent. Though, I do still wish she didn’t know everything about the Kardashians and that she could remember to get me a birthday gift, she is the sister God gave me. And I’d rather not go back to life without her. 

 

About Crystal Sosa 

Crystal Sosa is a PhD student at Texas Woman’s University. She is also a professor at San Jacinto College and a native to Houston. She spends her free time writing fantasy novels or talking about the queer agenda. You can contact her at csosa6@twu.edu. You can find more of her work here.