Cochina de Mierda
by Jennifer Jordán Schaller
British Red Coat was my mother’s favorite—Loreal’s version of fire hydrant red. I used to watch her slide lacquer over her bright red claws, razor-sharp spoons. Growing, filing and painting her nails were my mother’s only feminine rituals. My mother, Ezra, didn’t wear make-up and rarely ever wore dresses; she had a mop of wavy hair she blow-dried straight.
My mother used to say she could tell a woman’s secrets by the state of her nails.
Only old women wear brown.
Pink is for little girls.
Short, dark nails means she wants things she can’t have.
French manicures are classy, like Jackie O.
I remember her thumbing through a Vogue magazine when I was about seven. A model stood in a photo wearing jeans and a white button up shirt. My mother seemed to be admiring the picture until I heard her smack her teeth in disgust and say Cochina de Mierda!
Literally translated, this term means pig of shit. I asked my mother what was wrong, and she pointed at the woman’s white nail bed creep out from underneath red nail polish.
That is so tacky.
Walking around with raggedy nails was an indication of other grotesque habits. My mother could assume so many things about the type of woman with chipped nail polish—she doesn’t like to cook and most likely doesn’t floss, the only time she cleans her house is when her mother-in-law comes over; in fact, the only time she cleans her coffeemaker is when a layer of green scum forms over old, bitter coffee. The bit about the scum, that is all me.
My mother’s rule was nails had to be a certain length before paint was applied. A woman with short, dark polish wants things she cannot have. But I couldn’t grow mine out. As soon as my nails were long enough to paint, I tore into them with my teeth. The perfect chomping length—not so long that I resembled a dog gnawing a rib bone, not so short that biting them left my fingers a bloody cuticle salad. I left my nail beds in shreds. When my mother caught me plucking meaty bits of finger between my front teeth, she’d say, Oye, no friegues, Cochina de Mierda!
Now I have a daughter of my own. When she was a baby, I would clip her soft, ten-month-old fingernails to the quick. She’d scratched herself before—under her eye, on her nose, down her cheek. I waited until she slept to snip because she moved constantly. I held her soft baby hands in mine and snipped away. As little white slips of moon scattered in her crib, I brushed them away, trying not to wake her.
I’m the kind of person who brushes most scraps to the floor, leaving specks on my tile and carpet. I never notice the dirt my house until I notice people noticing my floor.
One afternoon, when Ella was a baby, I saw my mother tense up as Ella traversed toys, pebbles and cat fur. She scurried under her bouncer and spotted a goodie—a floor-Cheerio. Floor-Cheerios are better than high-chair Cheerios because Ella could eat them while crawling. My mother reached for Ella’s hand as she raised the Cheerio to her lips. I took my mother’s hand in mine and let Ella bite down on her discovery. She gnawed that O between her four front teeth, obliterating it. She opened her mouth once to laugh wildly, revealing half an O, a crescent of oats.
Jennifer Jordán Schaller is a writer and teacher from Albuquerque. She is currently working on a creative nonfiction manuscript, and she blogs about her writing and publishing process at jenniferjordanschaller.com. You can also follow her on Twitter @jenniferschall2.