BOMBA: Adolescence,Analysis,and Moments of Resonance

Six months into the pandemic and weeks before the new school year, the parents of a 13-year-old I’ll call Lulu ¹ contacted me. They described a bright, well-behaved teenager who had recently become anxious and irritable and had stopped eating. Once a model student, she now refused to attend classes. Most concerningly for them, she had cut herself superficially on her arm using the blade from a pencil sharpener.

The parents were raised in the same South American country, though they occupied vastly different sociopolitical spheres. Mr. F was wealthier, attended private schools, and has lighter skin. Mrs. F grew up in a rural, indigenous community, experienced more instability, and has darker skin. Mr. F’s family refused to support the large, customary public wedding given these differences, and the couple instead married at a local courthouse. They moved to the United States when Lulu was 4 years old.

During Lulu’s first 7 years, her mother experienced debilitating depressive episodes, including fits of rage and periods of lifelessness. Lulu responded by becoming uncommonly well behaved. Lulu’s mother has devoted herself to treatment since then and grown considerably psychologically.

During the first years of her analysis ² which were conducted mostly via video, Lulu let me into her extremely private world of yearning, fear, and fantasy: We talked as we played chess; she sang swooning pop songs; and we followed every move of the lead character in her favorite teen drama. She revealed herself to be passionate, intensely anxious, and far livelier than her uncommonly composed presentation initially suggested. She talked about being lighter skinned than her mother, darker than her father, far darker than me, and lighter than many of her friends. With panic, Lulu spoke about the pandemic, the racial strife and economic disparities it exacerbates, and climate crises and authoritarian surges surrounding her. Throughout this period, she attended school regularly and reengaged socially.

Nearing her 15th birthday, her relationship with her parents erupted. Her mother wanted to throw her a big, formal quinceañera. Lulu and her parents fought over whether to have a Catholic Mass before the event, whether to have the traditional, gender-rigid customs, and where to hold it. Lulu’s mother was deeply invested in every detail. She pressed to host a grand celebration at a fancy country club. Over time, she realized she was treating the quince as if it were the big, public wedding she was denied. Lulu initially resisted every suggestion her mother made and critiqued every detail from a sociopolitical viewpoint. With time, Lulu longed to bridge her South American roots and family connections with her queer-friendly, racially open peers. For months, I was uncertain whether the quince would even happen.

The following session is in the 3rd year of the treatment, 2 days before the quince, and the last session of the week.

Session 1

Lula arrives wearing sweatpants and a black hoodie pulled over her head. She looks despondent.

L:

I may get a text. My friend said her boyfriend may not be coming tomorrow and she may be late. I don’t even want them to come anymore. I just texted her, but she left me on read. [Her phone vibrates. She stands, reads the text, and responds. She mumbles, “This is awkward,” and keeps typing.] I’ve never done that before. Texted in here.

A:

Something is different today.

L:

Everything is different! I can’t just be here! My mother made me meet with the priest yesterday. I’ve seen this guy before, but I’ve never really talked with him. He was so pasty and wrinkly. He looked mean. Like he wants me to screw up, like he’s thinking, “Quiet down Chica.” He just wanted to tell me his rules or the Church’s rules! My friend is part of the dance. How can she miss it! It’s all a mess. Everything, all of it, is a mess! I’m a mess!

A:

A total mess. Everything around you. Everything within you.

L:

Beyond. A total, horrible mess! There is so much to get ready. So much to do. Including dealing with all these people. That’s it! The details are done. It’s just the people. My father’s relatives are coming from Miami. We didn’t think they were coming, since they hate my mom. A little too dark for their blood. [Her anger now seems directed at me.] When my mom talks about them, she looks like she’s going to bite someone. Who’s going to entertain them? Or keep an eye on my mom. Nobody!

A:

Including me.

L:

This morning, I thought about cutting. I thought if I really cut myself then I wouldn’t have to do any of this. Nobody’s going to force me to do a thing if they see a pool of blood. [She stares harshly at me as she says this. I worry about the weekend.]

A:

You’re letting me know this is high stakes, and you feel alone and angry I’m not helping.

L:

We’ve been talking for years. We’ve been talking about my quince and my family and my feelings for years. Why is everything still so fucked up now?

A:

Just when you so want it to go well.

L:

In a few minutes, I’m going to walk out of this room, go back home, and then it all starts: all the people; the priest; my mother; my dad’s polite, racist smilers! [She suddenly stands, pulls out her phone, and texts someone.]

A:

Now I’m the one left out, wondering what’s happening.

L:

Right now, I don’t really care what you’re wondering! [She sounds furious and then uncomfortable with her sharpness. She sits down.] I feel like there is so much to keep track of. I feel like I’m the one who has to sort it all out. I have to talk with my dad’s relatives. I have to make sure my mom relaxes. My friends? What’s that going to be like? I don’t want to be spotlighted the whole night. I don’t like getting mad at you, but I don’t like pretending either. Since this morning, I have felt like I wanted to burn down the church, the party tent, everything. [She pulls her hood over her head and cries loudly.] I can’t believe I’m saying all this. Two days ago, I was excited about the bomba music and empanadas. How did everything fall apart? [She’s silent for minutes.] I wonder what it will be like Saturday.

A:

Especially when it matters so much to you. It’s time.

Even after she leaves, I feel the intensity of her presence like I can still hear her. I think that it was vital that she immersed me in her world of angry priests, racist relatives, and urges to cut. We have been through similar surges in the past, and they have been generative. Her parting comment about wondering what Saturday would be like suggested she was already collecting herself. But I feel uneasy. I think about her over the weekend, about what will happen around the quince and whether she will manage it, and I wonder how fully I received the intensity of her distress.

Session 2

Monday. First session after Lulu’s Quince. She arrives dressed in a bright red sweatshirt with a colorful, graffiti style print. She makes eye contact, smiles, and averts her eyes.

L:

It was really fun. Fun for me, but I think really fun for everyone. The part with the priest was weird and fine. It meant a lot to my mother, and the priest did something I didn’t expect. When he was giving me a blessing, he placed his hand on my head, and smiled. I mean a big smile. Awkward! But he smiled and told me that the world needed me and that my big heart was a sign of God’s love. I didn’t see that coming! [She laughs.] It was squirmy but also kind of sweet. I invited some of my closer friends to that part, the religious part. I thought they would think it was sus. But they thought it was deep. One friend even looked up some of the readings. Interesting stuff about being an adult and how freedom and responsibility go together. I was disappointed with the empanadas. They were dry. My relatives from Miami were like, “Yep, saw that coming.” They don’t think Latin food can be cooked up here. My family orders those empanadas all the time and they are usually delicious. Sabrosa. Total let down. [She laughs.]

A:

You don’t sound disappointed.

L:

I guess I’m not. I was at the time: all my friends were there; and these relatives; everything had to be perfect. Blueprint. When I saw my cousin throw hers out, I thought, “Oh no. This is not happening.” But then some people ate, and it didn’t seem to matter. I can’t tell you how much we danced. We did our routine! Midway through the dancing. Totally embarrassing and so much fun. [She covers her face.]

A:

There’s something you don’t want me to see.

L:

Don’t want you to see? I don’t know. I kind of don’t want it to end. I feel like I want to keep talking about it. I am sad. Like after all that, now I know how to throw a quince. It’s like I want to plan the next one. My mom danced and danced. You may not know it, but Latinx people, even the old ones, know how to dance. Earlier, she was stressed about the Miami haters and the arrangements: priest; music; food; getting everyone everywhere. But later in the night, when everything was fine, she took off her shoes and just danced. I remember looking at her and she had her eyes closed. My friend looked over at me and I thought she was going to laugh, but she just made a face like, “Ah, that’s sweet.” The best part was when the bomba band entered. No one expected it. And these guys enter with their drums hanging off their necks and the beats. Everyone got up. Everyone. My cousin’s auntie stood in front of her wheelchair! And they led us around the room. Bomba-bomba-bombadabomba. [She imitates the drummers.] It’s such fun, beautiful music. You’ve heard it when I played it for you, but it’s totally rent free in person. I’m always playing that drumming in my head. I just hum to myself, Bomba-bombada-bomba-bombabada. [As she plays with the sounds, I recall years ago her imitating a different tune her mother sang when she was a toddler. Her mother had called her Bonbón and would improvise rhymes around it. Lulu had initially remembered it with rage, because of the racial connotations of the dark chocolates and memories of her depressed, volatile mother, but more recently described it with warmth and tenderness.]

A:

Bomba. Bonbón. Bomba. Bonbón.

L:

Did you say Bonbón? Ha! I think you said Bonbón. Like bomba! She used to sing it to me. You know that! I told you about it. Like a rhythm. [She plays with the sounds.] Bomba-Bom-bom-bonbón. Bomba-Bombadabón-bombadabón. [She laughs as she sings and then cries for minutes. She eventually talks slowly and quietly.] I don’t know why I’m crying. It was an important night for my mom. For me and my mom. I think it was for my dad too, but it’s hard to tell. I never really know how much he connects.

A:

How much he hears the rhythm.

L:

[She smiles sadly.] That’s not his thing. He danced and stayed up late and he talked with people, but he never really lets loose. Have I mentioned Steven? He’s a boy who’s in the orchestra. Steven said the bomba drummers were the best percussionists he’d ever heard. He showed me how to drum on his legs and follow some pattern. I’m like, what? I tried and tried but didn’t get it. I was all tied up and confused. We laughed and almost spit out our food. That would have been humiliating.

A:

It’s time to stop.

Later in the day, I hum the bomba rhythms to myself. I picture Lulu excitedly telling me about her quince, her mother dancing with her shoes off, and Lulu and Steven laughing and flirting together. I realize that when Lulu talked about planning another quince, I imagined her hosting one for her daughter someday. I marvel at the surprise and delight in the bomba moment and Lulu’s expanding range of experience. I also feel a subtle ache that the moment of resonance is over, that Lulu’s analysis will eventually end, and that more tension and turmoil will surely come.)