Off Centre: life lessons, roommates and reggaeton

By Melissa Saunders

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It's been about one month since I moved into my first apartment in Jamaica Plain, where the thick smell of pastelitos and the booming sounds of reggaeton permeate the air. Honestly, my heart swells like a pubescent boy's penis when I say, "Me encanta el barrio."

There's just one problem: my roommate.

I will call her "Juanita" for privacy's sake, though I highly doubt that she would read this (or anything, for that matter).

The apartment was a welcome arrangement after miscellaneous placements and a year at a group home. As I unpacked my shit, I beamed with pride. No more bedtimes. No more stupid community meetings. No more awkward crushes on timid Jewish social workers (well, not really). But soon, reality kicked me in the balls: After foolishly spending my money at H&M, I realized that although a pink cardigan and lime green pants make a wonderful outfit, I can't eat them, bathe with them, or use them to pay for my rent, cellphone or groceries. I cried. My DSS worker gave me money to tie me over.

I continued to unpack until the doorbell chimed, and I met Juanita, my roommate. With a bevy of stretch marks adorning her arms and curly hair in a sloppy, foolish bun, I somehow got the innate feeling she wasn't the smartest cookie in the crayon box. Nevertheless, I extended my hand and introduced myself. I told her I was 18. She was 21. Later, in a random argument, she would call me an "immature 20 year old." How I'd aged two years in two weeks is anyone's guess.

Soon, Juanita welcomed herself in my room. As it turned out, we both shared a penchant for Mary Jane, reggae, reggaeton and The Pack's infectious shoe send-up "Vans." I sized her up again. She had camel toe. She shuffled like a sad, languid walrus. She didn't know who the Queen of China was, or that there wasn't even a Queen of China. Juanita was everything I feared I was, due to excessive introspection and self-hatred: fat, dumb, emotionally whacked out. And her armpits were obscenely hairy.

I could go on forever about Juanita, but ultimately, every barb I shoot out reflects more on my character than hers, and it doesn't change anything about her or the dynamics of our relationship. She'll still steal my shirts and eat my food. And I will still be a patronizing, antagonizing bitch. Or I could look at it another way. Maybe there is some strange existential connectedness of our entities or some shit like that. Everybody is different, like a pack of Skittles, and I know that if I can stick things out, I'll be prepared to deal with any other kind of shit/shitheads later on in life.

I will give her this: Juanita has great hair (on her head), a great sense of humor, she can cook Easy Mac (I cannot), and she knows how to handle the creepy old men who annoy us in front of stores.

But please, Juanita, stop eating my Hebrew National beef franks and drinking my chocolate milk. Mofos need their calcium. Gracias.