Wela, my great-grandmother, is still in the cocina infusing the smell of rice and beans into my hair and clothes. For years, I’ve watched the heat in the kitchen paint her face like a tomato and the steam from the pot of rice fog her 1980’s glasses as they slip down her pudgy nose.

Growing up, I thought Wela was too old-fashioned. I did not understand her perspectives, her restrictions and her style. “You have to learn how to cook so you can serve your husband and family,” explained Wela countless times. She automatically assumed my ultimate destiny meant marriage and kids. If I dared think differently, she would worry about my future.

In my pre-teen and teenage years her binding rules were: “You can’t spend the night at your friend’s house. You can’t wear make-up. You can’t wear that outfit. You have to be in by 8 p.m.” Naturally, I would ask, “why?” But to my displeasure her reasoning did not satisfy.

At 86, her gray bun on her head is her crown of wisdom that perfectly complements her plain and simple face. To me however, I thought her appearance was outdated, even boring. She’s never worn pants in her life and never will. Her usual ensemble is a mix-match blouse and skirt with a floral apron. In the summer, she wears hideous batas with her worn-out chanclas.

Wela never wears make-up, not even lipstick or lip-gloss. When I was little, I would play with the spiky hairs on her chin because she never thought to wax it. Her nails are brittle and yellow, and she thinks it’s cute to tap them to the tunes of old Puerto Rican cantos.

I offered my services to “fix” her up, but she resisted. When confronted with her old-fashioned style, she’d laugh unmoved by what I thought.

Wela is a housewife and I mean that literally. She never learned how to drive and she intentionally avoids public transportation, so she’s always at the house. Her house is unique. The sala had plastic covered sofas and was cluttered with figuras from Folana’s wedding, babyshower, and quienceanera. I thought these things are so tacky, but she faithfully collects them. I tried to understand her ways, but my conclusion never changed, Wela is too old-fashioned.

Yet, when I grew older, I began to realize that Wela, is a woman of endurance. She came to this country over 50 years ago with Welo and three small children and learned survival. While Welo fought in World War II, Wela raised the kids alone. When he returned, Wela wanted to work, but Welo frowned on that idea.

So as time passed, she found her fulfillment at home in daily routines. She smiled at life but then the storms of life hit hard and saddened her soul. During the week of Thanksgiving 1969, her only daughter died in a tragic fire along with three small children. My mother was spared.

Shortly after the devastating news of the fatal fire, Welo committed adultery. Despite her utter despair, grief, pain, and humiliation, she stood by him. In the midst of this great suffering, she said she gained strength and character.

Driven by more than duty, she pressed on for the sake of her children whom she loved unconditionally. After raising her own children, she sacrificed long overdue comforts to raise grandchildren, and once her task of raising two generations was done, she raised me too, her great-grand daughter.

As I learned these things about Wela, a deep fondness and appreciation in my heart developed and I began calling her by the nickname I gave her, “vieja linda.” From afar I admire her. Even though I got embarrassed from her broken English, corny jokes, and her creative ways of saving grease for the next meal, I cherished her. I noticed how she was becoming a part of me and I was becoming like her. I didn’t care anymore that she was old-fashioned. I finally accepted who she was a woman of great value and worth.