Call Me Maria Page 7

  On the last page of the libreta she left for me to read Abuela had written a line from Don Quixote that she had translated to English: I know who I am and who I may be if I choose.

  “After school, you and I will work together on your poems, María,” Mr. Golden tells me after class. “There is an old saying that goes like this: Success is the best revenge.”

  “But, Mr. Golden, I do not yet have all the words I need to make poems.”

  “Take words where you find them, María. Do what you have to do to keep writing your stories and poems, María,” Mr. Golden said, “just as I must do what I need to do to keep singing my songs.

  “You have a gift; it is the gift of metaphor. María, go out and see if you can see the universe in a grain of sand. Here, take this.” He hands me a book of poems in both Spanish and English. It is Pablo Neruda’s Elementary Odes, Odas elementales.

  I thank him in words, but answer him only in my thoughts: Mr. Golden está bien, I believe you, since you declare that I am a poet, since it is imperative that I be a poet, I will be a poet. But how do I become a poet? I live in a small world with few exclamation points and many question marks. Will I have to look for the universe in the cement and the concrete of my street? Will I have to look for metaphors in the plaster of the walls of our home, in the sad notes of my father’s guitar late at night, in the sad golden eyes of my friend Uma? Will I have to find poetry in Whoopee’s red sneakers and her Tarzan song? Will I have to make poems out of common, ordinary things no one except me cares about? No one will want to read my poems, Mr. Golden.

  But later, sitting at my desk by the window where I can see the feet passing by, the shoes and the socks of people whose lives and secret dreams I try to imagine as I do my homework, I open the book and read Pablo Neruda’s poem titles … and my heart jumps like a small frog inside my chest! Yes, I see that I will have to make poems out of blue socks, red tomatoes, yellow birds, onions, lemons, cats, artichokes, elephants, panthers; about things that work just fine, like a watch in the night (the minutes falling like leaves from a tree, says Pablo Neruda), and also about broken things. And maybe someone in my future, someone who needs to know if her world is too small to write about will hold my book in her hands and read my poemas elementales, and say yes, I can be a poet too.

  Gracias, Mr. Golden.

  My father emerges

  from our basement apartment

  in his blue workman’s uniform.

  He is all in blue.

  Blue workman’s pants, blue shirt, blue

  Yankees cap. My father is a cloudy sky,

  a storm at sea. Blue father,

  my Papi-Azul.

  “María, whatcha doin’?”

  “Nada,” I say. “I am lounging

  like a small brown iguana

  in the first warm day of spring.”

  “Bueno,” he says, “I won’t be back

  for la cena tonight. I’ll eat

  at la bodega.”

  “I am a small brown iguana,” I say,

  “warming myself in the sun.”

  But he is not listening.

  He has places to go,

  people to see.

  It is getting warmer now, and our duties are lighter. The fire-breathing monster in the basement is hibernating, and the residents of our building are resigned to suffering through another sweltering summer with windows thrown open to catch the rare city breeze. My father is completely at home on this street, in this setting. He wants to be King of the Barrio, although his throne room is in the basement. He rules because he has the master key and he has the toolbox and he has the songs and the voice and the heart.

  On weekends, Papi can usually be found on one of the higher floors, a popular guest with his guitar and repertoire of old songs fresh from La Isla. Usually he leaves me a note telling me where he will be that night — which is often at a “rent party.” There is always one in progress on a Saturday night in our building: for a few dollars or a song, Doña so-and-so will provide her living room as a dance floor and make mondongo, asopao, or homemade pasteles, or whatever Island recipe she knows will loosen your wallet and your homesick tears. And, ¡fiesta!, she will make rent that month. My father is always invited for his musical accompaniment to their sad midnight songs about an Island some of them have never visited or, like my father, a place they do not call home by choice.

  Barrio women with the strong, muscular legs I watch pass by through the grille at the top of my basement window march themselves like warriors to the front lines, to their jobs in factories all day, then return to their tiny, cold apartments to work some more, taking care of children and their mostly absent husbands — many of the younger men of the barrio are the mercenary troops in this war — making their brief appearances, leaving a swollen belly here and there. They also party as hard as they work. On weekends, the ceiling of our basement apartment trembles above me. Bits of plaster sometimes rain on my head from the feet pounding out their cumbias, pachangas, and mambos, as they work “la lucha” out of their systems. Will I become as strong as the barrio women? Creo que sí. Will I dance my troubles away after a week of hard work? Claro que sí. But I want my luchas to be the ones I choose.

  It is April of the first year of my American life when my mother finally comes to visit us.

  I sit on the top step as the hour of Mami’s arrival approaches. It is a warm evening and the sidewalk is crowded with people sitting on folding chairs, mainly women and children. The noise level rises steadily as radios are brought out and people adjust the volume of their voices to compete with the music. I like to listen to the old women talking about their previous incarnations as island puertorriqueñas. Some of them talk only about how much better life was en La Isla: the people were kinder, the weather perfect, the arroz y habichuelas, plátanos, pollo frito, café con leche, maví — talking about the food as cooked by their mamás makes some of them stand up on the top step like poets inspired to recite verses to their native land. ¡Ay, ay, ay, bendito! But someone always points out that beautiful scenery did not fill empty stomachs. “¡Hay que comer, hijas!” One has to eat. No one disagrees with this opinion.

  I listen, but do not speak. I know that even though I am in their circle, I am not really a part of the powerful barrio women’s society yet. They all know that a different kind of hunger brought my father and me to this island in the city, but one more difficult to satisfy than food hunger or money hunger. My father missed the barrio of his younger days; he had to come home, and I wanted an American education. The barrio women, Pura, Isabel, Clara, Cordelia, Concepción, and their new American children, Lynette Gómez, Janice García, Joey Flores, and all the ones that would come after them, were new here like me — and the new barrio dwellers would have to take on new colors to survive. I know this from having studied island chameleons as a child, the talented little lizards always come back to their original colors when they feel safe in their environment. I can see the women in front of this building in our American city are not that different from the women in their porch rockers on the Island.

  In the late afternoons and sometimes even at night, I sit on our building’s front stoop to enjoy their Spanglish poetry slam and gossip sessions. As I wait for Papi’s car to drive up, with my mother in the passenger seat, I dream that Mami will now join me on these old steps. Here I will teach her about my new American life, and she will decide to stay with us.

  Papi pulls up in front of our building in his sleek parrot-green Thunderbird. There are wolf whistles and wild clapping from some of the women. The car has barely stopped moving when several children wearing only underwear or shorts climb on its shiny hood. Papi is wearing a new red shirt and black pants and his hair and mustache are blue-black from the Nice ’n Easy color I put in it. He is not the same man as he is in his blue workman’s uniform. He is not strutting as usual, and I can tell something is wrong. He is trying hard to be a gentleman, but after he opens the passenger door for Mami — she swings her tan
ned legs out of the car with the grace of a dancer; her movements are a ballet — he slams it hard. He pulls away too fast, wheels squealing. Something has happened between them. But I do not want to think about problems just then, I just want to run into my mother’s arms.

  It has been a whole year since I have seen her! I notice that Mami’s face is as perfectly made up as that of a model in a glossy magazine. Her flawless complexion and athletic body are the result of a lot of hard work. She always said to me: María, you do not need to be rich to be healthy and look good; money buys you dermatologists, orthodontists, and hair stylists, but exercise is free, and a person who takes care of her looks tells the world that she respects herself. I had put on my happy mouth today, just for her — Berry Berry Red, a new shade, and I had curled my hair. Alegre, Alegre. Call me María Alegre!

  Mami gives me a big, big smile and opens her arms for me to come to her. I feel like I am in a play. I feel the eyes of the barrio women behind me. They are watching me to see who I really am. Am I an Island woman or a barrio woman? Can I be both?

  I see Mami’s eyes sweep over the scene on the stoop leading to our building. I know she disapproves of this society, definitely not the kind of club that she wants me to join. I know what she sees: The old women with legs spread wide to cool themselves blatantly staring at us, the sweaty children running up and “tagging” Papi’s car, leaving dirty handprints on its gemstone finish, while he is trying to maneuver into a tight spot. The same things that normally make up my front-yard world, one I thought I was finally beginning to understand, now embarrass me. I imagine seeing the crude scene through Mami’s eyes. Her eyes that open every morning to the turquoise sea, un cielo azul, to her ears that hear Spanish spoken in a completely different way than the way we use the mother tongue here.

  I run to hug her, to protect her.

  * * *

  I will get her past the evil tongues, las malas lenguas. And once we are safely inside our little basement apartment that I have scrubbed and cleaned for her visit, she will see that I have made a true casa for Papi and me in the middle of this foreign place, this cold city.

  There are murmurs and giggles from some of the barrio women as they watch the elegantly dressed Mami and me walk down into our apartment, our arms around each other. She is wearing an ivory suit of some soft material, perhaps silk, and big, dark, and matching soft brown leather shoulder bag and pumps. Very island Puerto Rican dressy. And very unusual attire on our block, where men walk around in their T-shirts and cut-off shorts at this time of year and women wear as little as they can. It is a matter of surviving the heat in the city.

  “Mira, the fancy pájara is about to inspect her golden cage,” Clara points her nose at my mother, speaking loudly enough for us to hear. Some of the children take up the chant, “Pájara, pájara. Pretty bird, pretty bird.”

  There is unabashed laughter in the circle. I am ready to defend my mother against their rudeness, though I know I would also be condemning myself to their persecution. They are enjoying el gufeo, goofing off, Spanglish style. The catcalls and verbal abuse inflicted on the ones who act snobbish around the gate keepers, as Whoopee calls the old women who sit, watch, and comment on everything that happens on our street, are a familiar part of daily life here. Everyone gets humbled by the viejas. They teach the game to the younger ones. But el gufeo is not what I wanted Mami to endure on her first minutes in the barrio. At the risk of my own future, I start to tell them to shut up. But Mami squeezes my hand. I look at her calm face, the cool smile that says, Do not worry. They cannot touch me. She leads me slowly past them, bearing with grace their laughter and sarcastic gazes. Some of the younger women clap and whistle as if we were putting on a show for them. The old ones look at us in solemn silence. They were once Island women themselves. They know. Sometimes you are born to be one or the other. Sometimes you can cross over.

  I know the viejas respect my mother’s self-control. I lead Mami by the hand down the steps and into #35½ Market Street, our apartment under the ground. We sit close together on the sofa, not saying anything for a few moments. She had asked Papi for a few hours alone with me. She looks around and then leans over to switch on a lamp. I had forgotten that she couldn’t stand dim rooms.

  We talk about everything for a while. I can tell that she has something on her mind. But I already know she will not stay. It is obvious that this is a visit. It is only when I offer to show her the little white painted room where Abuela had stayed — I had painted it yellow for Mami — she begins to cry.

  She admits that she will not be moving in with us. She has fallen in love with another man, a fellow teacher. Did I remember him? Julio? He teaches history at her school. They are in love. She is asking Papi for a divorce. He had been furious when she told him on the way here.

  “María, I thought that he would have gotten used to the idea of our separation by now. I believed we could present this to you like civilized people. Pero tu papi no cambia. He is the same papi-lindo I met in high school. He expects to be loved unconditionally by everyone — at least by all the women. It has always been this way with him.”

  I just shake my head. Both my parents are wrong about each other. It is breaking my heart to hear her speak about my father this way. I decide it is better for me to be silent for now. I had learned long ago that fights between my parents could not be resolved by me. If I defend him, she will be hurt, and vice versa.

  She asks me to return to the Island and live with her and Julio. She says this is not the place she had imagined for me.

  My head hurts. My chest hurts. I smell her familiar perfume, I listen to her voice until she says all she has come to say. Then I show her my little cavelike bedroom. I show her how I can feel the giant boiler, the Dragon, in the winter by putting my ear to the wall.

  When we come back to the living room, she is calmer. I let her sit at my desk under the street-level window where I watch legs go by when I do my homework, when I write to her. I read her some of my Instant Histories. I tell her about Uma, Papi-lindo, about Doña Segura, and about my best friend, Whoopee Dominguez, who had interested me even before she stuck her face at my window because of her combat boots and her powerful voice. Mami holds my poetry notebook in her hands a long time and then she presses it to her heart in a very dramatic, Puerto Rican–telenovela sort of way.

  “Eres una poeta, María,” she said.

  “In three languages, Mami. I am a trilingual poet.”

  “Three languages? English, Spanish …”

  “And Spanglish.” I read her my instant history of Whoopee.

  Mami laughs at my third language. “You are good at Spanglish, María. You know it’s what your father spoke when he was growing up.”

  “And what he speaks again now, Mami.”

  Then she began to cry again. “It is like we are from two different countries, hija. Both Puerto Ricans, but we have never spoken the same language.”

  I know what that feels like. There are many ways to be a foreigner. I spend the evening comforting my mother.

  It is dark outside when we hear the turning of a key in the front door. Papi has apparently stumbled on his way in and is calling out my name in a slurry, thick voice I hardly recognize. He is drunk. He never comes home drunk, or if he does, he makes sure I do not know about it. Though sometimes I have found the evidence of a hangover in our kitchen sink — the glass crusted with dry grains of Alka-Seltzer, the bottle of aspirin left on the table, a bag of ice in the freezer. But I have never seen him in the crashing, stumbling, word-slurring condition he is in this night. He stands in the doorway, his arms outstretched, head lolling around like a puppet’s. My shame is complete. My mother will now think that our lives are a disgrace. My father looks like any barrio derelict: circles of sweat under his arms, a flush darkening his face, and the sarcastic grin of any ordinary drunkard as he looks mockingly at Mami and me sitting on the sofa, a book of poetry between us. He is very angry and very borracho.

  “Mothe
r and hija reunited at last. We are a familia again! At least for a few minutes, ¿verdad, querida? Did you tell our María Alegre you plan to abandonarnos?”

  Mami stands up, extending her hand with its manicured fingernails and tasteful gold bracelet toward my father who stares at her with an expression of utter disdain, and then he turns his head away and vomits on the hallway floor. We barely manage to grab him under his flopping arms and drag him to his bed. He begins snoring almost immediately. Sick at the sight of him, his disgrace now complete in my eyes, I start to leave his room. But Mami does not follow me out of the dark, man-smelling place where my father smokes his cigars and reads La Prensa, stacking papers and magazines around his bed as if he were building a wall of moldy newsprint around himself. I turn to see a strange scene: Mami tenderly tucking a blanket around my unconscious father, then pausing to look intently at his sad face. I see my mother gaze at him with tenderness, and I am confused again by it all. “Hija,” I hear him moan before I close the door to his room behind us. Is he calling for me because he is afraid I will leave him too? His voice sounds like that of a drowning man. What would happen to him if I left him alone with the Dragon in the basement? I will not leave him.

  Mami will not stay. The man she loves now, Julio the historian, who takes her to museums, was due to pick her up here, in front of our building. They are going to spend a day or two in New York, going to museums of course, and then they will return to the Island. Listening to her plans makes me feel as if a small black bird called el pájaro triste has just awakened inside my chest. It wants to be set free, to come out through my eyes as tears, through my mouth as angry words, black feathers that would shock and frighten my soft-spoken, well-dressed island mother. But I keep la tristeza inside me.

  I let her talk. She keeps looking at her watch. She asks me again if I am completamente segura, certain without any doubt that I want to stay in this place. I just nod. How can I explain to her that what she called this place with so much disdain is now mi isla, mi casa. Also, I have responsibilities: I have to make sure the tenants of our building get their leaks fixed, their apartments painted, their favorite songs sung by Papi. El Súper needs his assistant. Maybe, quizás, I say when she asks me if I will meet her and Julio at the Museo del Barrio. I do not tell her that I am not ready for outings with her and her future husband yet. Sí, claro, I will call her mañana.