Open Mic (9 page)

“Why can’t we take a taxi?” I ask.

“You all gonna pay for it, Reina?” asks Daddy,

his southern twang

more out of place

than we are.

We move slowly across the platform,

pushing into the overcrowded train car.

“Sure, I’ll pay,

just as soon as I start my own

currywurst stand.”

I can still smell it from here.

My brother, Oscar, laughs. “Yeah, right.”

I stare at his pudgy face,

trying not to get squished

by the rush-hour stampede.

“What’s so funny?” I say.

Oscar laughs again.

“A black American girl

servin’ up German sausage?

Sure, that’s not funny

at all.”

“I’m not
black,
” I say.

An old punk rocker,

all leather and tattoos,

laughs when I say that.

I shoot him a look.

My dad is black,

in a real southern way.

But Mom is a light-skinned Hispanic

from Puerto Rico,

so I’m as black as Obama, I guess,

which is only half.

My bro rolls his eyes. “Sorry.

I meant ‘
mixed
American.’”

His eyes light up —

“Or how about ‘
mixed-UP
American’?”

Mom makes a face.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Papito.”

Oscar shrugs, like she ain’t

hip enough to get it.

The doors start to close,

so I give Oscar one last shove

’cause we still sticking out

the train door a bit.

We make it in

as the doors seal shut,

but now he’s squashed up

against a pole,

looking like he wished

he didn’t have a sister.

“You should thank me

for saving your butt,” I say.

“You coulda got cut in two

by them doors.

I heard it happened once.”

He’s thinking of a comeback.

“I pretty sure your
big
butt

woulda stopped those doors

from closing,” he mutters.

I laugh in his face. “Dude,

so weak. Move on

before you embarrass yourself.

Oops, sorry, too late.”

Then we ignore each other,

standing like sardines

in a tin can with windows.

Mom’s feet ache.

So do mine.

Too much walking here,

not like in the States.

Guess that’s why

they ain’t all fat here.

All they do is walk

and take the subway,

or the
U-bahn,
as they call it.

I wish we had a car,

but Daddy says the subway

is a good way to

“mingle with the people.”

That’s the only way

to get into a strange culture,

he says — dive in,

headfirst.

So we ride them,

morning

to night.

No taxis for this
familia.

The subway’s kinda like

watching reality TV —

you see all kinds.

I’ve seen the clothes change

from season to season since we got here:

shorts and porkpie hats and flip-flops

in summer

become heavy coats and fur caps and boots

by winter.

There’s funny-looking people:

hipster artist types trying to act all Euro-cool,

workers reading big ol’ novels,

students bopping to their iPods,

tourists looking lost and confused.

But most of all,

old people.

Lots of ’em.

I don’t think I ever seen

so many old people before.

Daddy says they ain’t that old —

they just look it.

Ex-Communists

who lost their way of life

when the Wall came down.

You’d think they’d be happy,

but the older ones aren’t.

They like making your life

miserable

’cause they can’t have it their way

anymore.

Daddy says,
Just kill ’em

with kindness.

But they never smile

or give
us
the time of day.

Daddy looks around for a place

to park our butts.

The train is jam-packed —

no place to go.

But he smiles,

winks at me,

and nods toward

two older women,

all uptight with little glasses

and what they think passes

for style: beige pants, beige jackets,

colorful scarves,

and poofy colored hair.

To me, it seems

they all dress the same,

like they in the same old people’s club

or something.

There is one empty seat

between them.

Or at least

Daddy thinks there is.

It’s more like a small gap,

but it’ll do.

“Honey, it’s
on,
” he says,

pointing to their row.

“Not funny, Papi,” Mom says,

frowning.

I look at the old ladies,

especially the one

with a bright-red mop of Lola hair

who holds a small dog

as sour as she is.

I laugh. “Good luck with
that.
”

Daddy shrugs. “I didn’t invent the rules.

I just play the game.”

“Some role model,” Oscar pipes in,

taking Mom’s side.

“Mama’s boy,” I say.

“Daddy’s
girl,
” he says, all cutesy

’cause he knows I hate that.

Daddy puts his hands

on our heads.

“Y’all missed

the freedom-bus protests,

so you have no idea,” he says.

Mom clears her throat.

“Papi, you were two years old back then,”

she says, blowing his cover.

Daddy gives her a look and shrugs.

“Just sayin’. Now, let your man

go to work.”

He adjusts his tie,

smooths down his goatee,

and heads toward the two old ladies,

all smiles and southern charm.

He tips his invisible hat

and says in his best Alabama-German,

“How y’all doin’,
fraw-lines
?”

then motions to the empty spot.

They grimace,

like they just swallowed

something bad.

“
Dan-ka,
ma’ams,” he says politely,

not waiting for an answer.

He wiggles between them,

clears his throat,

and waits

for the next move. . . .

I try to make eye contact

to see if I can make him

laugh.

But he doesn’t.

He has on

his most saintly face,

like he just got baptized

by the pope.

The ladies are

squirming on either side of him.

Even the dog

is jumpy.

It’s like Daddy has a disease

or something.

They’re looking around,

trying not to be too obvious

about their discomfort,

but he can’t help but rub shoulders

with them.

My guess is they watch

American TV and think

if you sit next to a black man,

it’s only a matter of time

before he robs you.

Even if he’s wearing a suit,

he could still be one of those

Malcolm X brothers.

Ach, mein Gott!

It’s like watching popcorn

pop —

sooner or later

they’re gonna blow.

I look at my watch.

Thirty seconds.

Mom catches my eye,

frowning at our game.

I ignore her like I don’t know

what she’s on about.

It used to bother me

when we first arrived in Berlin.

I mean us getting on the subway.

I know these folks

can’t quite figure us out.

Daddy’s dark skinned;

Mom’s light tan.

Oscar looks like a white boy.

But me, I look like an overcooked

mini Jennifer Lopez with nappy hair.

Back home, we ain’t no big thing.

But here, they don’t know

what
to think.

I think Daddy made up

this game,

to show us not to sweat it —

it’s all a big joke.

We’re doing

social experiments is all.

“See, America’s an immigrant country,”

he told us when we first got here.

“We’re used to rubbing shoulders

with all kinds.

But here,

they
never
had immigrants

until recently.

They’re just
now
learning. . . .”

Not so well,

as far as I can see.

When the Germans brought the Turks

over to do all the manual labor jobs

fifty years ago,

they probably didn’t think

Berlin would turn into

the third-largest Turkish city

in the world!

Seems they’re sorry

they opened
that
door now.

“Hey, pup, what’s your name?”

Daddy’s trying to make nice

with the little mutt

in the red-haired lady’s lap.

It growls back.

The lady shushes it,

but when Daddy tries to pet it,

she pulls her dog away

and looks up at the announcement board,

like her stop is coming.

She struggles to get to her feet,

then makes her way

to the door,

out of Daddy’s sight.

But I keep my eyes on her.

When she thinks

he can’t see her anymore,

she spots an empty seat

and slides in next to a nice-looking

German couple.

Daddy spreads out a little more,

his elbow almost touching

the other lady.

He makes eye contact

with me.

I stick my tongue out,

thinking just one

don’t count.

If you can’t clear out seats

for all of us, then —

Suddenly, the other lady

takes out her cell phone

and acts like it just rang.

Pretends

she can’t hear

and has to get up

to walk to another part

of the train for better reception.

But I happen to know

the phones don’t work

down here.

Least mine don’t.

Still, she gets points

for her acting.

Daddy smiles

and waves us quickly over.

Mom disapproves

but is too tired to argue.

He stands as we squeeze in,

grateful to be sitting

after all that walking.

“Under a minute —

that’s pretty good,” he says, leaning over,

waiting for my concession speech.

It ain’t coming.

“That last one

should become an actor —

she got mad skills,” I say instead.

Me and him crack up,

even as a couple across from us

listens in.

I know they know what we’re saying,

but I’m just gonna pretend

they don’t.

“People here

sure like to move about,

don’t they? These seats

must be bad

or something.”

I fiddle with mine,

like it’s broken.

Mom frowns again.

“I wish you two wouldn’t do that.

If this was Montgomery

or Selma in the sixties,

it wouldn’t be so funny,

would it? Back in Puerto Rico —”

Daddy cuts her off. “You sitting,

aren’t you?

That’s like some southern kung fu move —

take all that bad energy

and rechannel it to advance

the cause.”

Mom doesn’t buy it.

“I’ll give you kung fu, Papi,” she says,

holding up her hand

to his face.

But he just smiles

that grin of his,

the one that always

melts her heart.

She shakes her head and

finally cracks a smile, too.

Next thing you know,

he leans down and

they kissing.

How can they do
that

in public?

We sit for the longest time,

making our way across

Berlin.

Turks are starting to board,

and some of the Germans

get off.

When those two ladies

bust a move for the door,

I smile and wave,

even though they ain’t looking

my way.

“See ya next time!” I call out.

Mom playfully slaps my hand.

“Stop it. They can’t help it

if your Papi is so handsome

it hurts to sit next to him.”

Dad pats his hair

and throws us a grin.

Now a couple of Muslim girls

in head scarves sit next to me.

I gotta admit,

it makes me feel weird,

them having to cover up an’ all.

Mom notices my face.

“Want to move?” she whispers.

That’s what she likes to call
irony.

I don’t play that game.

My brother leans over.

“You might look good

in one of those scarves, Reina.

Especially the ones

that cover your face.”

I take the high road

and ignore him.

Mom’s impressed.

Another ten minutes pass

and I look around.

No Germans left —

mostly Turks,

Chinese,

Vietnamese,

Africans,

and us.

They all smiling,

looking around like
this

is how

it should be.

Talking and laughing,

dancing to a Greek guy

playing his crazy violin for money.

They all just biding their time,

waiting for the Europeans

to accept them for who they are.

But things are changing,

a little too fast for some

and way too slow for others.

But someday,

they’ll see:

sometimes

you just gotta squeeze your way in,

rub some shoulders,

and hope

they’ll rub back.