When I Was Puerto Rican (41 page)

I had dreamed of this moment for several weeks. More than anything, I wanted to impress the panel with my talent, so that I would be accepted into Performing Arts and leave Brooklyn every day. And, I hoped, one day I would never go back.

But the moment I faced these three impeccably groomed women, I forgot my English and Mrs. Johnson’s lessons on how to behave like a lady. In the agony of trying to answer their barely comprehensible questions, I jabbed my hands here and there, forming words with my fingers because the words refused to leave my mouth.

“Why don’t you let us hear your monologue now?” the woman with the dangling glasses asked softly.

I stood up abruptly, and my chair clattered onto its side two feet from where I stood. I picked it up, wishing with all my strength that a thunderbolt would strike me dead to ashes on the spot.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Take a breath. We know you’re nervous.”

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, walked to the middle of the room, and began my monologue.

“Ju bee lonh 2 a type dats berry cómo in dis kuntree, Meessees Felps. A type off selfcent red self pee tee in sun de boring tie gress wid on men shon ah ball pro klee bee tees on de side.”

In spite of Mr. Gatti’s reminders that I should speak slowly and enunciate every word, even if I didn’t understand it, I recited my three-minute monologue in one minute flat.

The small woman’s long lashes seemed to have grown with amazement. The elegant woman’s serene face twitched with controlled laughter. The tall one dressed in beige smiled sweetly.

“Thank you, dear,” she said. “Could you wait outside for a few moments?”

I resisted the urge to curtsy. The long hallway had narrow wainscotting halfway up to the high ceiling. Single bulb lamps hung from long cords, creating yellow puddles of light on the polished brown linoleum tile. A couple of girls my age sat on straight chairs next to their mothers, waiting their turn. They looked up as I came out and the door shut behind me. Mami stood up from her chair at the end of the hall. She looked as scared as I felt.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled, afraid that if I began telling her about it, I would break into tears in front of the other people, whose eyes followed me and Mami as we walked to the EXIT sign. “I have to wait here a minute.”

“Did they say anything?”

“No. I’m just supposed to wait.”

We leaned against the wall. Across from us there was a bulletin board with newspaper clippings about former students. On the ragged edge, a neat person had printed in blue ink, “P.A.” and the year the actor, dancer, or musician had graduated. I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself on that bulletin board, with “P.A. ’66” across the top.

The door at the end of the hall opened, and the woman in beige poked her head out.

“Esmeralda?”

“Sí,
I mean, here.” I raised my hand.

She led me into the room. There was another girl in there, whom she introduced as Bonnie, a junior at the school.

“Do you know what a pantomime is?” the woman asked. I nodded. “You and Bonnie are sisters decorating a Christmas tree.”

Bonnie looked a lot like Juanita Marín, whom I had last seen in Macún four years earlier. We decided where the invisible Christmas tree would be, and we sat on the floor and pretended we were taking decorations out of boxes and hanging them on the branches.

My family had never had a Christmas tree, but I remembered how once I had helped Papi wind colored lights around the eggplant bush that divided our land from Doña Ana’s. We started at the bottom and wound the wire with tiny red bulbs around and around until we ran out; then Papi plugged another cord to it and we kept going until the branches hung heavy with light and the bush looked like it was on fire.

Before long I had forgotten where I was, and that the tree didn’t exist and Bonnie was not my sister. She pretended to hand me a very delicate ball, and just before I took it, she made like it fell to the ground and shattered. I was petrified that Mami would come in and yell at us for breaking her favorite decoration. Just as I began to pick up the tiny fragments of nonexistent crystal, a voice broke in. “Thank you.”

Bonnie got up, smiled, and went out.

The elegant woman stretched her hand out for me to shake. “We will notify your school in a few weeks. It was very nice to meet you.”

I shook hands all around then backed out of the room in a fog, silent, as if the pantomime had taken my voice and the urge to speak.

On the way home Mami kept asking what had happened, and I kept mumbling, “Nothing. Nothing happened,” ashamed that, after all the hours of practice with Mrs. Johnson, Mr. Barone, and Mr. Gatti, after the expense of new clothes and shoes, after Mami had to take a day off from work to take me into Manhattan, after all that, I had failed the audition and would never, ever, get out of Brooklyn.

EPILOGUE: ONE OF THESE DAYS

El mismo jíbaro con diferente caballo.

Same jíbaro, different horse.

A
decade after my graduation from Performing Arts, I visited the school. I was by then living in Boston, a scholarship student at Harvard University. The tall, elegant woman of my audition had become my mentor through my three years there. Since my graduation, she had married the school principal.

“I remember your audition,” she said, her chiseled face dreamy, her lips toying with a smile that she seemed, still, to have to control.

I had forgotten the skinny brown girl with the curled hair, wool jumper, and lively hands. But she hadn’t. She told me that the panel had had to ask me to leave so that they could laugh, because it was so funny to see a fourteen-year-old Puerto Rican girl jabbering out a monologue about a possessive mother-in-law at the turn of the century, the words incomprehensible because they went by so fast.

“We admired,” she said, “the courage it took to stand in front of us and do what you did.”

“So you mean I didn’t get into the school because of my talent, but because I had chutzpah?” We both laughed.

“Are any of your sisters and brothers in college?”

“No, I’m the only one, so far.”

“How many of you are there?”

“By the time I graduated from high school there were eleven of us.”

“Eleven!” She looked at me for a long time, until I had to look down. “Do you ever think about how far you’ve come?” she asked.

“No.” I answered. “I never stop to think about it. It might jinx the momentum.”

“Let me tell you another story, then,” she said. “The first day of your first year, you were absent. We called your house. You said you couldn’t come to school because you had nothing to wear. I wasn’t sure if you were joking. I asked to speak to your mother, and you translated what she said. She needed you to go somewhere with her to interpret. At first you wouldn’t tell me where, but then you admitted you were going to the welfare office. You were crying, and I had to assure you that you were not the only student in this school whose family received public assistance. The next day you were here, bright and eager. And now here you are, about to graduate from Harvard.”

“I’m glad you made that phone call,” I said.

“And I’m glad you came to see me, but right now I have to teach a class.” She stood up, as graceful as I remembered. “Take care.”

Her warm embrace, fragrant of expensive perfume, took me by surprise. “Thank you,” I said as she went around the corner to her classroom.

I walked the halls of the school, looking for the room where my life had changed. It was across from the science lab, a few doors down from the big bulletin board where someone with neat handwriting still wrote the letters “P A.” followed by the graduating year along the edges of newspaper clippings featuring famous alumni.

“P.A. ’66,” I said to no one in particular. “One of these days.”

GLOSSARY

A otro perro con ese hueso
(Ah au-troh peh-rroh cun ess-eh oo-eh-soh) : Literally, another dog for that bone. Used to dismiss a story one knows to be untrue.

Abuela
(Ah-boo-eh-lah): Grandmother

Abuelo
(Ah-boo-eh-loh): Grandfather

acerola
(ah-ceh-ro-lah): West Indian cherry

achiote
(ah-chee-oh-teh): A bright orange seasoning made from annatto seeds

agua Florida
(ah-goo-ah flo-ree-dah): Flower scented water from Florida

aguinaldos
(ah-ghee-nal-doss): Traditional Christmas songs

alcapurrias
(al-kah-poo-rhee-ass): Ground plantain and green bananas stuffed with meat then fried

alcoholado
(al-coh-lah-doh): Eucalyptus alcohol

Aleluya
(ah-leh-loo-yah): Hallelujah

Americanitos
(ah-mer-ee-can-ee-tohs): Little Americans

Americanos
(ah-mer-ee-can-ohs): Americans

arroz con dulce
(ah-rrohz cohn dool-seh): Sweetened rice spiced with ginger, coconut milk, and cinnamon

artesanías
(art-eh-san-ee-ass): Crafts

asopao
(ah-soh-pah-oh): Meat or fish soup thickened with rice and potatoes

Ay bendito
(I behn-dee-toh): Exclamation that literally means “Blessed be”

Ay Dios mío
(I dee-oss mee-oh): Oh, my God

Ay Santo Dios, bendícemela
(I sahn-toh Dee-óhs, ben-dee-seh-mehlah) : Oh, dear God, bless her for me

batatas
(bah-tah-tahss): Sweet potatoes

bodega
(boh-deh-gah): Neighborhood grocery store

bohio
(boh-ee-oh): Typical dwelling of Puerto Rican jíbaros

bolero
(boh-leh-ro): Ballad

Borinquen
(Boh-reen-ken): Pre-Columbian name for Puerto Rico

botánica
(boh-tah-nee-cah): Shop that specializes in herbs, icons, and materials used in African-Caribbean religions

bueno
(boo-eh-noh): Well or good

cafetín
(kah-feh-teen): Open air coffee shop

caldero
(kahl-deh-roh): A special heavy pot for cooking rice

carajo
(kah-rah-ho): Swear word

charamanbiche
(chah-rah-man-bee-cheh): Son of a bitch

chiforobe
(chee-foh-roh-beh): Chest of drawers

cocotazos
(koh-koh-tah-ssos): Hits on the head with knuckles

colibrí
(koh-lee-brée): Hummingbird

coquí
(koh-kee): Tiny tree frog, native to Puerto Rico, named after its distinctive song

cuatro
(koo-ah-troh): A typical Puerto Rican stringed instrument, smaller than a guitar

curandera
(coo-rahn-deh-rah): A woman healer

dignidad
(deeg-nee-dad): Dignity

el bosso
(ehl boss-oh): The boss

El Cura
(el koo-rah): The priest

escupidera
(ess-coo-pee-deh-rah): Literally, cuspidor. Chamber pot.

fiambreras
(fee-am-breh-rahs): Portable covered dishes used to carry meals to and from work

finca
(feen-kah): Farm

fogón
(foh-góhn): Cooking fire

gallería
(gah-yeh-ree-ah): Place where cocks fight

gente mala
(hen-teh mah-lah): Bad people

guanimes
(goo-ah-nee-mess): Cornmeal dumplings wrapped in plantain or banana leaves then boiled. Often stuffed.

guarachas
(goo-ah-rah-chahs): A type of dance music popular in the Caribbean

guayabera
(goo-ah-yah-berr-ah): Embroidered light cotton shirt

güiro
(goo-ee-roh): Musical instrument made out of dried gourd across which metal tines are rubbed to produce a scratchy sound

hijas de la gran puta
(ee-hass deh lah grahn poo-tah): Daughters of a great whore

huevos
(oo-eh-voss): Eggs. Also, men’s testicles

jamona
(hah-móh-nah): Woman who has never married

jíbaro
(hee-bah-roh): Rural Puerto Rican with distinctive dialect and customs

Jurutungo
(Hoo-roo-toon-goh): Somewhere that’s nowhere

La Colorá
(Lah Koh-loh-rah): The red girl

los nervios
(loss ner-vee-oss): Nervous attack

Macún
(Mah-coon): Place where Esmeralda grew up

mal educada
(mahl eh-doo-cah-dah): Poorly educated, rude

mancha de plátano
(man-cha deh pláh-tah-noh): Plantain stain

marido
(mah-ree-do): Husband or live-in-lover

maví
(mah-vee): Bark beer

mercado
(mer-kah-doh): Market