Call Me María: List 3

Both of us sigh in unison, a big, deep, melodramatic, Puerto Rican sigh.

My granddaughter wants me to see how educated and cultured she is becoming.

And she was moved to tears by their songs. I saw her wiping away tears while that scraggly gata wailed about her tragic life and early demise.

He hands me a book of poems in both Spanish and English. It is Pablo Neruda’s Elementary Odes, Odas elementales.

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 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...

I like to listen to the old women talking about their previous incarnations as island puertorriqueñas.

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.

He is not strutting as usual, and I can tell something is wrong.

Her flawless complexion and athletic body are the result of a lot of hard work.

I know what she sees: The old women...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.

There is unabashed laughter in the circle.

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.

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.

But el gufeo is not what I wanted Mami to endure on her first minutes in the barrio.

The old ones look at us in solemn silence.

He expects to be loved unconditionally by everyone—at least by all the women.

He stands in the doorway, his arms outstretched, head lolling around like a puppet’s.

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.

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.

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.

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 heard him late at night, pacing the floor, and more than once I thought I heard a stifled sob.

I only have dos manos, even though my talentos are multifarious.

My father’s Spanglish is impeccable. I love the word im-pec-ca-ble. My mother taught me how to pronounce it after I asked her what she called the kind of English Papi spoke. I remember her laughing: “Your papi speaks impeccable Spanglish.”

He shakes his head in dismay.

There was a muffled guffaw from the orange-haired man.