“OK, here you are,” I finally said, breaking the silence that had developed. “I see that we made a mistake on the first diploma. It should have read Master’s Degree with Honors.” “Yes, you guys messed up,” Marilyn replied, with soft, almost apologetic laughter in her voice. I looked through a box of newly arrived diplomas while I listened to Marilyn, in awe of her accomplishment. I found the diploma and decided to search for her records on my computer to find out a little more about her. When her records came up, I looked at the screen and saw everything that my dreams were made of. Marilyn was just twenty-four years old and had already earned a master’s degree in education. I felt as envious as I was astonished. I just sat there looking at the screen.
“Did you find it?” Marilyn asked, breaking me out of a deep daydream. “Yes,” I said, “I have it here in my hands, a master’s degree with honors. Congratulations.” “Thank you,” Marilyn responded. “So they got it right this time, huh?” There was sarcasm in her tone. “Yes, they did,” I told her. “What would you like me to do with it?” “Can you please mail it to me?” Marilyn requested. I read out the address from the university records. Marilyn said she didn’t live at that address anymore and began to give me her new address. I expected her to give me a far suburban location. To my surprise, Marilyn lived near the Humboldt Park neighborhood.
Without giving it much thought, I told Marilyn that I knew the area where she lived and I could drop off the diploma to her on my way home. Marilyn hesitated at first, saying it would be too much trouble for me, but then she agreed. “That would be very nice of you to do that,” Marilyn said. “I didn’t know the university allowed that kind of thing.” Until then UIC policy had not crossed my mind. I convinced myself that I would find a way to deliver the diploma and told Marilyn not to worry, that it would be OK. “I will see you this evening then,” Marilyn said. “Yes, you will,” I responded. “Have a nice day, Reymundo,” Marilyn told me. “You, too, Marilyn,” I said. “I’ll see you later,” and then I hung up the phone.
I began to think about how I was going to deliver the diploma. I concluded that walking out of the office with it was too risky, so I began to think up a lie that I could tell my supervisor. I told my supervisor that a friend of the family had asked me if I could take the diploma to her mother because she would be out of town for at least two months. I explained that we had grown up together and that she had asked for the favor through my mother. I added that if it wasn’t possible that it would be OK, and asked if my friend’s mother could pick up the diploma for her. My well-thought-out lie did not go to waste. My supervisor said that he didn’t see a problem with it and reminded me to sign it out.
I couldn’t wait for the day to end so that I could meet Marilyn. I wasn’t thinking sexual thoughts about her, as I normally did when I was about to meet a woman. I was fascinated by the fact that she was a Puerto Rican who lived in the ’hood and had already earned a master’s degree. I continued to look over her grades in envy. Marilyn had earned an A in every class as an undergraduate except for one B. Her master’s coursework was unblemished with straight As. I had never heard of any Puerto Rican with such good grades. In fact, Marilyn was the only Puerto Rican I had heard of who had any kind of college degree. That in itself signaled to me the waste of life that the streets of Humboldt Park offered.
I was envious of what Marilyn had accomplished, and it saddened me to look back at how I had wasted my life. Marilyn’s records depressed me as much as they excited me. I was happy for her and at the same time knew that I had no excuse for my own lack of education. My self-criticism was compounded by feeling that I could no longer stand being a lost soul in Humboldt Park. I had nothing positive to say about myself.
I left the office around 6:30 that evening. It was already dark outside. A typical cold Chicago February evening awaited me. It had snowed two days in a row, so traffic was denser and slower than usual. It normally took me about an hour to get home with good road conditions. I expected to be stuck in traffic for at least an hour and a half just to get to Marilyn’s.
As traffic crawled, I tried to picture what Marilyn would look like but could not come up with an image. All the Puerto Rican women I had ever known were from the streets. I couldn’t picture a woman with a master’s degree in a microminiskirt, or in skintight Lycra pants. I couldn’t imagine her cursing, threatening to beat people up, or carrying a weapon with the intention to kill. As I sat there in traffic running my hands over Marilyn’s diploma, I realized how negative the feelings were that I had developed toward my own people, especially women. I looked out the car window at the graffiti-covered walls that symbolized Puerto Rican youth. The gang signs showed the contempt that Puerto Ricans had for one another. Then I saw a Latin Kings insignia, and I suddenly remembered how I had played a role in building the reputation that Puerto Ricans carried in inner-city Chicago. My life had never seemed as worthless as it did in that moment. The contrast of what I helped create splattered all over the city’s walls and Marilyn’s contribution to the Puerto Rican reputation that lay under my hand made my eyes swell with tears of shame.
I arrived at Marilyn’s feeling serious second thoughts about my decision to deliver her diploma. I felt embarrassed and not worthy to be in her presence. I parked and held her diploma in my hands for several minutes. I went over what I would say, trying to make sure not to speak in slang. Finally I got out of the car and headed for her door.
The snow was deep along the sidewalk except in front of a handful of houses where the residents had taken the time to shovel. This was customary on the side streets of Chicago. Marilyn’s was one of those houses where the snow had been cleared. It was a fenced-in two-story house toward the middle of the block on Monticello Street. I let myself in through the front gate, walked up the stairs, and rang the doorbell marked Garcia. Apparently the house was divided into two apartments, because there was another doorbell with a different last name next to it.
I stepped back and waited for someone to answer. I hoped that someone other than Marilyn would answer, saving me from embarrassing myself. The light behind the door that led to the upstairs apartment lit up and I heard someone coming down the stairs. I could see through the sheer curtains that it was a woman, but I couldn’t make out any of her features. I held my breath as the woman on the other side of that door opened it.
“Hi, are you Rey?” she asked. “Yes, and you are Marilyn?” I asked. “Yes, I am,” she said. Marilyn was fair-skinned with curly, almost kinky hair, and the biggest, darkest eyes I had ever seen. She seemed shy, even though she was wearing a T-shirt that led me to believe otherwise. It was white and printed with talking penises. “It’s so hard to be a dick,” the caption said. “I have a head I can’t think with, an eye I can’t see out of, I hang around with a couple of nuts, my neighbor is an asshole, and my best friend is a pussy.” “Nice T-shirt,” I commented. “Here is your diploma.” I handed it to her. “Thank you. It was nice of you to bring it by.” Marilyn took the diploma from my hand and ignored my comment about her T-shirt. “It’s OK,” I responded. “I don’t live that far from here.” There was a moment of silence. We just looked at each other with smiles on our faces. Finally, I told her that it had been nice meeting her and said good-bye. “Bye, thank you very much,” Marilyn said as I headed down the steps toward my car. “You have a good night,” I said as I reached the bottom of the steps. Marilyn closed the door. I got into my car and hit the ice-and slush-covered Chicago streets one more time.
Now that I had finally met her, I began comparing Marilyn to what I thought a woman with a master’s degree should look like. She certainly didn’t fit my image of the stereotype of a highly educated person—no nerdy look or thick glasses. She didn’t resemble any other Puerto Rican woman I had ever known, either. Finally, I dismissed her from my mind as a Puerto Rican woman whose success I would always envy but who I would never see again. I reached into the inside pocket of the leather jacket I was wearing, pulled out a joint, and smoked
it on the way home. This was the first time since I had started smoking marijuana again that I lit up in public. It felt natural to me, and I would continue doing it, but not with the total disregard for others I once had.
TWO WEEKS PASSED. I had pretty much forgotten about meeting Marilyn. Then, one day one of the clerks at the front desk at UIC came back to tell me that a woman was asking for me. I didn’t think anything of it. Many people asked for me at the front desk. Normally it was about an incorrect transcript they had received or something regarding university business. This time, however, I went to the front desk and found Marilyn sitting in the waiting area, waiting for me.
“Hi,” she said when she saw me. She had a big smile on her face that made me feel warm. “I came by to thank you and to give you this. I tried to just drop it off but that guy asked me to wait while he went to get you.” Marilyn handed me an envelope and motioned toward one of my coworkers. I opened the envelope in front of her and took out a thank-you card. I smiled, thanked her, and told her that she shouldn’t have gone to the trouble. “It was a nice thing you did,” Marilyn said. “I wanted you to know that.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was so taken aback by the thank-you card that I just stood there, staring at Marilyn, speechless. Marilyn broke the silence to say that she had to get going, and that I better get back to work. Without thinking I asked Marilyn to have lunch with me. At first she said she couldn’t, but I insisted until she agreed. I went to my desk, got my jacket, and told my supervisor that I was going to lunch.
Marilyn and I walked to an Italian restaurant half a block away, around the corner from where I worked. On the way there I expressed my surprise that she had come to see me. Marilyn didn’t say much, but she didn’t seem uncomfortable with the idea of having lunch with me. She had a big smile on her face, and once inside the restaurant she took it upon herself to order—a cheese pizza for us to share.
After we sat down and got comfortable, I found to my surprise that Marilyn was somewhat talkative. She began telling me about the problems she had had getting her diploma and the experiences she had with the university that had led to our meeting. First, due to her teacher not turning in grades on time, there was no record of her having completed her coursework. Then, when the grades were finally received, many of them were wrong, including hers. And finally, there had been the little problem with the initial diploma not giving her credit for having completed her degree with honors.
I sat there, watching her, paying more attention to how Marilyn expressed herself than to what she said. She made very little eye contact with me; instead, she positioned her silverware many different ways as she talked. Marilyn didn’t seem at all irritated by the ordeal with the university; in fact, she explained it as a comical experience. When I tried to apologize for the university, she dismissed it as not important enough to apologize for. I figured she was just going on about it to make enough conversation to make it through lunch. Then out of nowhere came an unexpected request. “Tell me more about you,” Marilyn said.
That request put me in a tight spot. I didn’t know how much to tell her about myself, or how truthful I should be. A vision of Marilyn suddenly losing interest in our conversation and excusing herself to get away from me filled my mind. Why would a woman with a master’s degree want to associate with an ex-con if she didn’t have to? I started telling her about where in Puerto Rico I was born and where in Chicago I was raised. I studied her as I spoke. She was attractive but not in a manner I was accustomed to. Marilyn did not have a face accentuated by makeup, and her hair did not reflect that fresh-from-the-salon look. Her clothing was far different from the overly sexy, overly revealing attire that the women I had known mostly wore. Yet the way she dressed reflected a sort of charm that did not need to expose skin to be sexy. I found Marilyn attractive but not solely because of her looks. I wasn’t preoccupied with the vivid sexual thoughts that I usually had in the presence of a woman. I was intrigued by her thoughts and what she had to say. I wanted to know what made her so extremely intelligent. Because of that I decided to let Marilyn know everything about me, and let her draw her own conclusions.
“I used to be in a gang,” I started. That comment alone got her attention. She stopped playing with the silverware and gave me her full attention. “I was a member of the Latin Kings,” I continued. Then there was a pause to allow the waiter to serve the pizza she had ordered. I put a slice of pizza on a plate and took a bite before I went on. “I don’t have a college degree,” I told her. “I didn’t even finish high school. I only have a G.E.D.” Then I stopped talking and turned my attention to the slice of pizza. I waited for Marilyn’s reaction.
She gave no indication that she was bothered by what I said. She slowly and calmly ate her pizza, not making much eye contact except for brief glances that indicated she was waiting for me to continue. When I didn’t speak, Marilyn finally asked why I had joined a gang.
She caught me by surprise. It was the first time anybody, ever, had asked me that question. I really didn’t know the answer. I remembered that I had been angry at my mother, and I remembered that I had been in a situation where only my ruthlessness could keep me alive, but I didn’t remember why. I told Marilyn about the events that had led me to the streets. Even with the embarrassment I felt, for some reason I felt I had to be totally honest with her.
I told Marilyn about my mother and her lousy choices in men. I told her about the physical abuse and the illegal activities in my everyday home life. Then I gave her a brief description of my life as a Latin King. Marilyn asked me if I had ever been in jail. Without hesitation I told her that I had been but that I was not at all proud of that fact. After that I sat silently questioning myself about why I was revealing so much to someone I had just met and would probably never see again. Maybe the incident with Michele had left me feeling obligated to tell everyone who stepped into my life who they were getting involved with. Maybe I was just waiting for a willing ear so that I could speak my piece without fear of judgment. Whatever the reason, I felt at ease and didn’t regret opening up to Marilyn. Her reaction reinforced my feelings.
“You really ought to be proud of yourself,” Marilyn said. “I don’t think many people who went through what you have would be able to change their lives.” I couldn’t respond; I didn’t know how to react. I just sat there, looking at her, waiting for her to make eye contact with me. She finally looked up at me and asked if I had ever talked to my mother about how I felt. “No, I haven’t,” I responded, and didn’t say anything more. Marilyn must have noticed my discomfort, because she changed the subject by saying, “I think we better pay for this so you can get back to work.”
She offered to help me pay for lunch but I insisted on paying. As we made our way back to the university, I asked about her phenomenal grades. She brushed that off as if fantastic grades were no big deal. “I just did all the studying I was supposed to do, that’s all,” Marilyn said. When we got back to the university, I thanked her for having lunch with me. She smiled and thanked me. I took the opportunity to ask her if we could do it again. Marilyn said that she would like that and offered to give me her phone number. We exchanged phone numbers, shook hands, and said our good-byes. “Maybe I’ll call you tonight,” I said as Marilyn began to walk away. “Just don’t call too late,” Marilyn responded. We both smiled at each other and went about our business.
For the next couple of weeks Marilyn and I spent hours upon hours on the phone. We didn’t see each other at all, but we did get to know each other through those conversations. Marilyn had a warped sense of humor like I had never known. She was funny, outspoken, and full of ideas about what a perfect world would be like. We touched upon my gang life briefly, but never enough to carry on a long conversation about it. We mostly talked about the world and everything in it. I also got to know a little about Marilyn’s life.
Marilyn was born in the Bronx in New York. She was the second youngest of four sisters. When she was seven, her father moved
the family to Miami, Florida. In Miami her father met another woman and left her mother, her sisters, and her behind. Marilyn’s mother had family in Chicago, so she moved her daughters there. Marilyn’s uncle owned the house she lived in. Marilyn’s uncle and his family occupied the first floor, and Marilyn, her mother, and her youngest sister occupied the second floor. That was all I knew about Marilyn’s personal life.
Two weeks into our telephone friendship, Marilyn showed up at the university office along with a friend, an African American woman named Tish. She was at least six feet tall and heavy-set. They arrived at about four o’clock on a day when we were doing preregistration. Because of that, I was working up in front of the office instead of at my normal position in the back. Marilyn and Tish waited in the lobby until five, when I got off work. From the university we went downtown to hang out.
Marilyn’s sudden appearance surprised me, but what really got my attention was how much she had told her friend about me. Apparently Marilyn had told Tish so many good things about me that Tish referred to me as Marilyn’s “love interest” on several occasions. Up to this point I couldn’t see Marilyn being attracted to someone with a past like mine. I had not wandered into my usual sexual fantasies with Marilyn in my mind. I had only thought about the educational advantages of having Marilyn as a friend, and I had convinced myself that I was nothing but a charity case to her.
Tish’s remarks, however, awakened a sexual desire for Marilyn within me. All of a sudden I started to notice how sexy her eyes were, how luscious her lips were, and for the first time I noticed that, underneath her conservative clothing, Marilyn seemed to have a gorgeous body.
Once a King, Always a King: The Unmaking of a Latin King Page 13