Once a King, Always a King: The Unmaking of a Latin King

by Reymundo Sanchez

  It was a Friday so traffic toward downtown was exceptionally heavy. On the slow drive, I listened to Marilyn and Tish talk about their jobs. Marilyn and Tish weren’t just friends, they also worked together at the Art Institute of Chicago, where Tish was also a student. In all the years I had lived in Chicago I had never visited the Art Institute. In fact, I didn’t even know where it was. It was just one of the many great things in Chicago that I had never gotten to enjoy because of the possession the ’hood had had over me.

  Now knowing where they worked, I decided to share my interest in art. Marilyn seemed to be pleased knowing that I was involved with art. In our phone conversations I had shared with her about how I wrote poetry but had never mentioned that I also liked to draw. Then again, Marilyn had never told me that she worked at the Art Institute. Marilyn asked me if I wanted to visit the Art Institute, and I eagerly agreed.

  When we got to the Art Institute we went into its gift shop, where Marilyn and Tish worked. I thought Marilyn worked there in some kind of administrative position—I assumed that Marilyn, with her credentials, would have some kind of high-profile job—but that was not the case. She just worked in the gift shop. Tish went to the back of the store and came out to tell us that she would be there for a little while, so Marilyn took me on a tour of the Institute’s art galleries. The Art Institute of Chicago exhibits works by some of the world’s greatest artists, and at that particular time it was exhibiting art by Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. I was mesmerized by Kahlo’s work. It was filled with so much realism and passion. Kahlo’s paintings told stories that left very little doubt what she was feeling at the time. Viewing that exhibit got me itchy to express myself through painting again. This visit also influenced the way that I would paint in the future.

  We walked out of the exhibit floor and noticed that Tish was outside waiting for us. From the Art Institute, the three of us walked about four blocks to a McDonald’s to get something to eat. We got our food, sat down, and then I watched and listened in amazement to Tish and Marilyn’s conversation.

  “This is the only McDonald’s I know where there are no blacks eating or working,” Tish said as she drowned her fries in ketchup. Tish’s words were loud. She intended for everyone in the restaurant to hear her, and she succeeded. We now had the attention of everyone there. “And I bet it’s the only one in town where the pay is much more than minimum wage,” Tish continued. “How else can they attract top burger-making talent?” Marilyn followed. “Well, the fry guy needs to be demoted, because these fries are not up to the McDonald’s soggy, cold standard I’m used to,” Tish said. As I glanced around the restaurant, I could see that many of the customers were becoming uncomfortable with Marilyn and Tish’s exchange. It would get worse.

  About fifteen minutes later, a young interracial couple entered the restaurant. He was a good-looking, tall African American, and she was a beautiful, blue-eyed white woman. Their presence seemed to bother Tish to no end. As they walked past our table on their way to the counter, Tish looked at Marilyn and said, “She got jungle fever.” “He got jungle fever,” Marilyn responded, without taking her eyes off her food. “They got jungle fever,” they said simultaneously. The couple passed by, either not hearing the comments or ignoring them. That seemed to aggravate Tish even more.

  Marilyn saw the puzzled look on my face and began to explain what the “jungle fever” comments meant. She told me that Jungle Fever was a movie about the relationship between a black man and a white woman. “I don’t think it’s such a big deal,” I said. “It’s not,” Tish said, “except that the white girls only take the black men that got a life, money, or both.” Tish’s comment echoed throughout the restaurant. There was no doubt in my mind that the interracial couple had heard Tish, yet they continued to ignore her.

  Marilyn continued to tell me about the movie while Tish rambled loudly about the interracial issue. “I don’t ever see white girls going after homies, unless they are white trash, and who needs them?” Tish said. “What I thought was stupid about the movie,” Marilyn said, “was that they gave so much importance to a black stud screwing a white girl and not to the fact that he was a married man.” “A white girl is a sign of success for a black man,” Tish continued, “and it pisses me off that when they are broke they come back wanting to expand their African roots.” “It sucks to know that in our society who’s screwing who is more important than marriage vows,” Marilyn finished. Then finally there was a moment of silence.

  Marilyn and I stared at each other, Tish contemplated her food, and the McDonald’s dining room became silent. Many people had either left or moved as far away from us as possible. Although I had spent most of my life making people uncomfortable with my presence, I was surprised at the events of that day. After all, I was in the company of a person who had earned a master’s degree, whose opinion I never expected would be expressed in such a manner.

  We made our way back to my car and then I drove Tish to her place on the south side of Chicago. From there, I headed toward Marilyn’s house to drop her off, but that didn’t happen. We arrived at Marilyn’s and parked about a block away so we could talk for a little while. The next thing we knew it was six in the morning.

  That night I got to know Marilyn a little more. I learned about her feelings regarding race issues and also learned more about her past. Marilyn told me that the woman her father had left her mother for was a white woman. Soon afterward, the woman didn’t like him visiting his kids, so he stopped all contact. I tried to dig more into how she felt about the situation, but that’s all Marilyn would say on the subject. I insinuated that maybe her father’s actions were why she harbored such animosity toward white people. Marilyn denied that any animosity existed and went on explaining her feelings about race.

  Marilyn started by telling me that most of the bad experiences she’d had as a child were with blacks and not whites. There were never any whites around her to give her bad experiences. She told me that in Miami, there was one black girl who constantly picked on her and her sisters, and then other blacks followed suit. When they finally stood up to her, they became friends, and all the harassment stopped. In Chicago, where she went to high school, it had been more of the same. This time, she said, she just ignored them, feeling sorry for them because most of them were failing out of school, were already mothers, or both. Marilyn said that she realized that these girls saw that she was at the top of her class and did not waste her time chasing guys. They saw her as someone they should have been more like, and were trying to draw her into the same failures they were victims of. Marilyn felt pity for them because she sensed that their tough attitude and ignorance were their only tools for survival.

  She told me about an incident she experienced while she was still an undergrad that helped shape her feelings toward whites and how she felt whites felt about her. One day, as she and an Asian friend walked toward her friend’s Uptown apartment, they approached a nightclub where several white men stood outside. As they crossed the street toward the nightclub, she saw very scantily dressed white women walking past the club and several entering it. The white men didn’t do anything but stare at those women. When Marilyn and her friend walked by them, however, the white men bombarded them with obscene remarks—extremely sexually and racially degrading remarks. Marilyn could not understand why two decently dressed women minding their own business were harassed while half naked, flirtatious women were left alone.

  Marilyn was obviously bothered by what she saw as whites’ racial opinions of others. I told her that maybe these guys knew that they would never have a chance with her or her friend and therefore didn’t care. The white women, however, were right there in the club, and the possibility of meeting and maybe dating them was higher. The men didn’t make any degrading remarks to them because they didn’t want to ruin any chances of being with them. Marilyn without even thinking about it rebutted my statement. She felt that even if that were true, it didn’t justify the racial remarks. Marilyn felt that whi
tes throughout history had fabricated many stereotypes about other races in order to justify their claim as the supreme race. Even now when those stereotypes had been disproved, whites held onto them for no other purpose than to spread hatred. Marilyn was certain that if she had turned around and confronted the harassers that night, she would have ended up in jail while the white guys got a slap on the wrist. I certainly agreed with that.

  After our all night talk-a-thon, Marilyn and I didn’t see much of each other for several days, but we talked on the phone, and met for lunch during the week.

  My friendship with Marilyn introduced meaningful conversations into my life. Never before had I been in the company of someone who wanted to hear my opinion on issues that actually mattered. Marilyn’s friendship also highlighted to me how empty my life had been until then. To me, Marilyn was evidence that a person put into a bad life situation could find a way out through a dedication to education.

  Lack of education seemed to be one thing the majority of residents in the Humboldt Park area had in common. Marilyn proved that this problem had nothing to do with being Puerto Rican. The problem seemed to me to be more about fear of being challenged in an arena where fists were not a bargaining option.

  12 There Is Such a Thing as Friendship

  MY FASCINATION WITH Marilyn continued to grow. Although I was becoming more and more sexually attracted to her every day, it was the things she said that I looked forward to. Marilyn was the first woman I had ever encountered where I found myself listening to her instead of demanding she listen to me. She was the only woman I had met who had very strong feelings against smoking, drinking, and doing drugs. I still did all of those things, but I was doing them less and less now that I knew Marilyn. She seemed drawn to me, too, but I doubted that her feelings toward me were romantic. I decided to test that theory on our next meeting.

  We met on a Thursday outside the UIC admissions and records office. We headed to a Greek restaurant located about a block and a half off campus. During lunch Marilyn and I did nothing but make jokes about the people who were walking down the street past the restaurant where we sat. The laughter we shared made me feel comfortable enough to pursue my romantic interest but skeptical enough about ruining the moment. I decided to wait.

  We left the restaurant walking slowly and very near each other like a boyfriend and girlfriend would. We planned on meeting later on that night. Marilyn didn’t want to commit to going out on the weekend because of some problems Tish was experiencing, but she promised to do all she could to try and be free on the weekend.

  When we got to the front door of my office, we stood there making small talk as if neither one of us wanted to say good-bye. It was only when I realized that I was already half an hour late that we decided to part. I watched as Marilyn walked away and called out to her. I walked fast toward her as she waited to see what I wanted. When I got to her I kissed her. Marilyn kissed me back. After the kiss we looked into each other’s eyes and parted without saying a word.

  For the rest of the day I wondered if I had made a big mistake by kissing Marilyn. I wondered if she’d kissed me back in order to not embarrass me or if she really meant it. I didn’t think her walking away silently was a good thing. I concluded that the best thing for me to do was to rush home and call her before I went to see her. I was going to apologize for my actions and tell her that her friendship meant much more to me than the possibility of having her as a girlfriend and I wanted to make sure she knew that.

  That night I rushed home and called, and she wasn’t home. Her sister answered the phone and told me that Marilyn had gone to Tish’s and would call me the next day. As I hung up the phone my heart sank. I just knew that Marilyn was using Tish as an excuse not to see me. I was certain that kissing her had caused her to not want to see me or talk to me again.

  The next day, Friday, I daydreamed all day. I began to question my ability to maintain any lasting friendship and saw myself for what I was—a loner. But I couldn’t dismiss Marilyn the way I had dismissed every other person who’d come into my life. I saw her as not just a piece of pussy I wanted to get some of, the way I had always looked at women previously. I worried so much that I had jeopardized our relationship that at lunchtime I went to my car and smoked a joint. It was the first time I had gotten high during work hours. I spent the rest of the day in my own little world. I was surprised that my nonproductivity was not questioned that day. On my way home I smoked another joint and decided that I would get home, change my clothes, and go hang out with people from my old ways—I’d return to where I felt I belonged.

  At my apartment I jumped into the shower right away and changed into my go-to-a-club-and-pick-up-a-chick clothes. But before I walked out the door, I decided to call Marilyn to see whether she would take my call or if I would get the “she’s counseling Tish” excuse again. To my surprise her sister answered the phone and handed it right to Marilyn. Marilyn said she was happy to hear from me and that we could go out that night. I felt so relieved to hear her words. I agreed to go pick her up as soon as possible as she was looking forward to seeing me.

  Only half an hour after we hung up the phone, I arrived at her door. I rang the doorbell and she came right down, ready to go. Marilyn hugged me when she saw me, which made me realize that I had worried myself out of my mind for no good reason. We got in the car and headed for what I thought would be a night of dancing. It didn’t work out that way, though.

  As we headed toward the dance club, we talked about the Chicago night life. It was then that she expressed her distaste for the club scene. She loved the music but she hated the smoke-filled air, the excessive drinking, and the meat market atmosphere. She told me how her older sister frequented dance clubs and was always complaining about meeting phony guys there. Her sister, however, apparently didn’t know any other way to meet guys.

  Now that I knew that Marilyn wouldn’t be caught dead in a dance club, I had no clue where to take her. My knowledge of things to do and places to go in the Chicago area was very limited due to my many years of refuge in the ’hood. I was embarrassed that I had no clue where we should go. Finally I just admitted to Marilyn that my plans had been to go dancing. Marilyn said she was sorry to have ruined my plans and offered to let me go by myself. I disagreed with that idea right away. We decided to go have a bite to eat in Uptown and then just walk around for a little while.

  We had been driving for about half an hour already and Marilyn suddenly needed to use the bathroom, so we stopped at a bar/restaurant. I was filled with anxiety while so many ideas ran through my mind about our date. Instinctively I walked up to the bar and ordered a beer. I took the beer and sat at a bar stool near a window. I looked out as cars maneuvered up and down the snow- and ice-covered city streets, wondering where my relationship with Marilyn would lead. I wondered if I should take her up on her offer and go dancing by myself. I was certain to meet a friendly girl who wouldn’t give me the anxiety I was feeling over trying to be an intellectual.

  I turned around just as Marilyn was walking my way. I watched her walk straight toward me as I prepared to take a drink from my beer. She reached out and grabbed the beer from my hand and put it back on the bar. “You don’t need that,” she said as she quickly glanced at me and headed toward the door. I looked back long enough to see the bartender watching us with a “boy, you have your hands full” look on his face. I followed Marilyn onto the cold Chicago streets and got into the car.

  Marilyn’s actions surprised me and left me intrigued. I desired to learn more about her and the way her mind worked. Not a word was said about what had happened in the bar. She didn’t bother explaining why she did it, and I didn’t ask. It was like one of those unspoken rules where no words are required as everything is understood. I did, however, wonder how Marilyn would react if she found out that I also smoked cigarettes and marijuana. I was going to make sure she never did find out.

  Marilyn and I drove around, directionless, just talking, mostly about Tish. Tish ha
d a boyfriend who she thought just wanted her for physical pleasure. She also had parents who kept pressuring her to leave home because they thought she was a lesbian. Tish was actually bisexual.

  Her boyfriend was apparently trying to pressure her into setting up a threesome. He was trying to convince her that he only wanted to share something that already existed within her and that it had nothing to do with him or his fantasies. When she refused, he began to throw angry fits and questioned her devotion to him. Marilyn said that what bothered her most about Tish was that, regardless of what the guy did or said, she continued to see him. It also bothered her that Tish’s only solution to the problem with her parents was to get an apartment with Marilyn. Tish would not leave her parents’ home unless Marilyn became her roommate.

  At this point, we had been driving around for about three hours, so we decided to go have a cup of coffee. We started toward Uptown but ended up at a Dunkin’ Donuts on the Near North side of the city.

  The Dunkin’ Donuts was empty except for one old bum and a couple of cops. The bum sat in a booth, the cops sat at the counter near the door, and we situated ourselves at the far end of the counter. We ordered a couple of cups of coffee and four donuts. Marilyn took two of the donuts and walked over and gave them to the bum. It made my curiosity about Marilyn grow even more.

  When she got back to the counter, I asked her what she thought were the circumstances that had led that bum to where he was in his life. Marilyn said she couldn’t even begin to imagine the circumstances. “There are just so many ways to end up homeless, and most have nothing to do with drugs, alcohol, or crime,” Marilyn said. “There are many people who have mental defects that their families don’t want to deal with. They prefer to let them fend for themselves on the streets instead of taking care of them.” Marilyn didn’t make eye contact with me as she said these things. I recognized that it was Marilyn’s way of expressing herself. I also noticed that when she got into that part of her personality, words flowed so clearly, intelligently, and with conviction. Her point came through loud and clear, and in some ways it made listeners realize they had been looking for answers in all the wrong places. Marilyn continued to express her point of view.