A Nation of Amor

by Christopher McConnell

  I step to him, confronting the black fuzz on a 16-year-old upper lip that has never known the friction of a razor.

  “That’s straight,” I tell him. “I ain’t beggin’ bro’. Don’t do me any favors by coming to my school. Give it back. Punk.”

  Punk, that word, like rainwater on the red-hot coals of his gangbanger street rep, produces a hissing steam of bold from the kid’s body. He throws down a three-pronged crown for Latin Kings. I return a representation for the enemy, Disciples. On the street, a King will kill for what I’ve just done. But don’t try to gangster an old gangster. It’s economy, a numbers game, if I step to this one I won’t have to watch my back. If I let up, the line forms here for every gangbanger in Westtown. And sooner or later, some crazy little kid brings a gun along.

  “What you be about?” I demand. “Make your move bro’! I’ll pick you up and body slam you down those stairs. That bullshit’s fine out on the street. You got to tilt your hat to get in and out of the hood, claro. But I don’t play that way. You bring that shit into my school, we’re all about hands, entiende?”

  Some people believe the only way to deal with a tough kid is with demo work, a crane and two-ton ball. But when the dust settles, you find no foundation to build upon. All this kid has is facade; I want to see the gold and the pride, the King Love stylin’, only, make it inhabitable, turn on the lights so a person can live behind that brilliant, gaudy facade.

  “You heard me. Vete! These people don’t want you no more. Go to the corner, throw down, you be bad bro’! In a couple years it’s gonna be hard to look so bold while waitin’ for you lady outside the public aid office.”

  He turns to his partner and flicks a thumb at me. “Listen to this guy.”

  But he doesn’t walk. The flier’s still in his hand.

  “Vámanos. Follow me across the street to the school,” I tell them. “We can talk it over.”

  My contract from city hall requires an enrollment of twenty-one students. This group, plus my two nephews, damn, if I had a bigger family I could scam another ten large in grants.

  Familia, the worn groove of my life continues in its never ending circle, scratch and pop for Reynaldito, the pinky on the Matos crown. My own brothers treated me like some sucker walking down the street, and afterwards I’m always grateful for it. This time, Bobo played me so good I didn’t even feel it going in. Picked me up from the airport in his BMW and offered me a job. What are big brothers for?

  A Chicago alderman may be the archduke of his own little fiefdom, but this job stunk so bad that Bobo couldn’t pawn it off on anybody. La verdad? Jail flesh is cheaper by the pound.

  Aldermen live and die on street cred. Is the garbage picked up every week? Streets cleaned of snow? Rat traps set in the alleys? Until Angel embarked upon a highly successful career of publicizing the massive inequalities between the standard of public services in other wards as compared to Westtown. So, the police shot Angel.

  Bobo, patiently posted on a stool behind any door where opportunity may come knocking, ripped a page from Jesse Jackson’s personal notebook. The day after Angel was killed, Bobo held a press conference in a bloodstained shirt, assumed the leadership mantle of the Puerto Rican community, and declared his candidacy for Alderman of the Forty-second Ward. Five years later he’s staring at another election, his street cred lower than the Polacko from whom he won the office. El Cuarto Año Alternative High School is merely one of the many sensitive bruises on Bobo’s reputation.

  As always, it was originally Angel’s idea, but Angel had a nasty predilection for guns and vials, made him a bit weak on his follow-through. We’ll start our own schools, Puerto Rican teachers, bilingual classes, day-care centers, health education … Angel frothed ideas like a Pavlovian dog. No bells, but every time a razor blade tapped glass his mouth went into overdrive.

  Alderman Bobo Matos meant to legitimize the Puerto Rican community within the political structure of the Democratic Party and the City Council of Chicago. Hah! Big-eyed Bobo, sitting with the jefes, absorbed into the machine that churned out his power. Votes are money; patronage purchases democratic loyalty. Bobo makes $30,000 a year, yet he’s a Gepetto over an army of party managers, administrative assistants, street sweepers, bus drivers, case workers, and community consultants. Like the Polackos before him, Bobo knows that Puerto Ricans have large, poor families. Eyes on the prize, deliver 500 votes, and earn a job with a desk. In 1960, Richard Nixon learned firsthand of the power wielded by Chicago aldermen with pockets full of jobs.

  The wife of one of Bobo’s campaign managers interred the body of El Cuarto Año Alternative High School, a three-year embalming process. Thousands of dropouts attacking each other with car antennas on her doorstep, and she couldn’t convince twenty kids to enroll. Ditto, the garbage isn’t picked up, snowplows break down, rats in every alley. In ten days, city inspectors whose livelihoods were not determined by Bobo will verify whether I have a school and students.

  Premises are a trumped-up ex-liquor store; the trail of kids following me through the door is acutely sniffy. Reception is manned by Rosa, a middle-aged Democratic Party precinct captain. I fired her immediately, but had to call her back because she’s the only one who knows how to operate the computers and all the rest of this shit. But it does approach respectability; the remaining ground floor is partitioned into a pair of long classrooms, the second floor a lounge with couches, chairs, ashtrays and tables. My office is also on the second floor, in front, the windows offering a long, cruel view of Division Street.

  Stunned by the unexpected onslaught of adolescents in the school, Rosa freezes behind her desk. I yank her from her seat.

  “Register them for the new term,” I tell her.

  “But …” She reverently points heavenward.

  “What? Dígame Rosa.”

  “The alderman is waiting upstairs.”

  I hurtle up to my office. Bobo checks his watch as if I’d taken an extra five minutes for lunch. He pompously extracts my funding contract from a sealed envelope and lays it before me.

  “I can’t stay long Rey. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Gathering students.” I flop into my chair. “A needs identification process Bobo. Mira, we have books, desks, computers. What else do we need to make a school? Then it hit me Bobo, we need some students.”

  He averts his eyes as I scan the contract.

  “We’ve had some news Rey. The City’s been cut, cut bad. It’s trickling down to us.” He guides me through the contract to the final page where the budget is itemized. “Hit us right here bro’.”

  Only an elder sibling would attempt such a pathetic lie. “You knew this would go down? Didn’t you Bobo? I’ve hired two teachers. I can’t pay myself with this.”

  “Don’t over react Rey. Calm down. I didn’t know about this until today. It’s Reagan, every contract in the city has been cut.”

  “Don’t sing me any the blues about Reagan. The motherfucker’s napping a thousand miles from here.”

  I throw the contract across the desk at him. “I can pay one teacher, assuming one of the two I’ve hired will take a $4,000-a-year pay cut.”

  Bobo straightens his horn-rimmed glasses, the punk doesn’t even need glasses.

  “This is for the community, Rey, not the money. If we don’t produce this year the contract will go to another ward. Save this contract for the futures of those kids downstairs.”

  “Not only the futures of ‘those’ kids, our kids Bobo,” I inform him.

  “Qué?”

  “Flaco and Mano will be attending. Our nephews, remember? Where the fuck is Lourdes? Last time I heard they still had a mother. Mano broke probation and Flaco got kicked out of Clemente this afternoon. Those two are loose cannons.”

  A political shadow falls over Bobo’s paunchy face. For a respectfully conniving politician, Bobo’s highly expressive features make him a prohibitive liar. Maybe it’s just me, his brother, knowing how his mind works, watching him calculate t
he political damage two wayward nephews could cause, then, the light bulb, a silver lining, Bobo believes in this project so completely that he sends his own family to El Cuarto Año Alternative High School!!!

  “That’s good Rey. You can keep an eye on them.”

  Three weeks ago a prison guard dropped me off at a dusty airport in Texas where weather vanes and wind-filled nylon cones constitute modern technology. Guard-free for the first time in three years, I sat down at the airport bar and a tattooed kid affably asked for my order. I couldn’t answer him, fear like a lump of chilled bile in my throat. I pointed at the Pearl tap and tipped the kid two bucks without uttering a word. Now I’m surrogate father to a couple of Latin Kings, a responsibility that nobody on the outside has apparently been able to meet.

  “Fuck that! Where’s their mother? Where’s Lourdes?”

  “She went to Puerto Rico, to get away for a while,” Bobo answers.

  “Still thinks she’s Coretta Scott King, huh?”

  Bobo takes on that pitch. “The boys are fine, they’re living at the house. Flaco’s eighteen, he’s an adult. Mano will be eighteen soon. Lourdes knows they can look after themselves.”

  “Yeah? One of those two votes you’re counting on almost wound up in jail last week.”

  Bobo drops his head and emits a chest of grave, political air. “Lourdes needs our support right now Rey. Until she returns we have a duty to the boys. Like those other young people downstairs, they’re in your sure hands. Guide them toward the opportunities from which they’ve been deprived.”

  “Fuck you Bobo. I should have stayed in jail. Suckin’ my own brother’s elbow. Back at La Tuna they at least used soap and considered a reach around.”

  He’s pacing, an attempt at mobile thought. I hope he’s more successful than Flaco. Bobo peels off his jacket and I laugh out loud. Motherfucker has his sleeves rolled up underneath a $500 suit. When he speaks with the volk he likes to rip off his finery, the community Clark Kent, proves he’s ready to get his hands dirty.

  “Rey, I’ll admit I’ve made some mistakes. I trusted the wrong people with this project. But I offered this opportunity to you because I know if there is one person in the community that can make this school work, it’s a Matos. We’ve been through the crucible. We’ve been through the crucible, Rey. Was that for nothing?”

  The monkey can dance. But who’s the organ grinder?

  “Nice, nice, save that for your next campaign. You’ll need it. I’m dug in Bobo. This ain’t no political way station for toadies on your payroll anymore. You keep your fat ass out of here and I’ll make you look good.”

  Appeased, he gathers his jacket from the back of the chair, smooths his moustache, and wipes every bit of humble from his portly frame.

  “One thing Bobo. Where the fuck do you think I’m gonna find a teacher for $10,000 a year?”

  Even Bobo’s speechless for a moment. He dons a thinking cap of frowns and furrows, Bobo’s image of serious deliberation.

  “Get some kid Rey. Some college kid, maybe a young girl still living at home?”

  “You move in next to Cliff Huxtable or what? This is Westtown Bobo, not Never Never Land. How many girls do you know that graduate from college in this neighborhood? How many 22-year-old girls do you know that don’t have two kids?”

  He checks his watch. “I guess that’s your job. I’ve got to go.”

  At my back, beyond the dirty windowpane, are hundreds of able, beautiful people. Not one a teacher. To get these two teachers to accept I offered them a bonus, if the class gets their diplomas they can split one-third of my salary. Now, a Puerto Rican man can graduate from college and Bobo will get him a job for twice what I can pay. A Puerto Rican woman with secretarial skills commands $20,000 a year at a bank or law office with a minority hiring policy. That young couple, the Puerto Rican professionals, they go live with the blancos in Lincoln Park, by our old house. Because when they have kids they don’t want to raise them in view of the daily parade of unperipheralized, negative role models on Division Street.

  Out of jail, I’ve been allowed to cry, trudging down Division Street, dark shades maintaining my cred as my eyes well to the sights I dreamt of for thirty-six months. Yesterday, in a restaurant around the corner, a woman from Ponce served me lunch and I seasoned her sublime plate of steaming arroz con gandules with salty tears.

  Shades in place, I walk downstairs to check poor Rosa’s pulse. Flushed, she’s renewing herself at the desk, applying powder to her face.

  Before I can say goodbye the door opens and I’ve got to look away. I can’t laugh in this blanco’s face, I don’t know him well enough yet. At first, I figure he’s a Moonie, then I notice that he’s too well-dressed. Blue blazer, creased khakis, pink Oxford cloth shirt and the old school tie proudly noosed about his pale neck. This guy walked down Division Street like that? Talk about no self-respect. Who wrote this guy a pass to let him out of the suburbs? He marches up and gives me the hearty handclasp. Shades might mask my laughing eyes, but my lips belie me, quivering to suppress a giggle.

  “Mr. Matos? Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Tom Stolarz. I’m interested in the teaching post, sir.”

  Dios mío, a Polacko with a fucking horse on his shirt.

  “You taught before?” I ask.

  “While at university I volunteered at the local high school. I’ve also tutored for the SAT and ACT tests.”

  “You get done for community service hours or what?” I ask him.

  “Sir?”

  “I mean, I didn’t get a call from your PO or a judge …”

  “I beg your pardon Mr. Matos?”

  “Right. Can you teach math?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Straight. Start Monday, 9 a.m.”

  What a bubblebath of irony. The only motherfucker who can afford to teach here has a private income and probably commutes from Lake Forest. If I can corral him for a month, until I find someone else … I dash for the door.

  “Excuse me Mr. Matos. What is the salary?”

  If he’s stupid enough to look for work in Westtown he must be one of these blancos with a long-range plan, wants to be senator, work with little brown children puts fiber into the resume. Fuck the punk.

  “$9,000.”

  “Is there a health plan?”

  What a sucker!

  “Yeah, I’ll get you dental too.”

  Tallyho my fine chap.

  MARIZA DEL RIOS

  September 16, at the public aid office

  The Public Aid Lady says,

  “The girls get pregnant, the boys go to jail.”

  Got me messed up with some other Mariza in this office if that’s what she thinks about me and Mano. Snotty words, and those eyes so cold and blue like freeze pops. Why she wanna ruin my happiness of gettin’ married to Mano with my own baby? I’m doing the right thing, not like Mama. If I’m pregnant I can get public aid to buy some new clothes. I ask Mano for money but since I be stayin’ at his crib he ain’t so generous like before. Actin’ all grouchy and wouldn’t even come in here with me only waiting in the car. Try to talk about the baby but they don’t want to hear me neither, treating me like I’m the walls.

  The Public Aid Lady says,

  “You’re ineligible unless the head of household.”

  Rolling her eyes all nasty. It isn’t supposed to be like this? People are supposed to love little babies coming and have parties for us. Treat us like grownups, not like a social studies teacher I had once. I stare at my hands for a minute so she thinks I don’t understand and will take care of it for me.

  The Public Aid Lady says,

  “You’re 16, pregnant, and unmarried.”

  Duh! Tell me somethin’ I don’t know. The words comin’ out her mouth like a crime.

  The Public Aid Lady says,

  “Look at me when I speak to you. You cannot apply if you live with the father of your child and he is the head of household. If he is a minor he cannot be considered a head of househol
d. Do you understand?”

  So I have to tell the aid office my husb-, the father is seventeen and I have no way to support myself. But Mano will be eighteen in June and that ain’t so far away. Lots of girls got to wait until after the baby comes to get married. Who wants to wear a white dress with a big fat belly? Hating her for treating a pregnant woman this way.

  The Public Aid Lady says,

  “You need parental endorsement for the increased benefit. Your mother will have to sign this form. When you are eighteen you can apply for your own public aid card.”

  If the doctor says I’m pregnant, why don’t they give me some money? Mama ain’t gonna be by my baby.

  The Public Aid Lady says,

  “We need your mother’s verification that you are living with her and that she is still supporting you.”

  So I chill. Take her fucked up papers and go to Mano where he be waitin’ in the car. This guy’s bitchin’ cuz he’s supposed to meet people by the crib. But we got to go by Mama’s house.

  I ain’t a little girl no more. Mama won’t be talking any shit to me. I’ll be pimpin’ in Mama’s face like sign this Mama because I got a man and a baby now. Not even like your worn-out self, never could hold on to a man. Got all this with no help from you. Claro, my baby will have a daddy.

  Mama always told me and my sister that we had the same Papa. How could we know? My papa pulled up on us before I could remember what he looked like. Used to be some pictures, but one night when I was still so little that I had to stand on a kitchen chair to see what she was doin’, I saw Mama with a pile of pictures and a knife. Mama was cuttin’ parts out of all the pictures and the parts was my papa. She wouldn’t let me see those cutout parts. All I ever saw in our pictures was Mama sittin’ on nobody’s lap, then me as a baby in nobody’s arms, Mama at a party with nobody’s hand on her shoulder. In all our pictures Mama was always huggin’ and smiling with the air. The only thing leftover from that night with the pictures was the saw marks Mama left on the top of the kitchen table. All my life, sittin’ down to eat, seein’ a knife scar next to my plate that’s the only reminder of my Papa.