by J. L. Torres
These gifts were starting to creep me out. I did not like these little subconscious, erotic presents appearing in my office. I returned all of them with a note telling Marisol that I appreciated her gesture but there was no need. I accepted her apologies, gave her, again, mine for being an asshole, and told her for us to move on. I also told the department secretary, Nitza, to not let her into my office nor to take her gifts there, which she did not appreciate. Nitza was a big romantic and thought giving such gifts was a grand thing and, consequently, returning them was the height of rudeness. She told me that Puerto Ricans didn’t do that type of thing.
“Don’t sweat it,” I told her, “most people don’t think I’m Puerto Rican, anyway.”
Marisol did not respond well to my returning the gifts. My “rebuff” of these gifts, she told me, was “heartless and insensitive.” Giving gifts, she said, was her way of moving on. Marisol returned to the brain-freezing stares and monosyllabic conversations.
Weeks later, on a humid, rainy day, the committee marched into my classroom. I was prepared but nervous. The students, I think, were more nervous than I. At first, they clammed up worse than usual as the three somber faces stared at us from the back of the classroom, trying to look inconspicuous.
“We try to be quiet and blend,” said Carmela López, when I first protested against this type of intrusion. Now, her tired spinster face stood out like a gargoyle stuck to the white drywall, along with her two partners, Iglesias, who came the closest to blending, given his teen-like stature and demeanor, and Foley, whom I had seen only at departmental meetings. Apparently, doing performance reviews was a task that he relished or took seriously enough to show up. His penetrating blue eyes unsettled me the most.
The students’ willingness to help me overwhelmed me. Even those who had rarely spoken in class raised hands and tried to answer a question, read a passage or contribute something to the discussion. These were simple exercises, basic English, but that day my students in that class seemed heroic in their efforts. I thought the class went extremely well, and two of the committee members agreed. Carmela López did not. She gave me low scores for not following up on questions, organization, even “lack of respect” for students, citing my joking with a student that anyone in the classroom that day, including the student who laughed, understood to be teasing. Then Roque executed his “Chair’s Visit” and rated my performance “unsatisfactory,” writing extensively on each item.
“Clearly a hatchet job,” Micco told me.
With the committee going 2-1 in my favor, and Roque’s evaluation so adamantly against, an outside committee made of professors from other departments had to evaluate me. I was vindicated by the students’ evaluations, all of them excellent, despite a handful of complaints about hard grading. Student opinion only matters as far as how it can be used. If it is glowing, like mine, it would matter if Roque shared it and wanted me to stay. But since he wanted to rid the department of me, the students’ evaluation of my teaching was chalked up to their naiveté, or that they identified with my youth or had underdeveloped critical thinking.
I awaited this third visit, which would make or break me. This had happened too fast, and I had no plans. What to do if my contract were not renewed? It never occurred to me that I could be dismissed after one year. I didn’t want to live off Julia, and what would she think about my losing this teaching job? She would be angry for not confiding in her. She was trying hard to win my trust, and my secrecy on this would raise doubts.
Then, the students went on strike. A political strategy inherited from the sixties, the student strike was now considered passé in the States. In Puerto Rico they had become so commonplace that everyone anticipated a few days off during the school year for them. Some faculty scheduled trips, personal events or medical appointments during these breaks. A strike’s length depended on the issue. Tuition hikes would take months to resolve. Our students paid the lowest tuition anywhere in the United States, something like $50 a credit, half of what others paid at the privates on the island.
You had to give credit to the students for their organizational abilities and enthusiasm, though. They turned these strikes into festive parties. Soon you had dozens of young men and women in front of the college playing congas, timbales, güiros, maracas and other assorted Latin percussion to the established repertoire of protest golden oldies. There had been rumors about this strike—there are always lingering whispers. The students were upset about a new college attendance policy that threatened the “beca,” the local name for the Pell Grant, the federal funding that almost every student in Puerto Rico received. If they were not attending all their classes, the “beca” would also be eliminated. A substantial amount of students had grown accustomed to using the “beca” for anything but college. In my short time in the college, I had witnessed a steady acquisition of “beca” shoes, “beca” parties and even “beca” cars. This infuriated me when I saw a well-dressed student, having received the “beca,” still without the classroom text.
The students wanted the absence policy to remain the same, which would give them time to receive their “beca” and spend it as they saw fit. Student leaders met, decided and wham: ¡Huelga!
I was teaching one of my classes, when I heard the chanting coming down the hall. The syncopated rhythms of the percussion, the clapping of hands, felt like a Christmas parranda entourage coming our way. But it wasn’t Christmas, so we knew it was the strikers. Students in the class gathered their materials and stuffed them into backpacks, waiting for my signal to leave. The marchers arrived at my door, parked themselves outside, stopped the music and started chanting. One of the leaders charged into the classroom and gave a little speech to the rest of the students, declaring an official huelga, and then proceeded to disable the chalkboard by smearing it with cooking oil. The students looked at me. The student leader was agitated that they were still seated.
“The college is closed,” she yelled.
I signaled with my head to go and they proceeded out of the classroom. Some students joined the conga line shaking down the hall. Others, I presume, would go to the beach. The more diligent would use the time to catch up or study for a big exam.
I found their cause self-serving. But I didn’t care. Like the others, more than other colleagues, I welcomed the time off to think about my situation. At the guest house, I uncapped a beer and sat by the porch to look out toward the mountains. The sunlight was bright and enticing.
I have a new car begging for mileage, I thought. I rushed into the bedroom and tossed some clothes into a carry-on. Midway through the packing, I picked up my cell and dialed Marisol. After the gift incident, we had been having a series of long telephone conversations, and by now I had her on speed dial. Just as fast, I cancelled the call. It scared me to think she was only a quick dial away, that I could call her to invite her on a trip without first considering the possible consequences. No one would know us beyond the college campus, I thought, not thinking about the more serious situation: we would be alone, relaxing somewhere, catching rays half-naked in a tropical setting. Just thinking about it aroused me.
We both agreed to a friendship. We kept our distance, ran through our schedules, and when we bumped into each other in the hallway, it was a quick hello and goodbye. I was finding it harder to do, especially when she looked especially stunning. Later in the evening, during the marathon phone conversations, we would spill our feelings like it was therapy.
When we arranged an outing in San Juan, we always hoped someone from the college would not spot us. That was not impossible. A good amount of professors, including Marisol, lived in La Losa, the nickname given to the capital, which literally translates to “tile,” the fancy, ceramic kind, of course. Micco always mused how in Spanish it can also mean gravestone.
Most of these professors hated teaching in Baná, which they considered similar to a soldier being sent to a remote outpost, or doing missionary work in the interior of some God-forsaken third world countr
y. They complained about the long drive, and had their chairs devise special schedules so they only had to come in two days a week. They looked down their noses at the institution, the students and the town, kept their eyes and ears open for resignations or open positions at the central campus, the alleged crown jewel of the system situated in Río Piedras, just outside San Juan.
Hanging out in San Juan always meant a risk of bumping into one of these snooty professors, something we both didn’t want. Roque would get on my case for this, too, if he found out. We made sure that we selected a secluded club or greasy spoon that these people would never think of patronizing. Even then, we kept our eyes open. All this so we could dance together, laugh a little—just have fun.
Roque had me wondering if I was cut out to be a university professor. Maybe, he was right, I thought. “If you want to write,” he told me, “then do and don’t teach,” paraphrasing Bernard Shaw. Did I want to work in this type of hostile environment? He would always be on my ass, and the tenure process runs seven years. Seven years of hell, I thought. He had me running scared. Right then, in early November, with the campus shut down by strikers, I just wanted to pick up and leave to somewhere quiet. We were on a tropical island with renowned beaches I had yet to visit. But suddenly I wanted to go with Marisol, to sit on the sand with her and see her run into the water in a bikini. See her smile in the radiance of Caribbean sunlight.
Dialed, cancelled, dialed, cancelled. I wanted to spend this time with her but was afraid to be alone with her. The idea of making love to her again made my heart race, but frightened me. I visualized us together by transparent, turquoise water, spread out on a colorful beach blanket, listening to soft tunes, while our bodies absorbed and exuded heat.
I dialed again, almost losing my breath when she answered.
“Hey, you up for a road trip?”
Thirteen
* * *
My mother told me the coquís sing like crazy when it’s going to rain. “They’re asking for rain,” she said, giving a look which meant “stop whining and go to bed.” But I kept hearing them, kept thinking I saw their little bright eyes staring at me through the darkness. Their persistent chirping, rhythmic and soothing for others, to me seemed like an alarm clock’s loud ticking and made me uneasy. After kissing me, my mother rearranged the mosquito net to make sure there were no openings. That summer throughout the island, dengue had struck and caused fatalities. The grown-ups talked about it in that hushed, serious voice they use to talk about bad things. It was the really bad dengue, the one that causes bleeding all over your body.
Tossing and turning, putting the pillow over my head to drown out the chorus of coquís, I kept going over our trip to Puerto Rico. It was supposed to be a big deal, my first trip to the island, and special for my parents, since it was their first visit together as a married couple. Right from the start it didn’t go well. Before we boarded the plane, my mom had told my dad that she would not set foot in his family’s house. Although sad and upset, Papi understood, so he gave in to Mami’s wishes.
The plan was for my father to take me to meet his family. My grandparents hadn’t seen me in years, and some relatives had only seen me in photos, a situation generating gasps when discussed by my father’s family members. Later, my mother would take me to meet her grandmother, my great-grandmother and other relatives in Lares. Meanwhile, she would stay at the suite in the hotel partly owned by Papi’s family. She was going to read Vargas Llosa’s latest novel and get some sun. My father said nothing. On our way to Guaynabo, he spoke only as he pointed out the sights like a tour guide: El Morro, “one of the Spaniards’ great engineering feats,” the Normandy Hotel “shaped like a ship,” Muñoz Marín Park, Oso Blanco “where they put the bad guys.”
The Falto house was a mansion to a kid accustomed to living in apartments at that time. It had more than one bathroom, comfortable furniture, fancy pictures on the walls and the best thing: a pool. That was the coolest. I told Papi I wanted to stay with his family, and everyone around the table sipping drinks looked at him as his already sun-burnt face turned redder. Abuela Isabela thought it was a good idea. Why should he have to travel all the way across the island and up mountains, she said. This is his vacation; he should have fun. My father looked at her. She tightened her lips, rolled her eyes and waved the issue away.
We had a big lunch, with roast suckling pig, lechón. I met all these relatives I didn’t know I had. Some of them called me a yanqui and made fun of me because I couldn’t understand Spanish. Abuelo Enrique kept shaking his head about that. Your mother is a Spanish teacher, he told me, “tell her to teach you Espanish.” He thought that was a big joke and waited for everyone around him to laugh. His breath smelled like whisky and cigars. When he laughed, his round face lit up, and he stroked his crescent mustache as he sipped another drink. On his wrist, he wore the biggest gold watch I had ever seen. He always wore guayaberas, but I didn’t like them.
We went to the big mall, Plaza Las Américas, after that feast at lunch. Papi thought this was a huge deal, this mall. We walked around and it looked like the largest mall I had ever seen, bigger than the ones in Jersey, even. There were so many people there, all dressed up like they didn’t need any more clothes. Papi wanted to buy mom something, but he stopped at a bookstore that looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Unshelved books everywhere, stacks piled up against walls, a few books on the floor. “I prefer this bookstore to the chains,” he said. I was getting bored, and noticed a toy store across from us. Being a typical tween, I was more concerned about action figures than reading, so off I went in search of Darth Vader. My mistake was not telling Papi, who after a few minutes noticed I was gone and freaked. He had the security guards searching for me, and I thought he was going to call the FBI. It was embarrassing. I felt like a dork, and he was angry at me, but also gave me a huge hug when I answered the page and went to the first security guard I spotted.
Mami found out and raised hell. “You go off to La La Land,” she yelled at my father, “when you go into a bookstore. Jesus, Juanma, learn to be a bit more responsible when it comes to your kid.”
That really pissed off Papi. He went off about how he was a good father. And they went on like that for a while.
A day later I found myself in a car with both parents, climbing up these freaking mountains, travelling to meet my great-grandmother, Doña Aurelia, better known to the Sanz clan as Mamá Relia. At first, Mami was going alone, to let Papi spend time with his family. But at the last minute, he decided to go with us. At one point, we had to stop for me to throw up because the ride was so curvy. When we finally met Mamá Relia, she looked ancient to me. She must have been close to ninety and looked like a mummy. With her gummy mouth and few teeth yellowed by chewing tobacco, and her loose, wrinkled skin, she scared me. Close to her, I smelled tobacco and rubbing alcohol.
“Kiss her,” Mami whispered at me. A difficult thing to do, and on hesitating, she secretly pinched me to do it.
Lares was boring, too quiet for me, and with little to do. I was ordered to go to the basketball court to play with the neighborhood kids, as my mom caught up on family gossip from her aunts and cousins who had dropped by with huge pots of food. These kids were not any nicer than my own cousins. They looked at me like some foreigner, which I guess I was. I couldn’t speak Spanish, and they were jealous over my pricey clothes and sneakers, so after a while they ignored me. When I returned, my mother told me she had a treat for me. She took me into the town’s plaza, like any other I had seen in PR during that summer. But in Lares’ plaza, there was a little ice cream shop that sold the craziest types of flavors: rice, beans, guanábana, among other strange tastes. I asked for the weirdest combo, because I was beginning to dislike this place and everything Mami thought was cool. Garlic and avocado, I think, and enjoyed it to my surprise.
The ride back was hell, worse than having to puke, because Mami and Papi kept fighting. They started arguing over history, the Grito de Lares, the rebell
ion in that town that started the war for independence and why it failed. My father at one point reminded Mami that he was, after all, the historian in the family. Then, somehow, they got into it over the Madonna incident, which happened the year before but was still a hot topic in the island. Madonna had grinded her crotch against a Puerto Rican flag in a concert she gave in San Juan. The locals were outraged. The Puerto Rican Senate passed a resolution condemning her “lasciviousness.” The leader of the Puerto Rican Independence Party called it “an infamy without parallel in the history of our country.” Papi agreed, but Mami thought Puerto Ricans had more serious issues to worry about. If people don’t respect your flag, the symbol of the patria, you have nothing, my father yelled, banging the dashboard. My mother looked at him like he was crazy.
“Juanma, please, like Ricans here really care about the patria,” she replied, placing a mocking emphasis on the last word.
“What do you know about being Puerto Rican,” he said, and that’s when they really started yelling. Stuff I couldn’t understand, or maybe I just tuned it out. I kept looking out the window at the houses lining the curving road, the green vegetation surrounding us, the limestone rock high above us, trying to spot other kids my age along the landscape.
I remember silence after that. In the parking lot, in the elevator and in the luxury hotel suite, there reigned a scary quiet that made me hide in my room until I heard something, like a small dog whining. I opened my door and looked across the suite’s living room toward my parents’ room and saw my father leaning his head against the door, sobbing and saying things that only my mother could hear. He slumped against the door like that for a few minutes, until my mother opened the door and let him in.