Names I Call My Sister

by Mary Castillo

  “Michelle, you are so paranoid!” says Jennifer. “I’ll have you know that I am preparing Echo, Cindi, and Christian very well for this meeting. I spent an entire day with them last weekend preparing a script and doing role-plays. And this Saturday, I’m going to pass on all the information you’ve collected and quiz them on it. His voting record on public safety issues should come in handy. Were you able to get your hands on any transcripts of relevant speeches Cuevas has made during City Council sessions?”

  “Two weeks isn’t exactly a lot of time to acquire all the things you’re asking,” I say. Although that’s absolutely true, I still feel like a failure. Echo, Cindi, and Christian missed the last Power Lunch series, saying that they had to prepare for their meeting with Cuevas, and now I find out that they hang out with my sister on the weekends, too? Of course, I’m proud of how hard they’re working on this issue. I’m just not more proud than I am jealous of all the time they’re now spending with Jennifer.

  You should be proud of yourself, Michelle, I tell myself. You’re the one who brought them together. You knew Jennifer would be a good influence on them, so you’ve done a wonderful thing by introducing her into their lives. And it’s not like you’re not making a contribution to their cause. “But not only do I have a copy of Cuevas’s discretionary grants for the past three years, I also found a record of how he distributed capital funds in the district. The Independent Living Center in Throgs Neck got a new stage for their auditorium, and the Youth League had their in-ground pool completely redone.”

  “So if Cuevas really wants to,” Jennifer says, “he can see to it that the city allocates some funds to renovate the Soundview Community Center instead of dishing out the pork to the same handful of groups year after year.”

  “Yeah,” I say halfheartedly.

  “You should’ve seen Echo during the role-plays.” Jennifer pauses to laugh, then continues, “Christian was pretending to be Cuevas, and I directed him to pull some macho bullshit on her. Echo handled it perfectly. She kept her cool, stuck to the script and told him that she would be monitoring his decisions in the near future. So stop worrying, ’Chelle. I have them prepared for the worst-case scenario, which is highly improbable. What kind of politician mouths off on a group of poised but reasonable constituents?”

  I’m afraid that we’re soon going to find out.

  Chapter 4

  “What the hell do they want again?” the raspy baritone booms from the back office.

  Christian’s eyes balloon open. “Is that the councilman?”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry,” I say, although I’m starting to think that maybe bringing the kids with me was a huge mistake. I mean, Cuevas has to know that we can hear him out here, so surely he’s not referring to us. It’s bad enough that we have been waiting to meet with him for over an hour. “Just think of him as the Wizard of Oz,” I say. “His bark is much worse than his bite.”

  Echo sucks her teeth and twirls one of her braids around her finger. “Better not come at me like that,” she says. “I don’t care who he is.”

  “Hey, remember how we role-played this,” I remind her. Then I hear Michelle’s warnings echo in my head. “Look, if Cuevas becomes antagonistic, let me handle it.”

  The door to the back office opens and out comes the councilman’s chief of staff, Ryan Alfaro. I feel Echo and Cindi hold their breaths as he heads toward the reception area. Echo whispers, “He is sooo fine.”

  “Man, we ain’t here for that,” Christian says.

  “Enough, you two, “I say. Although I realize that I, too, was holding my breath. Physically, Ryan is cut from the same cloth as my ex, Rocco, who was striking even without a backbone. Oh, grow up, Jen. I stand up, and the teens follow my lead. “This is it.”

  Ryan reaches us and stutters, “The councilman will see you now.” And he says it as if he is truly sorry. He motions us to follow him.

  When we walk into the councilman’s office, Cuevas is flipping through a stack of messages while anchoring the telephone between his ear and shoulder. With 250 pounds heaved upon a five-ten frame, and a boomerang of gray hair around his head, the man could pass for a Puerto Rican Santa Claus. The problem is his disposition is less Jolly St. Nick and more Fat Bastard.

  Cuevas ignores us as Echo, Cindi, Christian, and I take the seats across his desk. Every few seconds he scoffs at the message he’s reading, crumples it up in his stubby fist and tosses it in the wastebasket. Suddenly, he barks into the receiver, “You know what I got to say about that? Fuck ’em!” Christian gasps and Echo giggles. I glance over at his chief of staff, who’s rubbing his fingertips into his eyes so hard his eyeballs just might pop through his nostrils. “Fuck the NAACP, fuck the Urban League, fuck the whole lot of ’em.” Cuevas swivels in his chair until it squeaks for mercy. “Let me tell you something about them people. They’re always talking about unity this and solidarity that. But when we stand by them—be it in the street or in City Hall or cualquiera—what exactly do they give us in return for our support?” Cuevas slams his bloated fist on his desk. “They give us ice in the winter.”

  Now it’s my turn to gasp. I peek at Echo from the corner of my eye. The youngest of five children born to a Dominican man and an African-American woman, I pray she doesn’t understand who the councilman means by they. By the way her knee is jiggling at a hundred taps per minute, however, Echo clearly does. Still, she is trying hard to restrain herself, and I adore her for it.

  I shoot at look at Ryan Alfaro, who finally steps forward. “Councilman…” He mimes a plea for Cuevas to get off the phone and tend to us.

  Cueva says, “Look, I have to meet with some constituents, but I’ve said my piece. You know where I stand, and it’s not gonna change. Don’t fuckin’ ask me no more.” The councilman slams down the telephone, and finally acknowledges us with his red, watery eyes. “You are…”

  Ryan says, “This is Jennifer Saez, and these are Echo Contreras, Cynthia Morales, and Christian Rivera. They’re all residents of Soundview, and they’re here to share their concerns with you about the playground on Noble Avenue.”

  “Ah, Noble Playground,” says the councilman. “Did you hear about the bill I introduced at the City Council last week?”

  I grow excited and shoot a smile at the kids. This meeting might go well after all. “No, we haven’t. Please tell us.” Then I remember. There’s nothing in Michelle’s research about a bill regarding the playground. Perhaps Cuevas introduced it recently.

  “Right now the baseball field is named after some Irish kid. Philip Hill, Hayes, algo así—”

  Christian says, “It’s called Philip Harding Field.” His eyes are now the size of satellite dishes, telling me that he has no doubts that this meeting is going to go from bad to worse.

  “Yeah, that’s it! Philip Harding Field. Well, I introduced a bill to change the name of the entire playground including the baseball field.” The councilman waves to his chief of staff. “Give ’em copies of the resolution, Ryan.”

  Ryan opens his clipboard. “I actually have them right here.” He hands each of us several clipped sheets of legal-sized photocopy paper.

  “You’re renaming the park after Willie Colón?” I ask. “Why?”

  The councilman glares at me. “Don’t you know who Willie Colón is?”

  “Of course I know who Willie Colón is,” I say. I notice the edge in my voice, but I can’t seem to check it. “Everyone knows who he is.”

  The councilman points a pudgy finger at Christian. “Do you know who Willie Colón is?”

  Christian hesitates. “He’s got something to do with music, right?”

  Cuevas growls and turns to Echo. “Do you know who Willie Colón is?”

  “Yeah.” I kick her seat, and she rolls her eyes. “Yes, Councilman.” I pray that he doesn’t ask her to prove it because even though I know she can, Echo instead will recount the one hundred and one things that prove the councilman is a bona fide loser.

  “Con permiso, co
ncejal,” I say. The courtesy works because he looks at me like a curious bulldog. “We’re actually not here to discuss your bill to change the name of the park. We’re more concerned with the way the local precinct has been policing the playground there.” I feel a little bad because this is Cindi’s line in the script. When I glance at her, however, she seems relieved.

  “That park has never been safer,” Cuevas interrupts me. “Crime is down in this district twelve percent ever since I took office. I’ve been on the local precinct to move the drug dealers the hell on outta there.” He waves to his chief of staff, who rushes to hand us a multicolored bar chart of declining crime statistics.

  “But they’re treating all of us like we’re dealers,” says Christian.

  Echo adds, “Yeah, we’ll just be sitting—oops! I mean, that all we are doing is sitting and talking on the park benches, doing nothing against the rules or regulations, certainly not disturbing the peace, when a police officer will come over to us and say that we have to ‘move along.’”

  The councilman squints at Echo. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah.” Before I can kick her, she says, “I mean, yes, Councilman Cuevas.”

  “Are you Puerto Rican?”

  What the hell…? Always able to recognize a challenge and never willing to retreat, Echo lies. “Yeah, I’m Puerto Rican. So what?” I don’t bother to give her a corrective kick because I’m thinking the same thing. Why does it matter if she’s Puerto Rican or not?

  “Did you ever stop to think that maybe the cops are harassing you because you wear your hair like that?”

  Both Echo and I yell, “Excuse me?”

  “Aren’t you proud to be Puerto Rican?” Cuevas insists more than he asks. Before Echo can respond, he says, “If you’re Puerto Rican and proud of it, why do you do that to your hair? If you act like a morena, you can’t blame the cops for treating you like one.”

  Echo looks at me with eyes blazing. “He did not!”

  Cuevas ignores her and sets his veiny eyes on me. “You asked me why I’ve decided to rename the park after Willie Colón. This is why. When I’m done, every damned park and playground will be named after a Puerto Rican. Hell, if I could, I’d name every street in this district after a Puerto Rican. We’re still the majority in this district, and our public spaces should bear our names. The Irish and the Jews and the I-talians…they abandoned this neighborhood decades ago, so why should anything here still be named for any of them?”

  “Councilman…” Ryan squeaks his name like a mouse stuck in a glue trap.

  “Ryan, don’t worry. Somos toda familia aquí.” The councilman taps his desk. “You know how I won this seat?”

  By first kissing the collective ass of the Bronx Democratic machine and then extorting volunteer hours and campaign donations out of members of the community organizations in your back pocket? I barely swallow.

  “Because I—how do you kids say it?—keeps it real.” Christian snickers, but Echo folds her arms across her chest. “That’s right,” Cuevas continues. “I’m not afraid to speak the truth on behalf of my community. And the truth is, the Boricuas in this neighborhood are losing ground. After all those years of struggling to improve the schools, increase services, and open businesses, what are we doing? Instead of staying here and building our economic and political power, we’re selling our homes and businesses to the Mexicans and heading off to Florida. These Mexicans are taking over!”

  Christian stops snickering. Not only is he Mexican, his parents recently opened a small but popular restaurant on Westchester Avenue. The previous owners were a Puerto Rican couple who decided to retire to Orlando. Despite the backlash from some of the older neighborhood residents, the kids made sure Christian’s parents’ restaurant became just as popular as the lechonera it had just replaced. During our prep meetings, Christian brought us quesadillas and horchatas, and one taste of his mother’s homemade guacamole and I knew that no amount of Puerto Rican nationalism would keep that restaurant from becoming a success.

  Christian says, “Don’t you represent the Mexicans who live in this neighborhood, too?”

  Cuevas throws his hands up in the air. “Why? It’s not like they can vote for me. What would be the point? If they want me to represent them, they have to support me. Let them become citizens and register themselves to vote. They should carry petitions for me during the primaries so I can get on the ballot. And hell, illegal or not, nothing’s stopping them from making a donation to my campaign.” That idea is obviously new to Cuevas, and he likes it lot. “Ryan, make a note of that. We have to make campaign stops wherever them Mexicans are to tell them, ‘Ask not what Cuevas can do for you. Ask what you can do for Cuevas.’”

  Suddenly, the councilman jumps to his feet and aims his sausage of an index finger my way. “And you! You shouldn’t be teaching these kids to lobby me. Brown shouldn’t lobby brown. I’ve had it with you people coming in here complaining about everything. I did my job. I voted against the budget cuts. If you’re unhappy about the cuts in funding to the public schools and health clinics and whatnot, don’t come here whining to me. You want these kids to get a lesson in politics? I’ll give you a damned lesson in politics. The speaker of the City Council—who’s supposed to be a Democrat, mind you—cuts some backroom deal with the Republican mayor and promises to convince the City Council to approve his budget. Well, Cuevas’s vote cannot be delivered by nobody but Cuevas! Even when most of the other Democratic members of the council voted with the speaker and approved that awful budget, I stood up for the people of this district and voted against it. And you know what that cost me? I lost my seat as the chair of the Committing on Aging and my discretionary fund got slashed! I stand up for your interests, and you have the balls to come here and lobby me? I’m not the one gutting the city budget. Instead of coming here, why don’t you go lobby the Republicans from Queens or Staten Island?”

  I’ve had enough. I yell, “Because you are supposed to be our representative. As residents of this district, we can’t vote for anyone regardless of party in Queens or Staten Island. We can only vote for you.”

  “Or more like not vote for you,” Cindi finally mumbles under her breath.

  Now I’m on my feet. “How dare you speak to your constituents this way! Did it ever dawn upon you that the reason why people are moving out of this community is because your leadership is atrocious?”

  “Go on, Jen!” Echo cheers. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “You should be doing everything in your power so that this is a place where everyone—regardless of national origin, street address, or even political affiliation—wants to live. Don’t you demand to be commended for voting against those budget cuts to schools and hospitals. That was your job. And it’s also your job to unite the people who live here to improve the quality of life for everyone.” Echo grabs my hand and pulls at it as if pumping octane into a Ferrari at the Formula One. “Who gives a damn who the park is named after when good kids are being driven out of it and onto the streets? What are you doing to help the newcomers believe they are a part of the community? What are you doing to make the longtime residents feel like it’s worth staying here? Nothing. Instead you’re spewing all this divisive nonsense as a way to deflect from the fact that you care about no one but yourself!”

  “Get the hell out of my office!”

  Chapter 5

  It’s almost six-thirty when my telephone rings. Without looking at the caller ID display, I know it’s Jennifer. On the one hand, I’m dying to know how the meeting with Cuevas went. But on the other hand, I don’t have time to hear Jennifer brag because I have to leave soon to meet my date at Whipped. I let the machine answer while I finish feeding Cleopatra from the baby bottle.

  “’Chelle, it’s me,” my sister says. “Pick up.” I check my gym bag to be sure I have everything I need for tonight. “Michelle, pick up.” Why the hell does she assume I’m here? “Look, I don’t know where you are, but you have to call me
back now.”

  Shit, the meeting backfired. As much as I want to know what’s going on and if the kids are okay, I just can’t get into this right now. I can’t be late for this date. It’s my first with this new guy, and it sends a terrible message. Although maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make him wait for me. I peck Cleo on her tiny, furry head and place her back in her faux sheepskin bed when my cell phone rings and vibrates at the bottom of my purse.

  I fish it out and, sure enough, it’s Jennifer. I don’t answer the phone, but keep it in hand as I head out of the house and toward my car. The jingle of voice mail plays, so once I settle behind the wheel of my new Cabriolet, I finally check it.

  “Michelle, why aren’t you answering your fuckin’ phones? Look, I’m headed over there with the kids. Fuckin’ Cuevas gave us hell. Echo and Christian are plotting his assassination. Cindi won’t stop crying. I don’t know what to do ’cept I can’t take them home like this. We should get to you in about five minutes. Still call me back!”

  Cindi’s crying? I debate whether I should call my date and cancel. No. I love the kids, and sometimes I even like Jennifer, but now that I finally have a life, I don’t want to lose it. But I should at least call them and find out what happened.

  I connect my headset into my cell phone, dial back my sister and pull out of the driveway. Jennifer answers after one ring. “Are you home?” Shit, she has me on speaker, and I can hear Echo ranting, Cindi bawling, and poor Christian going back and forth between egging on one and consoling the other.