Revolution of Evelyn Serrano (9780545469586)

by Manzano, Sonia

  Mami accused Abuela, “How can you come to New York and put my daughter in danger?”

  Abuela got right up close to Mami’s face in an attempt at privacy. “I did not put her in danger. This is happening in her own neighborhood.”

  Mami asked, “Did you know? There are policemen out there! Outside! Did you see? They could shoot.”

  “That happened in Ponce. Not here.”

  Mami’s face was so tight. “¡Cállate! Don’t even dare bring that up.”

  “Look. It does not even matter now. My husband — Evelyn’s grandfather — was an ignorante who was following orders.”

  Mami’s fists were balled tightly. “Haven’t you had enough? Wasn’t the Ponce Massacre enough to make you stop?”

  “No, it was the thing to make me start.” Abuela pressed on quickly and intensely. “I was at the massacre! People died in Ponce fighting for what was right. I saw the shoot-out. I saw three guardias just walking forward, shooting at people who were trying to run away. I saw them shoot at a woman who tripped over a barricade. I saw people trying to hide in doorways and still they were shot at. I saw a little girl killed running for her mother. Did they die for nothing?”

  “Why do you revolutionaries always think there is only one way to revolt?” Mami’s voice came out in a low hiss. “Your way is not the only way. We can work here. We have jobs here….”

  “The lowest-paying jobs, and you live in the worst conditions. Can you not see?” Abuela looked as if she might cry.

  “Can you not see that the same things happen again and again?”

  “That’s why people must always continue with the struggle for equality,” Abuela said.

  “Not this time. Not with my daughter. She is only a little girl. She is being convinced by your crazy revolutionary ideas.”

  “Not my ideas, the ideas of these young people who are trying to make a difference in her life, in your life.”

  “My life is fine. I don’t need young títeres telling me what I should do. Besides, my daughter is not going to get hurt….”

  “Stop it!” I couldn’t take another moment of fighting. “This has nothing to do with Ponce, or grandfather, or the old days. This is now, in El Barrio in 1969. This has to do with me! And I’m not a little girl!”

  Abuela and Mami shut up when a Young Lord told them to decide if we would stay in the church or go. At least a hundred people were staying and I was going to be one of them. Then, Mami and Abuela were like two little girls fighting over a prize. Me.

  Mami: “I won’t leave Evelyn here.”

  Abuela: “Then stay.”

  Mami: “I will.”

  Abuela: “Good.”

  And so we sat in a pool of angry love. When I heard some people outside the church singing hymns in Spanish, I knew we were the insiders, and they were the outsiders. That this was about the ones who stayed in, against the ones who stayed out.

  I saw a movie once called The Enchanted Cottage, about two ugly crippled people who turned beautiful and whole once they entered this cottage. I mean — they weren’t all that ugly, really. They were ugly Hollywood-style, which meant the makeup person just glued a few more hairs onto their eyebrows and gave them each a limp. Every time these people went into this pretty little cottage, their eyebrows looked normal again, they could walk perfectly, and they looked a whole lot better.

  All their so-called friends and the people outside the cottage still saw them as ugly, and snickered and poked each other in the ribs when the couple looked at each other with love in their eyes — but the “uglies” didn’t care, because the minute they went inside the cottage, they looked great to each other.

  This was how it was at the First Spanish Methodist Church for me. I saw the same people looking down-and-out and angry that I saw in the street and fire escapes and staring out their windows every day, but now inside the church, they all began to look sharper, more energetic, and nicer.

  Of course it could’ve been because the church was giving them all this free stuff. But I also think it was because they knew the free stuff was being given because the people mattered, not because the stuff was junk that nobody else wanted.

  Mostly everything we did in the church felt like a roller coaster ride at Coney Island — both scary and fun. When I look back at those eleven days, I can’t believe so much happened. Eleven days is not a whole bunch of time now — just over a week. But it wasn’t regular time. It was compressed “magic enchanted cottage” time.

  The first thing that was like magic was the appearance of somebody from television. Not just anybody — but a real, live Puerto Rican reporter named Gloria Rojas from WCBS news. She came right out of the black TV box to see us! Whenever Gloria came on, Mami and Pops ran around the house saying, “Hey, look, a Puerto Rican on television!” So it was a big deal to see Gloria in person.

  She showed up on the very first day of the takeover, after the people who wanted to leave the church had left. The blinding-smile, kinky-haired Young Lord was explaining the purpose of the takeover to the hundred or so people who had stayed. Everybody was listening carefully, and some even nodded when they liked what they were hearing, but I can’t exactly say that anybody jumped up and down for joy. Instead, they looked like they were trying hard to understand.

  As I tried to follow what he was saying, I watched the sad-eyed Young Lord leave to have an intense conversation with people at the door. There was so much commotion, some of us peeled away and gathered around him to see what was what and then — there she was, Gloria Rojas from WCBS news! I couldn’t believe it. It was hard to get a good look at her because we were half in the church and half on the church steps, but even my cara palo expressionless mother couldn’t resist taking a peek.

  “Dios mío, it’s Gloria Rojas!” she said.

  “Check it out, I’m gonna be on television, too! Do I have any food in my mouth?” snapped Angel, pushing through the crowd while munching on a sandwich.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “They be giving some food out in the basement. Want me to get you something?”

  “No, quiet, listen!”

  Gloria Rojas adjusted her microphone and her clothes and began to ask the Young Lord questions. He told her what he had told us. That all the Young Lords wanted was to have a free-breakfast program, clothing drives, and free public health service, and that in order to have these things, they needed space during weekdays when the church was not being used.

  All this talk about “space” made me think of how people said “race for space” when they meant the rocket ship Apollo going to the moon. Well, this was the other “race for space.” The race for space going on in our own neighborhood, right down here on Earth on 111th Street and Lexington Avenue. And Gloria Rojas coming was just the beginning. There were lots and lots of newspaper reporters and photographers, in addition to television people who came to the church to see who was going to win this race for space — the Young Lords or the church.

  Abuela and Mami and I walked home in silence after that first day, being careful not to bump into any of the policemen keeping an eye on the church. There were so many of them. When Abuela came to her block, she gave me a quick hug and kiss, gave Mami a weak gesture of good-bye, and hurried toward her apartment. I couldn’t help laughing as I watched her come upon a policeman and stop, forcing him to step around her.

  It was cold, but the sky was so clear and the stars so bright, they seemed wet. Mami and I didn’t speak, but I didn’t care. I had more important things to think about. Exactly what I wasn’t sure. There were thoughts all around me, but when I tried to focus on them, or see them clearly, they floated away. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Hazy ideas. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. About how the church could be a center that taught drawing? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Or karate? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Or have dance classes? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Wait a minute, I told myself. C
alm down. Calm down. They want a breakfast program, a clothing drive, and free medical care. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. I stopped.

  Suddenly, all these ideas came down to an easy one. Food! I could help with food! My parents did own a bodega. I put it to Mami.

  “I want to donate some oatmeal for the breakfast program.”

  This was like asking Mami to cut off her right arm.

  “Absolutely not! What do you think — that we get food for free? No, we don’t. We have to pay money for the food we sell. It is not to give for free just because some títeres decide to be hippies and take over a church….”

  “Mami, calm down.”

  “No, don’t you dare tell me to calm down. What do you think we have been working for all these years? I cannot believe you even have the nerve to ask me such a thing. Do you think money grows on trees? Your stepfather and I work seven days a week to put clothes on your back.”

  “Mami, all I want is a little oatmeal or cornmeal.” Then the image of a hungry Angel popped into my head. “We feed Angel at the house whenever he is hungry. How is this different? This is just feeding more people.”

  “We know Angel. We don’t know everybody. We don’t have to feed the people that we don’t know. Let them go out and get a job for themselves if they want to eat.”

  “Other people are donating food.”

  “Me and your stepfather are not other people.”

  And then we both clammed up tight, as a wall of difference sprang up between us. Now I knew what the Young Lords felt when they asked for a simple thing like space in the church and were told no as if they had asked for the world.

  Compared to what had just happened at the church, our apartment seemed darker and gloomier than it ever had before. I sprawled out on the sofa and heard Mami digging around the kitchen for something to cook. Then I heard her pounding away at something and could tell we were going to have steaks as tough as shoe leather. She had to beat them so they’d be soft enough to eat. Did other people have to hammer their food like cavemen before they could chew it, or just us poor Puerto Ricans? I listened to Mami pound and pound, more stubborn than a mule.

  When I tried to get out the door and to the church the next morning, Mami blocked me, almost dropping her coffee cup.

  “Wait a minute,” she gasped. “I’ll finish and go with you.”

  “What?”

  “¿Quieres café?”

  “No, I don’t want any coffee and I don’t need you to go with me.”

  “You’re not going there by yourself. That place is dangerous. That’s why there are police everywhere. No, no, no!”

  “The cops are the ones who are making it dangerous!”

  “You are not going alone. Ni lo pienses.”

  “Mami, I’m not a baby. I don’t need you to be coming with me everywhere I go. I even already had a job this summer.”

  “¡Gran cosa!”

  “It is a big thing,” I sputtered. “I went to work by myself and managed my own time and schedule.”

  “No es la misma cosa.”

  “It is the same thing. Besides, don’t you have to go to the store?”

  “Your stepfather will manage.”

  “You mean you are willing to give up making a few extra bucks to follow me around?”

  She looked at me and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. Shaking her head, she put more sugar into her coffee, but I couldn’t leave it alone.

  “You shouldn’t have so much sugar. It makes you fat.” Mami gulped her coffee, put on her heavy black coat and stocking cap, grabbed her crocheting bag, and waited for me to go past her to the door. There was no way she was going to let me go to the church by myself.

  It could’ve been worse, I guess. She could have not allowed me to go at all — but then again, she couldn’t really stop me. It wasn’t like I had anyplace else to go during Christmas break. What was she going to do? Tie me to the radiator?

  Walking on ahead, I made believe she wasn’t with me. When we got to the church, there was a sign that said LA IGLESIA DEL PUEBLO, The People’s Church. That was nice and welcoming, but it didn’t stop the Young Lords from searching everyone for drugs or weapons before they went in. Actually, that was a good thing. These Young Lords knew what they were doing, and they wanted to keep the bad guys out. Seeing Mami get searched gave me a good laugh.

  Inside the church, there were more television newspeople than before. The Young Lords had set up a table where they sat to have a conference — real professional-like. And this time another Puerto Rican newscaster came to see what was going on — J. J. González, and he was told the same thing we were told. That the Young Lords were serving the community with breakfast, medical care, and a clothing drive.

  Those Young Lords had really worked fast. The breakfast program was already set up in the basement. While the press conference was going on upstairs, we were directed to go downstairs, where we saw Angel stuffing his face with oatmeal and eggs and orange juice and milk with a bunch of other kids.

  “How long you been here?” I asked.

  “Forever,” he said, grinning.

  People were free to come and go as long as they were willing to be searched at the door — but I think Angel had moved in!

  I was glad Angel had a place to go during the Christmas break. Nobody had great heating in their apartments in the winter. Here there was heat. But there was another reason I was glad Angel had a place to go. He could get away from his father. Angel’s father turned janitor in the winter in exchange for free rent. Sometimes when the banging on the radiators by the people wanting heat drove him crazy, he took it out on Angel by whacking him on the head.

  As I was thinking about Angel’s nasty father, Abuela came out of the church kitchen, wearing an apron and carrying plates of food for the little kids.

  “Hola,” Abuela said.

  “Ahhh …” said Mami, which didn’t mean hello or goodbye, just sort of accepting the fact that she saw her.

  I couldn’t help noticing that Abuela had changed her nail color from frosty pink to fire-engine red. Only Abuela would change her nail color in the middle of a revolution. She got busy with the kids who needed no encouragement to eat, while Mami got busy with looking around for a place to sit, pulling out her crocheting, and working on it fiercely.

  For the next couple of days, Mami and Abuela were saying hello politely but looking around for something to distract them away from each other.

  In the weeks that followed, the church got as busy and loud as Grand Central Station at five p.m., with people coming and going all the time. The word was definitely out, and Puerto Ricans from all over the city were showing up in El Barrio. All of a sudden, we were the center of the universe. I never knew exactly what was going to happen after breakfast, or in what order. The only thing I could count on was Angel being there before me, shoving something in his mouth. Petrucho and other restaurants gave food, and Angel was determined to have a taste of every single donation. The other thing I could count on was having a bodyguard: Mami.

  “Hey, Angel, have you been home?” I asked the minute I saw him one day.

  “I never want to go home! I got everything here,” he answered.

  I noticed he was wearing a different coat. Not a new one, but one that was sure warmer than the one he usually wore.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked.

  “From the community that loves me, man!”

  I looked at my mother for her reaction. She just stood there, cara palo. Typical.

  “Hi, señora Serrano!”

  How could she not answer? It would’ve been like refusing to pet a dog that comes up to lick your hand, tail wagging and all. Mami forced her face into a smile.

  “Hola, Angel.”

  Angel gushed on, “And later I’m going to get tested for tuberculosis and lead in my blood. They’re doing free medical screenings.”

  Angel was excited about a medical test? I guess the Young Lords did have a special
kind of power.

  “But right now,” Angel said, “I’m going back to my Puerto Rican history class.”

  “History class?”

  I never thought of Puerto Ricans as having history. How stupid is that? I mean — everybody has history, right? People don’t just come out of nowhere.

  “You want to know why Puerto Ricans are so fine and beautiful and how come we come in so many different colors?” Angel boasted, walking around like a rooster.

  “Yes, I do, tell me, Angel.”

  “Well, first, Puerto Rico had Taino Indians, and then white Europeans came and they brought slaves from Africa with them, and that’s why we are such a big mixture of all those people, and some of us have dark skin, and some light skin, and some have kinky hair. And sometimes you find all those kinds of people in the same family! Can you dig it?”

  “Yeah, I can.”

  “I mean …” Angel stopped and took a really close look at Mami and me. “Did you know that you do not look like your mother at all?”

  “Sí, we know,” answered Mami.

  He looked at her closely. “You look white, señora Serrano!”

  “Ave María purísima!” said Mami.

  “Come on. History class is not over yet.” Angel made a motion to follow him.

  We followed him down to a room in the basement. My next thought stopped me so suddenly, my mother bumped into me from behind.

  “¿Qué pasa?”

  “Nothing, I just … nothing.” I put one foot in front of the other carefully because I was afraid that what I was thinking might make me fall on my face. My family was part of some very nasty Puerto Rican history. I had to laugh. I went from not knowing I had history to being embarrassed by my family’s part in it. After all, who else could boast of being ashamed of having a grandfather who shot into a crowed of innocent people at the Ponce Massacre?