The Accidental Native (19 page)

After dealing with students and grades, I then had to deal with Roque. After grades were posted, performance reviews were reported, the results of the evaluations and the recommendations that would be sent to the Institutional Personnel Committee. A Friday afternoon before the Christmas break, Roque scheduled me last. Deciding to do the adjuncts ahead of me, something that Micco told me was unprecedented.

Before my appointment with Roque, Stiegler came out of his office, smiling broadly and gave me a double thumbs up. Tenured, and not up for promotion, Micco was nowhere to be seen.

One of the adjuncts walked briskly by. It wasn't a picnic for them either. Some needed this job, along with two other jobs at local colleges, to make ends meet.

My thoughts were interrupted by a skinny young man with skeletal cheekbones. I recognized him as Martín Costa, a student who brought religion into every discussion we had on any subject and drew crosses on his exams and papers for good luck. The students disliked him and rolled their eyes almost in unison every time he took the floor. He was forever cheerful, which made it worse. He threw his Pollyannaish smile at me, and I asked if I could help him.

“No, I came to give deese,” he said, handing me religious material.

“That's okay, Martín,” I said, giving the brochures back to him.

“You take, read, good for you.”

“You should give it to someone who will read them. I'll just throw'em in the trash can, honestly.”

At this he looked at me perturbed, a bit bothered. This was his latest attempt to convert me, to convince me that my soul would go to hell unless I accepted Jesus, and he liked me too much to let that happen to me. Touching as that was, I told him he needed to
respect everyone's individual position on religion. That in a university, diverse opinions are the norm, or should be.

Here he was again, this time with reading material. He rattled off all his religious jargon in that soft, preachy tone, and I just could not take it anymore. So young and so smug, so arrogant in his dogmatism. Normally, I would let him talk himself out and thank him for his concerns, claim to be busy and wave him out of my office. But today was not a normal day. Soon I had to face Roque and his pasty, pockmarked, glaring face, relishing what he would have to tell me.

I raised my hand for Martín to stop. “Let me ask you a question,” I said.

His face lit up, excited that he had finally reached me, that I seemed interested in the possibility of conversion and salvation.

“Are you planning on being up in heaven?”

“Sí, to be with our Lord Jesus.”

“Well, you know what. If you're gonna be there, I don't want to be. Now take this stuff off my desk and get out.”

Stunned, he grabbed the religious pamphlets, but before leaving me, he turned around and said, “I will pray for you.”

“Great, you do that.”

I felt bad as soon as he left. That was uncalled for, I thought. Even if I just couldn't take him anymore. I was going after him to apologize, when Nitza called me to tell me Roque was ready for me.

I entered the sterile office and sat down on the opposite uncomfortably hard chair. He sat there, hands folded on the desk, a concerned look on his face. He cleared his throat a couple of times, took a sip from a bottle of water. I sensed that he was not enjoying this, found it unpleasant, and that gave me fleeting hope that he retained some sense of humanity.

“How are you today, Professor Falto?”

Why did these rituals always begin with an attempt at civility?

“I could be better.”

A vague smile, and he opened the long green cardboard folder.

“Well, you know we have had some discrepancies in your evaluation.”

He stared at me, and I nodded. He seemed prepared to go into some long justification. I already knew his methods, having spent more time than I wanted in that office, listening to him talk and talk.

I stopped him before he could begin. “Doctor Roque, please just tell me the Outside Committee's results.”

Narrowing his eyebrows to construct that charming unibrow, while the edges spread out ready for flight, he slid the paperwork toward me.

“I see that they recommended renewal,” I said with a smile. “Unanimously.”

“That's their opinion. My recommendation is to terminate your contract.”

“Well, I guess we have another discrepancy of opinion.” I looked at him hard. “What now?”

“This case will go to the Institutional Personnel Committee. It's in their hands.”

“That's it?”

“You can write a rebuttal to my recommendation if you want. You have a week from today to do so. Good luck.” His lips pursed, he stared at me defiantly.

I stood up to leave.

“By the way, Professor Falto …” he signaled for me to close the door I had just opened. I did. “Your little relationship with Professor Santerrequi …” He shook his head, his fingertips tapping on his lap. “Ill-advised.”

I bent over the desk to face him squarely.

“I came here to discuss my performance review, Doctor Roque, not my private life. Are we done?”

“She's deluded this is going somewhere. Be honest, be a man and stop playing with her.”

I didn't know what to say. The audacity shocked the hell out of me. I just shook my head and stumbled out the office, slamming the door as I did.

The music woke me up. I had fallen asleep reading. After leaving Roque's office, I sat down to write that rebuttal to his recommendation. This was my first sentence:
Dr. Roque is a vicious, ignorant
,
biased asshole and his recommendation cannot be taken any more seriously than his wardrobe
.

I thought it best to stop there and give it a little distance. Perhaps all the tension was more than I could handle. I felt exhausted, anxious, yet somewhat relieved to put down on paper what I really thought, even if I would not use it.

I dozed off again. And the music, festive and loud, broke me out of it. Marisol had told me about the lighting of the Christmas tree. A big event, everyone turns out. I thought it was a bit late to light up a tree, relative to the States.

“Christmas goes on longer here,” she told me. The Christmas spirit lasted until mid-February, in fact.

I had nothing to do, so after throwing some water on my face and brushing my teeth, I walked over to the little plaza with the fountain in front of the administration building. Every year they decorated with lights the same tree, an enormous spruce that the Army had planted decades ago. Earlier in the day, I had seen groundskeepers on a hydraulic lift doing the honors.

There was a substantial crowd when I arrived at the site, a short distance from the Guest House, where I still uneasily resided. Most of those gathered tended to be students. There was a smattering of professors, many staff, administrative people and their children. I didn't see Marisol, who would have had to drive from San Juan, or any of the other English faculty.

The highlight at this year's lighting was the Tuna de la Guácara, a musical group organized at the college almost at the same time as the founding of the institution. Forty-something years later they had become an institution themselves, recording many records and giving concerts all over the world. This year, they had decided to celebrate their success by coming home. Their specialty seemed to be Puerto Rican Christmas tunes, which ran from the religious to the bawdy. They were draped in their traditional yellow capes—in the Spanish style, I'm told. It was a big group and they appeared in stride, clapping hands, playing guitars and other stringed and percussive instruments, putting everyone present in a party mood.

They stopped, and the rector waddled to a little podium made tinier by his massive presence. He gave thanks to the group and said a few words about tradition, yadda, yadda, yadda. He turned on the switch and the tree was magnificent. Such a minor thing, and I felt warm and fuzzy inside. I thought about the happy Christmases in Jersey. My parents went all out and, being an only child, I was spoiled rotten. My heart ached, and I missed them so much. Will this ever end, I thought. This inconsolable pain, this inexpressible loss, only needing a memory to light it up like this Christmas tree.

“Pretty fine tree, isn't it?”

I looked to my right and I was surprised to see Foley, who had crept up on me from somewhere out of the amassed bodies.

“Yes, it is—great lights.”

I stared at him and if I stared hard enough, I could see right through him. He sure was pale enough. How, I wondered, could anyone live in the tropics and not get some shading of sun, a little bit of brown. It was chilly out, as it often gets in Baná during this time of year. Being at a higher altitude, the town gets cooler at night and early in the morning, although rarely dipping lower than the mid-sixties. Coming from the New York City area, I just didn't see the need for a jacket or sweater in this type of weather. Foley had on a light, hooded windbreaker. But, then, he didn't perspire.

“Not Rockefeller Center,” I said, “but it'll do.”

For the first time, I saw his stark, blue eyes twinkle, and he smiled, not a bad one either. He had great teeth, intense white and even, not small.

“Not a very fair comparison, is it?”

I shrugged. “I suppose.”

“You're going to drive yourself crazy, you keep comparing—it's a different world, Falto. Take it from me. I've been here for over twenty-five years.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

He was surprised at my question, doing something like a double take. His head slanted and his grin turned into a disbelieving
smirk. Like he was giving me pearls of wisdom, and maybe I was being swinish.

“Well, for starters, because you're having real problems adjusting, aren't you?”

“That the official line?”

He grabbed my elbow and pulled me under a nearby tree, distancing us from the nearest group of people. He glared at me, his steel blue eyes locking onto mine. When he did this, his entire demeanor changed. He became another person, somebody who got your attention and maybe inspired fear despite being average height and slight of build.

“Look, I'm on your side.”

He stared at me again, and for some reason I believed him. I nodded and he let go of my elbow.

“Roque has it out for you, no doubt about that,” he said in a low voice, turning his head to make sure no one was around. “But it's so blatant, it's pathetic, and he doesn't have enough people on the Institutional Committee.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I'm the chair of the committee,” he said with his nice smile. “In fact, he's becoming a bit of a nuisance.” He put his hands in the windbreaker's pockets and looked up at the brilliant tree, toward the tuna which had gathered again for one last song.

“Just don't worry about it,” he reassured me. He was about to walk away.

“Foley,” I yelled. He turned around. “Why?” I asked.

“Why what?” he said, leaning in toward me from the distance.

“Why are you helping me?”

He smiled even more broadly, tugged at his ear. “It's the American way, isn't it?” Then, he got lost in the crowd.

The music continued playing, way after the tuna had packed and left, piping out of gigantic speakers supplied by the college, and it flowed into the next week, and the next, until every day blurred into one long, ongoing party.

Meanwhile, I struggled to write my “defense.” That's what colleagues called it. “Rennie, how's it coming along, tu defensa.” As if I had been accused of some charge and needed to clear my name
and reputation. As if I was some criminal and needed to defend myself.

Illustrious Members of the Most Respectful Institutional Personnel Committee, I am innocent of all charges that have been levied against me by this administrative tyrant, Dr. Roque, who clearly has lost his mind after being dumped—and who can blame her—by his ex-wife
.

Foley's words served as comfort, but I didn't know how much weight they held. What if Roque swayed enough members of that committee—my academic career would be shorter than some Hollywood marriages. It seemed so unfair. I was beginning to like the students, feel like I was making a difference, actually teaching them.

I throw myself at the mercy of this Honorable Committee—the students' evaluations speak for themselves. Have a heart, people. Isn't this evaluation supposed to help me become better?

I was struggling with la defensa when Marisol called to remind me about the big Christmas bash. Every year the rector threw a big party. No matter how bad the economy and the financial state of the institution, there was always money for partying.

“In the time-honored Puerto Rican tradition,” Micco would say. “Baile, botella y baraja,” or “dance, bottle and cards.” Attributed to a Spanish governor, it was like his official governing policy, the idea being to keep the natives happy and distracted so they wouldn't rebel.

Marisol sensed my hesitancy. “Oh c'mon, you need to get out.” True, I thought. “What about the defense,” I said.

“How long can that take to write?”

Honorable Committee Members, I write these short lines to beg for more time to write my defensa—thanks to my girlfriend, whose name I must keep in secrecy, given the ridiculously conservative attitudes
…

Juanqui y Los Muchachos were in full swing when I arrived at the cafeteria, the site of the college Christmas party. Marisol and I agreed to come separately, even though it appeared as if everyone
in the college knew about us. The band played a lively merengue, which got people up to dance. The dance floor was packed with faculty members “brillando la hebilla,” or “polishing the belt buckle,” as Mami used to say. Weird seeing intellectual gray heads dancing. Surreal, like an old episode of
Twilight Zone
. Everyone decked out in their best, the women had spent hours at the “beauty,” and the men had dusted off their suits and ties. Lots of satin and linen running around.