The Accidental Native (29 page)

“Ay, vete,” she would say. “Go find that girl with the green eyes.” And she would roll over on her good side and fall asleep.

I had to contain my anger at these outbursts. She was experiencing something difficult, and it wasn't about my feelings. But I loved her, and yet she didn't believe me or feel it. As the radiation came to a close, I suggested counseling for her, and she accepted that she needed help. She attended a support group and saw a therapist regularly. Eventually, I saw positive change. She was smiling more. We began making plans again and talking about the future. The intimacy was not there, though. We slept in the same bed, but didn't even cuddle. She kept her distance, constructed an
emotional wall. It was as if the cancer had invaded her, violated her body, and she could not entrust it to anyone because she could not trust it herself. She wasn't ready to share with anyone what she felt was a body out of control, not even with a person she loved. I would bend over to kiss her cheek goodnight and she would stiffen. “I love you,” I'd say, and sometimes she would grab my hand on her shoulder and hold it tight, a gift.

I could not stay angry at Mari, because her enemy was lethal and destructive. And it did not escape my mind that perhaps her health, like that of others, had been compromised by authorities making stupid decisions. That someone or something else had to take the blame for her cancer and that of a growing number of others. Marisol made it a point to tell me not to return to any form of activism, just because of her illness. You don't argue with a person fighting cancer, but on this issue I was not going to follow her advice. I kept quiet, focusing on her treatment, on her health and well-being.

But watching her go through everything intensified my outrage, double what I felt when I had learned of Rita's case. It was now personal, and whatever anger I felt at Rita's ill-timed death, this was too close to home to let it ride. Yes, like on so many issues, when it does hit home, it takes on a terrifying significance that only a numb, heartless and vapid person could neglect. Either that, or a coward. As much as I loved her, Marisol was a coward. She was afraid to fight. Her parents had inculcated into her a complete disregard for politics and anything political. All those years living in Puerto Rico and they still cultivated their exile identity. They were Cuban, first and foremost, and beyond fearing independence like the plague—a recipe for communism Don Martín would often say—they were indifferent to issues confronting the island.

No, Marisol's position on this was not the north star. I humored her and, in between driving her to her appointments and attending to her needs at home, I re-initiated talks with the Congreso. To their credit, Felipe and Samuel met with me again; they could have dismissed me with disdain, but didn't. I met them for breakfast at a bakery in town, and they greeted me with stern and
doubtful faces and refused my offer to buy them coffee. I explained my desire to continue with the efforts we had previously started. They both looked at each other and then at me.

“You're starting to sound like Peter with the wolf,” Felipe said.

Samuel found this amusing and nodded. But he dropped the smile and stared at me as if studying me. “You know what saddens me, compañero?” He didn't wait for any type of answer. “How our people sit around and watch others suffer until the problem affects them personally.”

Felipe stuck out his lips and nodded.

“Then it becomes the most important issue on the planet.”

I nodded, feeling ashamed. Everything he was saying was true, but it sounded harsher, more truthful in Spanish.

“I'm really sorry about Marisol,” he said.

I tensed up. He gestured to the man behind the counter for a coffee. Felipe took out a cigarette and lit up.

“But,” he continued, in a deliberate, painfully slow tone, articulating every word, as if this were a lesson, “you have come around, and that's what's important.”

“How do we know he's serious this time, Samuel?” asked Felipe, flicking ashes on the floor.

“Look, look in his eyes,” he said, stirring his coffee, pointing to me with pursed lips like Puerto Ricans are wont to do. “They have the fire of a man fighting for something that matters to him.”

I stared back at him, upset at how casually he was reading me.

He sipped his coffee, shook his head. “René, I'm not the enemy.”

I exhaled, sat back on my chair. “You're right,” I said, and extended my hand, which he grabbed at the wrist, making me do the same.

That Saturday morning we talked for hours, making plans, considering strategy, writing down an outline of what needed to be done. Felipe wanted to enlist help from the local PIP party. I questioned whether it was wise to bring in partisan politics, and Samuel answered that the PIP was the only party genuinely interested in environmental issues.

“If they want to make it political, that's not important. But they have the machinery useful for getting media attention.”

That's what they wanted, to make it a media event to embarrass the university and generally shed some light on the problem.

We planned to disseminate the information we had to the media, organize the various groups and start a series of meetings and rallies to protest the university's inaction and demand answers. Felipe would focus on the community, Samuel on the Congreso and I would work on the students and faculty. This was hard work, the hardest I had ever done in my life, especially because it was here on the island.

“Brother, this is a colony full of colonized minds. It's difficult to move people to action,” Samuel advised me so I wouldn't get discouraged.

“Puerto Ricans are obsessed with having fun and spending money,” chimed in Felipe.

And they were right. The faculty seemed so stubbornly opposed to doing anything. Everyone was wrapped up in his or her individual world, his or her career, family. What made it even more difficult was that it was summer and, to reach professors, in many cases I had to go to their homes at times when they were not off on vacation somewhere.

There wasn't any proven correlation between the cancer cases and what the Army had deemed HTRW buried under our feet. This was the standard response, and I had to explain that we wanted an independent study done to verify that one way or another. We deserved answers because possibly our health was at stake. Marisol's case gave me some cred with some of the faculty. She was popular, and colleagues by now knew we were an item. Perhaps they felt sorry for us, who knows. But after a few weeks of constant agitation, some began to commit themselves and, at a minimum, sign the petition we were circulating that demanded an independent study to determine the extent of the health hazards, if any.

The student leadership was made up of highly motivated and politicized young people, but we all knew that the students in general were going to be a hard sell. If professors were oblivious or indifferent, how much more would students be? I contacted the student leaders living in Baná, and they managed to get hundreds of signatures on the petition from people in the community. They
promised a good turnout from young people in the area for the scheduled rallies.

Foley showed up to the first faculty meeting, a good turnout considering that it was July. I was so tired and at times felt myself nodding out as others spoke. Caring for Marisol at home was exhausting, and the last week of remedial classes was draining. Just trying to make the monotonous exercises engaging and fun every day was in itself tedious and demanding, but in the final week we also had to test the students and assess the progress of the entire group. But I was proud at the turnout for the first meeting. People were becoming alarmed, especially those who had no idea of the clean-up or about the radioactive material buried so close to where they worked. The apparent cover-up was what riled people the most, and their responses addressed that, directly and bitterly. No one wants to feel used and lied to.

Foley sat silently in the last row, his arm slung over the back of the adjacent seat. He was listening, at times leaning forward, his head bowed especially when his colleagues demonstrated hostility toward the college and those involved in the mess. Everyone in that room, except him, was concerned with the health hazards that we could all be experiencing as we went about our daily routine in what appeared to be an idyllic campus.

Foley stood up and spoke in fluid Puerto Rican Spanish with barely a trace of accent. He moved toward the front of the room like a big-time lawyer handling a jury who was in the palm of his hand. This man commanded respect, used words eloquently, even knew when to pause for effect. And most importantly, he knew his audience. All those years in Puerto Rico had taught him that people on this island lived in constant fear. Fear was their mother's milk. They thrived on fear. The Culture of Fear had its origins here way before any social critic labeled it and wrote about it.

Foley outlined the possible fearful scenarios from how radical students would take hold of this issue in their usual irresponsible way and disrupt classes for God knows how long, to the money and time invested in what could be a possibly, and most likely, a false assumption. Money, he said, that in the present budgetary crisis will have to come from some department or program, and
that meant jobs. And, he added, who wants to put up with the media circus that will interrupt our quiet community? We will have protests, outsiders coming in to make trouble for sure, people may get hurt. A long pause.

“Who wants all that trouble?” he asked rhetorically. “Colleagues, the authorities are cleaning it up, isn't that what we want? Let them do their work and let's get back to doing ours.”

I didn't appreciate the subtle hint at people getting hurt. Did he know something? Or was it a threat?

I had been on this campus long enough to know the rumors circulating about Foley. He cultivated and used that mystery to his advantage. That, and the instinctive fear or ingratiating respect Puerto Ricans had for Americans. After a century, a colonial mindset is not easily shaken. No one stood up to challenge anything he said. There was a silence, unnerving in all of its revelation.

“Mari wants to get back to work, Jake,” I responded. My knees felt weak, but I stood up. Then I rattled off names of colleagues who were recuperating from cancer. “They all want to get back to work.”

And then I named the twenty-two who had died. “They will not be coming back to work.”

I let that sink in. And I looked at Foley square in the eyes. “And neither is Rita.”

His faced reddened, his blue eyes ready to pounce. “Now, the high incidence of cancer on this campus may not have any correlation to the ordnance the Army buried so close to the water we drink, the air we breathe, and where we spend so much of our time. Ordnance that the Defense Department itself has deemed hazardous. We know they're cleaning it up, finally.” I stopped and raised my voice. “What we want is definitive proof that it has not adversely affected our friends and colleagues, and our loved ones. And if it has, those responsible should be held accountable and make reparations.”

I stared at him with equal anger and disgust. “We're fighting for those colleagues and friends, and for loved ones, Jake. Who you fighting for?”

He could have killed me right there, I know it. He marched out, making those in attendance turn back to watch him slam the door
as he left. Strange how good that felt. To stand up to him like that. Some colleagues came up and patted me on the back, shook my hand. There was excitement in the room; we were full of that righteous indignation you hear and read about.

I came home late that night. The faculty leadership decided to go out for a few beers to continue our discussion. When I got home I checked on Marisol, who was sound asleep.

I found it funny how she snored but never admitted to it. I vowed one day I'd record her just to prove it to her. I bent down and brushed back a strand of hair covering her face, kissed her on the cheek. She snorted, which made me want to laugh.

I couldn't sleep and went into the living room, threw myself on the sofa, too tired to undress, turned on the television and clicked through the channels. Julia called to tell me she was driving down to visit tomorrow with goodies from my favorite bakery. We talked briefly about Mari, and she hung up.

My cell rang again. It was Foley.

“Great speech, kid.”

“Well thank you, Jake. Coming from you that's a real compliment.”

A slight chuckle on his end, a rumbling, throaty one that hinted at drinking.

“It's out of my hands, now, Rennie.”

“I'll deal with it.”

I could hear him breathing, about to click off, then stop and put the phone back to his mouth.

“By the way, the comment about Rita? That was a low blow.”

And he hung up. He was right, and I felt my face flush with shame.

But any feelings of regret or guilt for playing the Rita card quickly dissolved, thinking about his chilling words. It's out of my hands, he had said. I had made a decision to get involved. There was no turning back and no room for apologies.

I was fighting giants, after all. I picked up my cell and dialed.

“Mom … I need to talk to you.”

She called me early the next day, a Saturday, and told me to drive to San Juan and meet her for breakfast at one of our favorite hangouts, a bakery which served delicious grilled sandwiches on homemade bread. I followed her instructions and dressed casually, with a pair of sneakers that had good traction. These days, I rarely questioned what my birth mother said. There was always rationale and common sense behind her orders or requests. I laughed to think I had become such an obedient son in my older age.

We sat for a quick breakfast, which was odd. On these outings we would talk for hours, sometimes over several cups of coffee, a few cigarettes for her, and the newspaper, which we shared as I listened to her take on the national political scene.