The Accidental Native (5 page)

Home? Mother? Abuela, please. And what was all that stuff about God bearing everyone's pain? I wanted to submerge myself. Instead, I served myself a glass of orange juice, wishing it had some vodka, and stayed at the pool, almost falling asleep, until I couldn't tolerate the mosquitoes, and I remembered my newly found “mom” had invited me to dinner.

Julia had made reservations at the one decent restaurant in the area for seven o'clock, but we left an hour earlier so she could show me the Plaza de la Revolución, where tomorrow hundreds would congregate to commemorate
El Grito
. She parked on a side street and, as we walked on the narrow sidewalk, she seemed like she wanted to grab my arm but hesitated and folded her arms, walking like that for a while. I found the idea of her grabbing on to me unsettling. Did she think that those types of gestures could erase a past of abandonment and neglect? Looking at her I felt sorry, though; ordinarily, Julia possessed a self-confident stride. Now, with folded arms, bumping into people, she appeared awkward, unsure. “Mother” was a role she didn't know how to play.

With the upcoming festivities, the streets of this sleepy town were more crowded than usual. We bumped into people on the slim sidewalks, most of the time forcing us into the streets, joining the human traffic bringing the cars to a dead stop. The town merchants adjacent to the plaza must love this day, I thought.
They added to the congestion by lining the sidewalks with some of their merchandise. For a small town, the noise equaled, at least on this day, that of a city. Cars honked, the merchants hawked their goods, laughter and voices rose from the growing crowds; an electricity flowed through the streets, making the day feel special. In the middle of this, Julia proceeded to give me a historical account of the events in 1868 leading to El Grito, the “ill-fated but heroic” rebellion.

“A Spanish Captain overheard insurgents talking. Typically Puerto Rican: we can't keep our mouths shut when we have to, but when we need to yell to the high heavens, you couldn't pry our mouths open with a crowbar.” She said this with a grin, pulling off her glasses and fidgeting with them, a sign I had learned to read as agitation. “Anyway, the Spaniards soon learned of the revolt and the rebels had to move the date from the originally planned 29th of September to the 23rd.”

What were my ancestors doing during all this, I thought. What side were they on?

We sat down on a bench by the plaza, similar to so many across the island. She crossed her legs, took a cigarette from a gold case and lit it, breathing in the tobacco deeply and expelling the smoke with vigorous, angry intensity.

“They took this town, Lares, proclaimed the Republic of Puerto Rico, but the Spaniards outnumbered them—it was over almost as soon as it started.”

She smoked like she did everything else, with blinded urgency. Mami had been a non-smoker, who had lectured me about the dangers of smoking since an early age; that, and drugs, and STDs. In a way, she had Julia's vitality; she approached everything head-on, never flinching.

Strong women attracted my dad. Strong, attractive women. Because both Mami and Julia were appealing, although in different ways. Julia gravitated toward plumpness, some would say voluptuousness. Mami had always been slender, with wild curly hair; I always envied her beautiful brown skin. Now I knew why I'm pale, looking at Julia and remembering how Mami would kid Papi about being so “jincho.” Julia had that hair, though, and
those eyes—also passed on to me, no mistaking it. Anyone who saw us would assume we were mother and son. Both women had intriguing faces, with striking features. Julia's eyes, when not piercing you, when they softened, felt as if, for that moment, you were the center of the universe. Mami had wonderful light-brown almond eyes, a slender nose and curvy lips that I thought fortunate enough to have inherited, until I saw Julia's. Julia's high heels, another difference; Mami would never wear a pair like those. She was a teacher on her feet for long stretches of time. And she liked to think she was sensible. Looking at the shoes, I noticed her shapely legs and that Julia was shorter than Mami.

Our bench faced San José, the Catholic church, and the monument to the Grito: a rectangular stone resembling cinder blocks, the Lares flag painted on it, no more than six feet tall, with a bust of Ramón Emeterio Betances on top, all of it standing on a hexagonal base. I had envisioned something larger to equal the significance Julia and her crew gave the bust. Julia read my face. She pointed to it with the cigarette.

“It's a disgrace, but what can you expect? El Grito isn't even a national holiday.” She looked at me with her piercing eyes, searching for comprehension. “But we do celebrate the United States' Declaration of Independence, with fireworks and parades.” She shrugged her shoulders and smirked.

Her smirk bothered me. That, and the smoke flowing from her lips to my face. I didn't give a flying fuck about the shitty monument, about how PR celebrated the Fourth—why not, it's as stupid as anything else Puerto Ricans do—fuck the Grito and Puerto Rican history. Seeing Julia made me think of my real mother and that depressed the shit out of me. I had buried her along with Papi, just a few months ago, and could not grasp the finality of it. They were gone too soon for me to tell them how much I loved them. And this woman came along and disturbed the peace I needed to deal with their deaths. Damn you, Julia, for making me angry at them for their lies, for turning my life into a lie. For expecting to replace a love I took for granted. What do you want? Why am I here with you, in this shithole town commemorating an
event I couldn't care less about? Damn you. I'm alone now, and with all this lecturing you make me feel like an orphan.

She droned on: “Puerto Rican history is a long series of tragedies, René. After so many tragedies, you're left with no other alternative but to laugh.” She threw the butt to the ground and crushed it under one red sole of her black Louboutin pumps. Then with a tissue she cleaned the bottom of the shoe and picked up the butt.

“Well, I'm not exactly in a laughing mood,” I said.

Her eyebrows knit together, and she nodded. “Bien, let's go eat.”

As we were passing a large, shady tree, she stopped. “By the way, this is the famous Tamarindo de Don Pedro.”

She looked for some recognition; my shrugging and head shaking evoked an exasperated sigh.

“Gabriela Mistral, the Nobel Prize-winning poet from Chile … you know?”

I nodded yes I had heard of her.

“Well, she gave this tree to Pedro Albizu Campos, the leader of the nationalists. It was taken from Bolívar's estate in Venezuela.” She slapped her hand against the tree a few times. “It's beautiful, isn't it?”

I nodded. It was indeed a great looking tree.

“It was planted with soil from all the nations of Latin America—a symbol of solidarity with our struggle for freedom and independence.” Julia's face turned sad. “The tamarindo is bittersweet, so people say it is a fitting symbol of that struggle.”

I wanted to ask, “What's sweet about it?” but held my tongue. Julia's fierce expression demonstrated that she had forgotten everything she had said about laughter and tragedy.

On the way to the car, we passed the famous Lares Ice Cream shop, the one with all the crazy flavors, like garlic and avocado—and I remembered going there as a kid. On a visit to Mami's grandmother. No, I was not from Lares, but my mother—the real one—had family from here. Why didn't I tell that to the old woman?

We drove up route 129 to El Cacique, a dive with ivy crawling up its outside walls. When we entered, I was grateful that Julia had made reservations. The place was packed. I ordered a yucca
pie stuffed with shredded beef. Julia ordered a plantain dish filled with seafood, served in a pilón, a wooden mortar used for smashing the fried plantains with garlic. The place was not much for décor, but the food was good. Throughout the meal, I faced two gigantic Puerto Rican flags on the wall, one the more traditional and the other the Lares rebellion flag, replicas of which decorated every corner of this town.

We had settled into our meals, when the old woman from the pool walked in, accompanied by an older gentleman, probably her husband, followed not only by the two guys from the pool, but what seemed like an entourage. The clientele gave her a standing ovation. ¡Ésa es! ¡Ésa es! That's the one! That's the one! Julia stood up, too, so I did the same.

The old woman wore a red dress, her faced done, her lips brilliant with lipstick. Her white hair shone under the restaurant lights. She came over to our table, hugged and kissed Julia and tapped me on the shoulder.

She said to Julia, “I met your son today. Qué guapo es.”

This she whispered to Julia, and Julia thanked her, which bothered me. The old woman asked if we wanted to join them in the back, where they had a special room reserved. Julia told her that she wanted to have dinner with me so we could talk.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” she said.

They kissed again and the old woman left, talking to others along the way, shaking hands, giving more hugs and kisses, even signing an occasional autograph. Her entourage dressed in black, resembling a funeral procession, followed, apparently accustomed to all the fuss.

“Who the hell is that?” I asked. Julia stared at me as if I had made the worst joke possible, the type that silences a room of people at a party.

“Are you seriously telling me that you don't know who that is?” She asked me this, fork suspended in the air, her blazing eyes a mix of sorrow and incredulity.

“Excuse my ignorance, if I don't know who the old biddy is.”

I'm not good at being caught misinformed. Growing up with two college professors who quizzed me on current events, state
capitals, you name it, I had acquired a competitive attitude about knowing the correct answer. I pride myself on being well read, being educated at fine schools, so Julia's facial expression stung me. At once, she seemed upset and disgusted with my ignorance.

“No, you are not excused.” Down came the fork. She leaned toward me. “You think this is a joke?” she hissed. “That ‘old biddy' is Lolita Lebrón, who was willing to die for her country, and you disrespect her?” A quick pat of her lips with the napkin. “What did Juanma teach you? He who always made a big deal about how proud he was of being Puerto Rican.”

“Whoa—don't bring Papi into this, okay? And by the way, I have heard of Lebrón. I just didn't know what she looked like. I mean, all the pictures are of her, young and skinny.”

Julia rolled her eyes. “For me, she's not buried in some history book. She is alive and still fighting for the cause.”

“Well, to others she is nothing but a terrorist.”

Silence, an icy stare.

I returned her stare, shocked that she had forgotten my parents had just recently been killed by a suicide bomber in Israel.

She shook her head. “
She
… is a patriot, while
you
are a brainwashed pitiyanqui.”

I leaned my face right into hers. “Maybe if you hadn't abandoned your son, he'd fucking know who Lolita Lebrón was.”

She reached out across the table and slapped me, hard. I was astonished at her strength. By now, people close by stared from their tables, mouths opened in disbelief. The manager made his way toward us. I was thankful we had a corner table, isolated in the back of the restaurant.

“You will respect me,” she hissed at me. “And my beliefs. Even if you don't agree.” She said this crying, out of breath.

The manager approached us. I walked out.

I stood outside the glass doors, the left side of my face burning. Julia, standing now, laughed, blew her nose. The manager talked to her, his hand on his chest. Still standing, Julia took some bills from her purse and handed them to the man. He kept bowing as he talked to her. I walked over to the car and waited for her.

The car ride was at first quiet. “I'm sorry for hitting you,” she said, halfway to the hacienda. “But you don't know what it's like, René,” she said almost about to cry, shaking her head in exasperation. “We've been persecuted by the F.B.I.; look how they assassinated Filiberto Ojeda, in his own home, on El Grito, just a few years ago. And what about the carpetas, huh? They should be ashamed that in a so-called democracy they have secret files on people, René. Me, your mother, they had a file on
me
. And why? Because I want freedom and sovereignty for my country, just the same as they did from England. The U.S. government tortured and murdered Don Pedro and they'll do it to anyone who is pro-independence. This is not a joke, René.”

Then, glancing at me with a bit of remorse, she added, “And Lolita Lebrón didn't kill anyone.” I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

“Coño,” she blurted out a few seconds later, banging her fist against the steering wheel, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You were mean,” she said, now sobbing.

I stared out the window at the blurring darkness. “Look, I respect your beliefs, I do.” I closed my eyes. “But I didn't come to Puerto Rico for a history lesson.”

I turned to her. “Why don't you tell me about how you met my father. About my relatives, their contributions to Puerto Rican history. Just talk to me about you, Julia. About you.”

She turned to me, tears streaming down her cheeks, nodded and smiled.

Out of the car, we said nothing and headed to our respective rooms. The next morning, I found a note under my door. It read: “Breakfast on table. Off to the activities. See you later. Your mother.” It irked me to no end, how she used “mother” so freely, like she had earned the right. In one of our telephone conversations, I had asked her, out of respect for my real mother, to refer to herself as Julia, until we both could feel comfortable with my calling her “Mom” or “Mami” or whatever.

I remember the silence on the other end, and then she told me she would be forever grateful “her son” had been “blessed” by having a good woman raise him. But, she said, “Magda, may she
rest in peace, did not go through fourteen hours of labor. I did.” The compromise is that she refers to herself as “mother” and calls me “son,” and I call her Julia.