The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano (10 page)

A
buela had moved in with don Juan. His apartment was on 112th Street and Second Avenue. I went to visit them.

Their apartment was a mess. They used newspapers as curtains, and a telephone book to hold up one end of a broken-down sofa that had somehow escaped the Garbage Offensive. The kitchen had a chipped Formica table and four mismatched chairs. The refrigerator door was also used as a bulletin board, with calendars, pictures, take-out menus, and Young Lord flyers taped to it. Paper plates and plastic forks and knives covered the counter.

But there were real plants on the windowsills and real fruit in the bowls. And music playing.

So much time had passed since Abuela first arrived. The weeks had flown since she first flitted into our lives with her orange hair and long-line bras. It was now the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Abuela was dressed in a long kimono and slippers with heels.

“Where's don Juan?” I asked.

“You know he's shy when you are here, because he knows about all the tension between me and your mother. He's a good
hombre
, Evelyn. Always was. The boy I should've married when I was a girl,” she said.

She offered me some juice.
“¿Jugo, mija?”

I nodded and sat down at the table. Abuela got us orange juice and served it with bread and butter.

“You knew don Juan when you were a girl?”

“Long ago in Puerto Rico — when we were kids.”

Out the window, the cold sun climbed high in the sky.

Abuela sipped her juice. She had a story to tell. I could see she was thinking about how to begin. She chewed slowly on a slice of bread.

“I first met don Juan at the plaza in Ponce just before I met your grandfather. Every market day he, his eight brothers and sisters, and parents came down from the mountains in a
carreta
.”

“What's a
carreta
?”

“A wooden wagon that all the
campesinos
loaded up with any vegetables they had grown, to sell in the town plaza, like Juan and his family.”

I sipped my juice, too, and enjoyed the soft bread and butter.

Abuela continued, “I remember how tight he wore his belt. I figured out years later that he wore his belt that tight to keep from feeling hunger. Back then, I thought he wore his belt tight to show off his little waist.”

Abuela chewed on her bread even more slowly. A bit of butter lodged itself in the corner of her mouth, and she delicately pushed it back in with her pinky finger.

“I met both men, the good one and the bad one, at almost the same time.”

“You mean you met don Juan when you were buying an avocado for your father, and Abuelo Emilio came into your life?”

“I had seen Juan at the plaza before, but I have to say that I never really noticed him. He was just one of the poor, and there were plenty of them.”

“Well, when
did
you notice him?”

“When he played his guitar. Sometimes he attracted people to his stand by playing music. He could play Rafael Hernández songs as beautiful as you hear them on the
radio. We would talk for a minute or two about the words in the songs if my mother got involved talking with his mother about the health of the rest of the children. I was attracted, but I didn't know it. How could I? He was so poor, and my family thought we were better than his.”

I shook my head. Abuela said, “Of course, it is not right. That is why there are revolutions. Because many things are not right.”

We sat for a moment. I watched the November sky grow orange.

Abuela continued. “But then one day I didn't see him again.”

“What happened?”

“He left Puerto Rico and came here to
El Barrio
to get a job and send money back so all his brothers and sisters could come to
El Barrio
after him. That's how people did it in those days. First, the strongest or smartest come. Then that person helps those left behind to escape
la pobreza
, the poverty, as well.

“The next time I saw him was when I was walking in front of your parents'
bodega
, Evelyn.”

“After so many years?” I gasped.

“
Sí, mija
, you never know what will happen in life. We don't even know what's going to happen tomorrow.”

Abuela was right. Love and surprises could come from anywhere, anytime. Nobody knew what would happen the next day. But I did know one thing about tomorrow in
El Barrio
.

Tomorrow was Sunday. And Sunday meant church with the Young Lords.

T
he police started watching the church. They were easy to spot in their blue uniforms. But I don't remember exactly when I realized undercover agents were watching our little
iglesia
as well. It was like when a mosquito starts buzzing around and you shake your head, not really sure what's bothering you until it bites.

A man we had never seen before was hanging around one corner. Another stranger was smoking and staring off into space on another corner. I could see a third on the roof, who ducked back when he caught me looking.

Migdalia, Angel, and I were walking toward the church.

“Migdalia, who are those guys?” I whispered.

“Wilfredo says they are undercover cops.”

“Watching
us
? Why?”

Angel tried to be funny. “‘Cause we are the baddest Puerto Ricans ever.”

“Quiet, Angel,” scolded Migdalia. “They are afraid of us.”

Afraid! Of us obedient Puerto Ricans?

“What about that guy?” I whispered, pointing to a man in a sweatshirt, sitting in his car. “Is he one of them?”

“I think so,” said Migdalia.

“But he looks Puerto Rican.”

“So?”

I took one peek at the guy in the car — he
was
Puerto Rican! But when I entered the church, my eyes widened even more by what greeted me inside: Girl Young Lords! Yes. For the first time, there were girl Young Lords. I came up short when I compared myself to them with my uptight blouse and pants. They were wearing jeans, just like the boys, and they acted like they didn't care how they looked, which only made them look more beautiful. All had natural hair, long or short or wavy or kinky, and I felt stupid with my little roll of bangs. I fussed around with them to make them look more natural.

But even as I ran my fingers through my hair, I could sense that they were on extra alert, checking all around during the service. The lights in their eyes were beacons scanning the congregation — looking, I guess, for friends
or enemies. Their looks to one another were intense and full of signals I ached to be able to read but couldn't. The room was a pressure cooker. Even as I was thinking about all these things — the girl Young Lords, their hair, my hair, that we were being watched — the pressure cooker burst when the Young Lord with the blinding smile and the kinky hair stood up and yelled, “There is something wrong here! This is not a community!”

That was it! The organ player tried to drown him out by playing as loudly as he could. Eighty parishioners stood up and sang louder than they had ever sung before. But they couldn't drown him out any more than you could shut out the morning light, or any more than you could stop a breeze of new ideas from coming into a room with your splayed-out hand. Or any more than you could cover the sky with your hand.

Then, suddenly, like a herd of bulls, twenty-five policemen charged in! This time they weren't in shock like they were when watching the burning garbage that summer. This time they were prepared. One of them rushed the Young Lord with the blinding smile and kinky hair, saying, “Step aside. You have all got to leave!”

Everybody stopped moving. The policeman repeated himself. “You have all got to leave!”

My mother got up and scooted across the aisle, moving
faster than I had ever seen her move before, and grabbed my arm as I tried looking at what was going on between the Young Lord and the policeman.

“You have all got to leave!” the cop repeated. “Now!”

My mother pulled at me. “Let's go,” she growled.

The Young Lord made no effort to move and neither did I.

“Then you are all under arrest!” screamed the cop. He grabbed the boy. The boy pulled back. The cop brought his nightstick up!
Crack!
He had tried to smash it down on the boy's head, but the boy held his arm up, catching the blow with his elbow. I heard a sickening snap. Then it was like a blast of air fanning a fire. The police rushed at the other Young Lords, striking them and even pushing some of the girl Young Lords who fought back. An old lady picked up a candelabra to hit a Young Lord with. Abuela picked up a chair to stop the cop who had hurt the boy. I rushed to her side when my mother blocked me — just as the chair tumbled out of Abuela's hands and landed square on Mami's back. She shook it off like a bull, glared at Abuela, and tried to steer me to the door.

“Mami, are you okay?”

“Sí, sí,”
she groaned.
“¡Vámonos!”

But I could tell she was in pain and having trouble walking. I looked for Abuela to help me with Mami, but she was trying to stand between the Young Lords and the cops!

The police started arresting the Young Lords and the rest of us got swept out the door like debris on a wave of humanity.

The look of pain on my mother's face was as intense as the look of joy on Abuela's. We milled around outside the church.

“They are arresting them, but this is just the beginning,” said Abuela.

“Evelyn could've gotten hurt,” croaked Mami accusingly.

“I'm fine….” I said.

“
¿Qué?
Evelyn?” Abuela looked at me as if she were surprised to see me standing there. “Oh,
sí
. Yes. But look — she is fine and she helped to make a stand.”

“Are
you
okay, Mami?” I asked again.

My mother's bun had come undone. Strands of her hair were flying all around her face making her look crazed.

“
Sí
,” she said, placing her dry, rough hand on my head. “You?”

“Yeah.”

I stood there, Mami on my left and Abuela on my right, each of them owning me by placing a hand on my shoulder. And there we stood like three rocks in a stream, hearing the swarm of people as they left the church, gazing into one another's face for answers.

“Police brutality …” Angel was delighted and pranced around.

“They didn't have to be so rough.” Migdalia was tearful and upset that once again her brother had been arrested.

“Those Young Lords are crazy,” said an old lady.

“They are doing the right thing,” said another carefully.

“Que viva Puerto Rico libre …”

“This is a house of the Lord….”

My head was spinning. Who was right? I had to get away. Unbuttoning my coat, I twisted my way out of it and ran down the street.

“Evelyn …” yelled my mother, with one shoulder of my empty jacket in her hand.

“¿Pa' dónde vas?”
screamed Abuela, holding the other shoulder.

They looked funny, standing there clutching a ghost of me flapping in the breeze. But I did not want to hear either of them, so I ran until the wind rushing by my ears drowned them out.

I got to the corner where I could turn right, and go to my house, or left, and end up at Abuela's. I went left.

Then, sitting on the top step of her floor, I waited for Abuela to get home.