The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano (12 page)

W
hat is the cost of space? Not Apollo outer space, just space to be, to exist in. And how much are you willing to pay for it? The Young Lords took space on the 28th of December. This was how it was reported in the
New York Times
:

What was not in the newspapers was what went on at church between my mother, my grandmother, and me. We were sitting in our usual spots. I on the left with Abuela, surrounded by the supporters of the Young Lords, and Mami sitting on the right, surrounded by the uptight parishioners. The sad Young Lord made a last-minute plea for the church to let them use the space for a free-breakfast program.

I looked at my shoes, Abuela looked straight ahead, and most of the parishioners left. But then, suddenly, faster than I could even see, the doors were being chained shut. Seconds later, I heard pieces of wood being nailed to the doors outside. The Young Lords moved quickly and efficiently. This takeover had been planned way ahead of time.

Confusion erupted immediately. People didn't know what to do. Were we trapped? Being held hostage? A Young Lord told us to stay calm. That they were going to occupy the church. That in just a while, some of us could stay or go. Abuela braced herself, and Mami rushed over to me.

“I'm going to stay,” I said.

“No, you cannot stay.”

“Mami, I'm staying.”

“There are police outside,” she said. “You are just a kid!”

“So are the Young Lords.”

“Then I am staying, too!” Mami insisted. Summoning all of her extra weight, she sat down heavily. Then she spat out,
“Es la culpa de tu abuela, yo lo sé….”

“Mami, please, Abuela had nothing to do with me wanting to stay.”

“
Sí, sí, es ella
…. It's her putting ideas in your head.”

I hate that expression of someone “putting ideas in your head,” like my head was an empty ball waiting for anyone to “put ideas” in it. My mother went on speaking to Abuela over my “empty head” in fast jabs of words. Everything said between them was a restrained but searing cut.

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. Calm 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.