The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano (6 page)

I
kept walking and counting until I didn't see anybody I knew.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

I worked my way to Central Park North, then across Lenox, across Seventh, across Morningside Avenue, onto Cathedral Parkway, to Broadway, then down to 106th Street.

I didn't calm down until I got to 103rd Street. I crossed the uptown side of Broadway and sat on a bench in the median to watch traffic on either side of me.

In this neighborhood, not everyone was Puerto Rican. It was one big mixture of lots of different kinds of people who didn't know each other. I took out the flyer and read it.

 

Come to a Young Lord Rally.
Do not be oppressed. Freedom for Puerto Rico.
Enough exploitation of the poor.

 

I crumpled up the flyer and tossed it in the garbage can nearby — a garbage can that wasn't overflowing.

“Evelyn?”

I looked up to see Dolores from the five-and-dime. I couldn't believe it.

Dolores was with two girls and a guy. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I was just walking.”

Dolores didn't look the same. Or was it seeing her in this neighborhood that made her seem different? I must've looked different to her, too, because it took her a moment to introduce me to her friends.

“This is Avery.”

The boy was my skin color, but he wasn't Puerto Rican. He was definitely black. He was wearing sandals. Strange for a boy.

“Hey,” I said.

“And this is Andrea and Messeret,” Dolores introduced.

I nodded and looked them over. They seemed older, like maybe nineteen or twenty. Andrea had really white skin
but could have been black as well. Her hair was thick and wild, so different from Dolores's. She was wearing a shift with yellow flowers and tiny beads that looked like they were made of wood. The one called Messeret was cinnamon colored and had a huge Afro. She was wearing a long denim skirt and had a necklace that looked like it was made out of seashells. The girls were wearing sandals, too.

“Hi,” we all said at the same time.

Then we stood there until Dolores felt like she had to explain.

“They're working with my mother. My mom's a professor at Columbia University.” Then she waited, like she wanted to figure out if I knew what Columbia University was.

When I didn't say anything, she went on. “They're doing research for Mom — she's writing a book.”

“Oh …”

“I bumped into them in the grocery store. We're just going up to my house for some chips and stuff if you want to come.”

What else could happen today?
I thought. I only come to this neighborhood to disappear because it seems anonymous to me, and who do I bump into? Dolores!

I had nothing else to do. “Sure,” I said.

We went to an apartment on 114th Street between Broadway and Amsterdam. It was an okay building, not
new, but not as old as the one I lived in. This building didn't have a fire escape on the outside. But it did have an elevator. Dolores's mother came to the door the minute we entered. She was tall and thin and wore glasses. Her hair wasn't straightened — it was in a small Afro. Dolores introduced us.

“Nice to meet you, Evelyn. Come on in, everybody. Dolores, why don't you get everybody a cold drink, then” — she pointedly looked at the three college students — “we'll get started. I'll be in my office.” And she turned away.

Dolores waited until she was out of earshot. “Mom's writing about slaves — that's why she treats me like one.”

Everybody laughed, and we followed her into the living room. I couldn't help noticing the beige curtains, the soft gray rugs, and the apricot sofa. Not a single rose in sight. I took a peek into what I guessed was Dolores's room. She had a paisley bedspread and an old-fashioned dresser with a lava lamp on it. The walls were covered with posters of people I didn't know. A hippie-looking black guy with a big Afro, playing the guitar, a drawing of a white guy with swaths of different color hair, and pictures of Martin Luther King, Jr., and Malcolm X.

“Sit down. I'll get some juice for everyone,” said Dolores as she sailed out the door. We sat. Silently.

“How about those gays at Stonewall Inn?” said Messeret.

“I know,” said Avery. “Gay people fighting for their rights? I mean — usually they don't even want to be found out.” Then he started singing that song about how great it was to do your own thing.

“Everybody has the right to live the way they want to,” added Andrea seriously.

I was hoping they didn't look at me, because I had no idea what they were talking about. But they did look at me and waited for me to say something. And out of nowhere came: “My grandmother has an album full of old photos of people being killed in Puerto Rico.”

Silence. Now they didn't know what
I
was talking about.

“Juice, anyone?” Dolores entered with a tray of drinks.

I stood up. “I gotta go,” I said. “I have to get home.”

“Wait,” Dolores said, putting down the drinks. I wondered if she was happy that I was leaving. “I'll show you to the door.”

“See you tomorrow,” I said quietly.

I walked, still counting to keep calm as I approached
El Barrio
.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
I knew when I was getting to my neighborhood because of the noise and because I could smell the garbage overflowing
in the trash cans. Nobody was home when I arrived. It was evening. Everyone was probably still at the
bodega
. I was exhausted.

I opened the sofa bed and slipped in, wondering if it was possible to sleep angry.

T
he next Sunday I confronted Mami.

“I'm not going to church.”

“What?”

“I'm
not
going.” I rolled over in bed and closed my eyes. Mami stood over me, but I would not turn her way. After a moment, she sighed and gave up.

As soon as she was gone, I listened to see if Abuela was awake. I didn't hear a peep. I tiptoed into her room, which was empty.

I was free to walk around in my underwear. I got myself a bowl of cereal, ate quickly, then started playing with my hair. I put it up in a ponytail, using the hair bands Abuela had bought me. I pulled on my pants and a shirt, and went outside.

It was a nice day, not as hot as it had been all week. The air held a hint of greasy smell and garbage. If it weren't for the loud Pentecostals on the corner shouting their “hallelujah's,” it would've been a calm day in
El Barrio
.

I closed my eyes to take in the sun, when I heard a crash of glass, then a smack and a cry.

Up the block, Angel was lying on the sidewalk.

His father and the
piragua
cart were right behind him.

The bottle with the blue syrup lay shattered on the ground.

I ran closer to see what was happening.

Señor Santiago's eyes were red with rage. His shirt was damp with perspiration, his hair matted with sweat. He was yelling at Angel.

“Get up, I didn't hit you so hard.”

Angel peered up at me with only one eye open. He got up slowly.

“Get home,” his father hissed.

Angel gave me a weak smile. He started to walk away. Then he ran as fast as he could, with a limp.

Señor Santiago studied the broken bottle of blue syrup on the sidewalk. He gathered the fragments of glass into one hand and walked over to the trash can that was overflowing. He tried to push the shards into it but only succeeded in driving one of the sharp fragments into his
hand. He cursed and looked toward the heavens as the pieces of glass slid off the top of the slimy garbage and fell onto the ground, joining the other trash that hadn't fit in the garbage can. Señor Santiago continued to groan as he looked toward the sky. He managed to push the cart up the street with the palm of his good hand.

Abuela and don Juan came up from behind. “Poor man,” don Juan said quietly.

“Abuela, don Juan, what are you doing here?”

“We were out walking,
mija
. Enjoying this pretty day.”

“What did you mean, ‘poor man'?” I asked. “Did you see how he hit Angel?”

“Yes, but there are many reasons for acting like that,” Abuela said.

Don Juan said, “
Un momento
, let me help explain.”

“
Un momento
nothing,” I huffed. I looked hard at Abuela. “What reasons, Abuela? Señor Santiago hit Angel because he broke a bottle of blue syrup. That's not a good reason.”

“That wasn't the only reason,” Abuela said.

“It's so many problems,” said don Juan.

“The problems of
la vida
,” Abuela said. “The problems of life.”

Don Juan said, “Señor Santiago loves his son. But he's
frustrado
. And that makes people do bad things.”

I had no time for this stupid stuff. Now
I
was frustrated. I had to go find Angel. I ran to 114th Street and caught him turning onto Madison Avenue. I couldn't tell which one of us was more out of breath.

“Hey, Angel, wait up.”

He was wheezing.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.” He coughed.

His eyes were red from crying. “Come on,” I said.

Putting his hands on his knees he panted, “Wait …”

I waited until he could catch his breath.

We walked toward the East River, crossed the overpass, then found a bench. We sat together, not saying anything for a long time.

“You okay?” I asked him.

“Yeah.”

“Your eye is swelling up.”

“I'll just look out the other one.”

“Let's go,” I said.

We walked from garbage pile to garbage pile on practically every corner of every street. Even though those college students had swept up the garbage and heaped it up on the corners, the Sanitation Department hadn't come to pick any of it up.

We walked through the stench, with nowhere to go.

“I know a place,” Angel said finally.

“I'll follow you.”

Angel led me to a park on 120th and Amsterdam Avenue. It was pretty small but nice, with huge rocks to climb up on.

“Come on,” said Angel, excited and running up toward the top like a skinny little goat. I followed. Angel managed to smile as he looked around.

“Isn't this cool?”

“It's as nice as the roof,” I answered.

We sat quietly, not saying much of anything.

The breeze picked up and cooled our sweat.

When it started to get dark, we made our way back to our neighborhood.

The music of
El Barrio
hung in the air and led us home.

“My cherie amour …”

“I can't get next to you, babe …”

And
“Bang Bang …”
by Joe Cuba.