The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano (7 page)

T
he next Sunday I went to church with Mami and, boy, was I glad I did.

“
¡Vámonos!
” she said from the living room. “Let's go.”

As soon as we got onto the street — there it was, as always, the heat and stink of our neighborhood. This morning, though, it was mixed up with a new tension and sharpness. Things even looked different. It was as if the street, and signs, and even the Penn Central tracks had moved a few inches to the left from where they'd usually been.

The college student sweepers weren't putting trash in garbage bags anymore. They were pushing bags that were already filled with junk toward the middle of the avenues. And now they were sweeping with real professional brooms like the ones the Sanitation Department used.

“What are those kids trying to do?” snapped Mami.

“They've been cleaning up for the last couple of Sundays.”

“Are they a new gang?”

“Mami, a gang, cleaning?”

“Like the Viceroys and the Dragons, I mean.”

“I never saw the Viceroys or Dragons sweeping the streets, Mami.”

Mami wasn't listening to me. She yanked me into church. “Just what the neighborhood needs, another
ganga
!” she huffed.

I was more impatient than usual for the service to be over. It seemed to drag on forever.

When we got out onto the street, don Juan and his friends were sweeping.

So was Wilfredo.

So was Abuela!

She was wearing jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a paisley shirt with a matching headband.

Mami saw Abuela a second after I did. “
Qué
… what …” she sputtered.

“Mija.”

“What are you doing sweeping the street like a
cualquiera
?”

“I'm helping these young people.”

“You're helping a gang?”

“No, they all go to college,” Abuela said.

“
¿Y qué?
College kids acting like delinquents? What is sweeping the street going to teach them?”

“More than you would think.”

“Gangs!” Mami was seething.

“Mami, they're not gangs,” I said, standing between her and Abuela. Then I got worried. Maybe they were gangs. How did I know? I had seen Wilfredo with some gangs.

I tried to smooth it over. “Look, Mami, they're not gangs.” I turned to Abuela. “Right?”

“Not gangs. Good kids. I like to help.”

“Of course, I forgot,” my mother spat. “You always have to help everybody in the world. Why don't you clean your own house first? Sweep our apartment? Or the
bodega
? No, you want to sweep the streets. But you are not helping anybody!”

Abuela got up in Mami's face. “I am helping you.”

“What are you talking about? You say you're going to help in the store, but you turn it into a place of politics —
algo político
. You say you're going to help in the house, but you take over like you're the only person living there. You say you're going to help me and … and …” Mami couldn't finish.

While Mami and Abuela argued, people worked around
them, pushing mattresses and old rusty stoves onto the avenue. A guy with a bullhorn and some kids waving purple hats were trying to warn the drivers. To make things even harder, the Pentecostals had set up their speakers and microphones and were yelling so loudly we could hardly hear one another's words.

“Evelyn!
¡Vámonos!
” my mother yelled.

“Listen to me,
mija
,” said Abuela.

My mother was determined to drag me away, but I couldn't leave.

Mami yelled again.
“¡Vámonos!”

Then here came Awilda, Migdalia, and Dora.

“What is up, everybody?” said Awilda.

“We're sweeping up the streets,” I said, like I was part of the cleaning crew. “Help us,” I blurted.

“Help you
sweep
? You must be crazy,” said Awilda, sucking at her teeth. “What am I? A maid? Besides, I don't see no sweeping. I see funky sofas and rusty bedsprings stopping traffic.”

She was right. The guy with the bullhorn kept trying to direct traffic around the trash so that there wouldn't be an accident.

“Come on,” Awilda said to Dora and Migdalia, “let's get out of here.”

I grabbed a broom from Wilfredo and handed it to Migdalia. “How about you, Migdalia? Will you help?”

“Yeah, Miggy, help! Evelyn is helping. Why not you?” asked Wilfredo.

Wilfredo was using his pet name for Migdalia — Miggy. I knew this would help make it harder for her to turn her brother down.

She grabbed a broom.

Awilda floundered around, looking helpless.

Dora didn't know what to do either.

But Abuela rallied everyone together. “This way!” she yelled. And with her leading the way, we began to push the garbage toward Third Avenue.

Mami didn't know which way to turn but finally followed helplessly. Traffic was getting jammed up. Some people were honking their horns in disgust. Others were giving the thumbs-up like they were happy about what was going on. More and more people were coming out into the street.

Then I smelled something funny. It wasn't the garbage. It was a chemical smell.

“What's happening?” said Abuela.

People were pouring lighter fluid onto the garbage.

“Let's burn it!” somebody shouted.

The bullhorn guy kept trying to direct traffic so no one would get hurt. People started throwing matches toward the smelly piles. Everybody was setting fire to the garbage! Flames flew toward the sky.

“¡Basta ya!”
everyone screamed. “Enough!”

Wilfredo had his arm up in the air. He was yelling, too.
“¡Basta!”

Abandoned cars had been overturned and set to flames, too.

Every window, fire escape, and rooftop was crammed with people. At least this time they had something important to watch. Some of the people on the street looked afraid.

Angel came up the block, the light of the flames dancing in his eyes.

Migdalia stood by Wilfredo.

Don Juan concentrated on the flames. His eyes were wet, as if he were crying.

I stood between Abuela and Mami.

All of us were hypnotized by the power in the air. The flames flickered higher and higher.

Things got worse. The fire department showed up, sirens blaring. When the firefighters came out of their trucks, they were blasted by bottles hurled from the rooftops. The guy with the bullhorn kept yelling at the bottle
throwers to stop, saying that the fire department was not the enemy.

A police siren howled. The cops had come, but I didn't know who they were there to help. Us, or the firefighters?

Usually when the cops come, people flee. Not this time. They didn't scare anybody. Not one person ran off. We all hung tough.

Even señor Santiago maneuvered his
piragua
cart through the debris, almost daring the policeman to ignore the burning garbage to give him another ticket.

Later that night, we saw our neighborhood on TV.

The newscaster spoke about how “East Harlem youth,” had burned up the garbage to call attention to the fact that the waste in our neighborhood was not picked up with the same regularity that garbage was picked up in other neighborhoods.

Mami looked like she might cry.

Abuela was ready to cheer.

Thank goodness my stepfather was at the
bodega
. I'm sure he was watching the news, cursing about hippies. The newscaster went on, “… these youngsters call themselves the Young Lords.”

I
got to work the next day and saw the headline in the
New York Times
.

 

E
AST
H
ARLEM
Y
OUTHS
E
XPLAIN
G
ARBAGE
D
UMPING
D
EMONSTRATION

 

Dolores was jumping up and down with excitement. We were in the back of the five-and-dime, punching in. “Were you there, Evelyn? What was it like? My mother was right. She said revolution would eventually come to
El Barrio
.”

Mr. Simpson looked agitated. “Get to your counters. Store opens in two minutes.”

“We're just talking about the Young Lords,” said Dolores.

“Well, I'm just glad the Sanitation Department was able to clean up the mess they made or I never would've been able to get my car down here,” he said, going back into his office. He had his newspaper turned to that headline tucked under his arm. I could barely believe it. People had noticed East Harlem. We were in the newspaper.

After work, I walked down to 96th and Madison to get more copies of the
New York Times
. Something in me wanted to collect the paper. I wanted lots of them.

The article kept referring to the Young Lords.

When I got home, Abuela was sitting on the living room floor reaching for her toes.

“Abuela,” I asked, “are
you
a Young Lord?”

She straightened up long enough to laugh. “How could I be a young anything?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I just want to do
mi parte
.”

I showed her the newspaper article.

“Look.”

She stood up with a grunt, then sat down on the sofa.

“Léemelo.”

Abuela had seen the article that morning but wanted me to read it to her. So I did.

“‘In claiming credit for spearheading the protest, a group of Young Lords said yesterday that they had acted to
show the people of
El Barrio
, East Harlem's Puerto Rican slum, that such activity was necessary to get city action to meet community needs.'”

Abuela clapped as I read.

“¡Bien dicho, bien dicho!”
she whooped.

I continued:

“‘The Lords, he said, worked closely with the Panthers and were aiming to unite Spanish-speaking Americans to end the oppression against them.'”

Abulea almost cried when she heard this part.

“
Que viva Puerto Rico libre
,” she whispered. “Keep reading. Keep reading.”

I did.

“‘… for the last five weeks the Lords had been helping clean the streets to show the people that the system does not serve them.'”

I finished reading. She sat with a satisfied smile on her face, then suddenly grabbed my arm.

“Ven.”

We went into my room.

“And now I have something to show
you
.” She pulled out her photo album, and we sat and balanced it on our laps. Abuela showed me the picture of a policeman squatting over a dead body.

“That was a Nationalist on the ground. I can tell because he is wearing white pants and a dark shirt,” said Abuela somberly.

“Is that man holding a rifle a policeman?”

“Kind of. A
guardia civil
.”

She turned the page and I saw the other picture of a policeman shooting through what looked like a tall garden fence.

Then Abuela turned to the big picture of the
Guardia Civil
marching and shooting into the crowd of people who were running scared!

“I was there,” whispered Abuela.

“There during the shooting? But what is that place, Abuela? Who are those people and why are they being shot at?”

She took a deep breath. “That place is Ponce, Puerto Rico.”

Abuela spoke so slowly and quietly. Her words were like soft drops of sad rain.

“And in 1937, those
policías sinvergüenzas mataron a
…” She pounded a fist on her knee.

“Calm down, Abuela.”

“How can I calm down? Those police shot at innocent people just because they were marching to support the Nationalist party.”

“What is that?”

“Nationalists are people who want Puerto Rico to be independent from the United States,” she said, letting out a sigh.

“
Mija
,” she continued patiently. “In Ponce in 1937, some leaders of the Nationalist party were arrested. They died while they were in prison. Their supporters got permission to protest the arrests by having a parade demonstration. One hour before the protest march started, their permission was taken back.”

“Why?”

Abuela shook her head, but she was smiling, too, like something was silly. “The mayor of Ponce said it was because he had forgotten that it was Palm Sunday, a religious holiday.”

I listened carefully.

“The Nationalists marched anyway, and the police opened fire.”

I wondered how it was not okay to march, but okay to shoot people on a religious holiday.

We sat silently for a moment, torn between the old photos and the
New York Times
I had bought today.

“What does all of this have to do with garbage set on fire here in
El Barrio
?”

“Don't you see,
mija
? It's people standing up for
themselves. It's Puerto Ricans standing up for what's right. It's little guys standing up to big guys.”

“Abuela, where did you get these pictures?”

“Some were from newspapers, but the one of the
Guardia Civil
shooting into the crowd of people was a birthday present from a boyfriend I had in the Nationalist Party. That picture is from a report made by the American Civil Liberties Union.”

I was almost afraid to ask the question that was in my mind, but I had to know. “Were you a Nationalist?”

“Not at the time of the massacre. That came later.”

Abuela rubbed my hand thoughtfully. She let out a heavy breath. “There were only a few things a girl like me could be in 1937 — a spinster or a wife were two of my choices. So I chose to become a very young wife. Your grandfather Emilio was much older than me. I was seventeen when we married. He was thirty.”

“Was
he
a Nationalist?”

Abuela pursed her lips in disgust. “No,
al contrario
. On the contrary.” Abuela got very quiet. She wouldn't look at me. Finally, she said, “Come, let's have tea and
galletitas
.”

She got up with the album, and I followed her into the kitchen for tea and crackers. Abuela set the album down before me. She boiled water and got an old mayonnaise jar out of the refrigerator with some “tea” she had mixed up
herself. It was a combination of cloves, cinnamon, and ginger. It was so strong, just smelling it made my eyes water.

Abuela offered me some. “
Bebe, mija
— drink.”

“No, thanks,” I said.

She sipped her strong-strong tea.

“Abuela, was Abuelo Emilio a Nationalist?” I pressed.

“No,” she said bitterly. Then, abruptly, but in a whisper, she said, “He was one of the shooters.”

I reached for the tea Abuela had set in front of me. I took a sip.

“Your grandfather is that one there.” She pointed to one of the policemen in the big picture. “He was shooting into the people.”

Right then, Mami came home.

“What's going on?”

I was quick to answer. “Nothing.”

“
Ay … mija … we were just talking,” Abuela said.

She gathered up the album and took it into her room, signaling that I shouldn't say anything.

At that moment, I knew I was now keeping a big secret.