Rita Moreno: A Memoir (3 page)

My mother saves up eggshells all year long so that at Christmastime Francisco and I, little baskets in hand, can go to all those low, spiky bushes in the
vecindad
(neighborhood) and decorate the bushes with more half eggshells, which look like little white scalloped bells. The eggshells are so pretty. During Holy Week, we use colored eggshells, to match the houses.

Oh, there is a lot for us to do! There are the hunks of sugarcane stalk to suck on; we can scout for sticks to steer our little boats.

Life is delicious, spooned from the start of the day: morning meals such as
funche
, cornmeal porridge, sometimes made even richer with heavy, thick sweet cream; I never taste such cream anymore. Oatmeal custard,
avena
; fresh-baked bread, the crusts dunked for me in cafe con leche, sweet. I don’t drink the coffee, but I savor the soaked crusts. Later there is a rich paste of beans and spiced rice. On special days, a feast of roast pig, glazed and succulent with juices. The flavor of this pork I never taste in America. It is Puerto Rican, Juncos pork, and fresh, so juicy, served with melt-in-my-mouth plantains. Sometimes the sticky rice is cut into squares, refried till it is crusted. The rice is mixed with
gandules
(pigeon peas) and dressed with
sofrito
hot with red pepper and spices, which burns my tongue but burns it just right. The air is spiced—garlic, pepper, tomatoes, oregano, cilantro. Just to inhale is to taste….

I start kindergarten in a small sun-washed room filled with other children, scrubbed for class to make “a nice impression” on the teacher. I wear big pretty bows in my hair—Mami’s extra touch. I line up with the other children and learn to sing—phonetically, without comprehension—to the tune of “Happy Birthday”: “Good morning to you…. Good morning to you…. Goo moh’ning to joo.”

I sing in all joy and innocence, never knowing then what an ominous language this is, how I will suffer in
inglés
. I do not even understand the words I sing or why we learn them. Later, I will understand better that I am a citizen of Puerto Rico, which is part of the commonwealth of the United States. There is a bridge across the turquoise waters from my island to the place I soon
enough learn is “the big America.” We are part of America too—but not quite; the big America is another island, huge and far away, and I regard it as mythical, not a place where I will someday live.

We move again. Our new pink “strawberry” cottage is filled with people. By then, when I start school, we are living with my mother’s parents, my grandfather Justino and his second wife, Fela. His first wife, my real grandmother, whose name is always spoken in a solemn, sacred tone—“Trinidad Lopez, she was a Spaniard”—died many years ago. Maybe because Trinidad Lopez was so revered as the first great love of my grandfather, and also as my “blood” grandmother, I have a faint memory of my stepgrandmother, Fela. Like the negative of a photo, I see her shadow in her kitchen, cooking without electricity or gas on a wooden stove with deep-set metal braziers; there is a sink that must be emptied by pails. From as early as I can remember, I am near her, playing with my miniature pots and pans, my
caserolitas
, imitating her—stirring my imaginary guigado stew with a spoon.

My grandfather Justino appears in my mind as he looks in the fast-fading sepia photos of my album, the snapshots held at the corners by black stars. Justino is tall, darker skinned, and handsome, with straight, regular features and a shock of white hair, and a few gold teeth that shine when he smiles. His dark skin is beautiful—deep-colored carob, brown as the coffee he drinks.

Grandfather Justino is a somewhat controversial figure in Juncos politics; he champions the “wrong side,” and there are intermittent mysterious times when we are told he is somehow “wanted” and we must hide. Outside, men with guns storm the pink cottage. Inside, we duck under the beds and table. “Hide. Hide.”

“He’s not here…” my mami and Fela yell. The men yell back bad names; they curse my
abuelo
. My grandfather’s espresso black eyes meet mine under the table.

Most of the time, however, Grandfather Justino is a benign figure. He financially supports our household with his hands, which are expert; he rolls expensive cigars. When I am near him, when he lifts me to his lap, I always inhale the sweet scent of tobacco. Justino is crisp and clean, but that tobacco scent never leaves him. Tobacco has become part of him, as if his dark brown–stained smooth hands are now extensions of the leaves that he rolls.

My mami is scrupulous about our appearance. She does those arduous river laundry runs, then uses the hot leaden irons to be sure we always look fresh and neat. Especially every Sunday, when, after Mass, we join everyone else in Juncos to promenade in the great bleached-white square. I always appear adorable and immaculate, in my best embroidered dress with the special pulled-thread cutwork, hand-sewn and designed by my mother. On these ritual Sundays I am aware of being shown off, and the prayers and praise mingle in my memory; I feel sacred.

To promenade, the families move in alternating counterclockwise and clockwise directions, as in a waltz. Each family acknowledges the others as they pass. They nod in formal approval. The Alverios. The Marcanos. The Rivieras. The widow Gonzalez…There is a sweet silence that hangs over the town: almost no vehicles, no sound of engines.

The village birds tweet, and from the green margins of the forest come the distant cries of the jungle parrots and macaws. On these Sundays I am very aware of myself, so coiffed and bedecked. For a photo, I hold out my skirt wide, with both hands, like a little dancer about to plié. In the snapshots of me in Puerto
Rico, I look untroubled but eager, ready to complete my dance, ready for applause and the continued wonder of all who see me.

*   *   *

Too soon, the gauze curtain drops. Suddenly my mami disappears. Now I know that vague curtained time was when my mother made her preliminary expedition to New York, in preparation for the later, permanent migration. My adult guess is that she was gone for more than two months, given that she had to earn enough money for our future double passage to New York. But as a child I thought my mother disappeared for a very long time, and almost don’t recognize her when she returns.

At Christmastime, I have a very clear picture of her, at a different ice-cream house—the yellow “pineapple” house. It is my father, Paco’s home. Mami has returned, in strange new clothes, with a new scent upon her: sweeter but cold, as if it carries with it the temperature of its origins.

“Evening in Paris,” she whispers. This is her new perfume.

“Evening in Paris comes from Europe, from Paris,
France
,” she says with cautious pride, as she lifts the stopper, oh, so careful not to spill a precious drop from the cobalt blue glass bottle. She dabs a droplet behind my earlobe—

“Oh,” I cry, “it is freezing.” I don’t realize it yet, but that intense cold scent is my first big warning of what is to come.

Next, Mami is opening what appears to me to be a very large steamer trunk, from which she pulls out an endless stream of gifts—glittery beaded necklaces, silken scarves, a baby doll. All these gifts? Are they to make me feel more comfortable? I haven’t seen her in quite a while and feel somewhat shy. Or are they to bribe me? Mami rummages through this trunk for even more wonderful and colorful things, such as handmade dresses, as
well as toys for me and Francisco. Among other things, she also gives me with the baby doll the most beautiful baby doll wardrobe—tiny articles of clothing: dresses, underwear, little socks. She always dressed my dolls as she dressed me. Did I guess then that I was her “living baby doll”?

The detailed embroidery work on those frocks is truly exquisite. I think my mami was most likely trying very hard to make friends with me before our journey to New York City. The idea, I would guess, was to invite me and Francisco to let down our guard. Why did she need to make friends anew with us? Her own children?

The gauze curtain parts, and at some point we moved back in with Fela and Justino. I’m guessing that my mami stayed in Puerto Rico for at least a month. Now I suspect she returned for Christmas because it was unthinkable for her not to be home in Juncos for the great holiday with her two small children.

Christmas in Puerto Rico is a different season than it is in the rest of the world; certainly it is different from the Christmas holiday in mainland America. In Juncos, Christmas seems to last half the year—if it is not actually the thirteen official days of Christmas, it is the time preparing for the thirteen official days of Christmas.

All of Puerto Rico rejoices over what happened on the other side of the earth so long ago in Bethlehem. We have more mangers, more Christ child statues, more saints, more donkeys than any other Nativity in the world.

The whole town is decorated and there are so many processions. The saints are marching everywhere, their statues painted bold, crazy colors that would be too loud anywhere else in the world. But in a town where everything is painted bright, where even the jungle is colored by nature in fire red, shocking pink,
lime green, wild yellow, the colors of the saints are just right. The brightly painted saints wear exquisite robes—deep turquoise blue, cadmium gold, hot fuchsia. They shout out, “Worship us!”

There is singing, chanting, endless parties, and prayers and visits, and then more prayers, parties, and then the gifts.

That Christmas, my mami produced more gifts than ever before. The steamer trunk was magic, bottomless like a treasure chest in a fairy tale, and more sparkly gifts kept coming out of it for me and Francisco.

There was more, more, more. And all the friends, relatives, and neighbors visited us for the Puerto Rican version of Christmas caroling. People showed up, always after midnight, usually at two a.m.
“¡Parranda!”
It was the custom.
¡Parranda!
“Surprise!”
“¡Asalto!”
Surprise holiday drop-in visits—but, of course, we were never surprised. Oh, no, we were always ready for the
barranda
. For the “
asalto
.” The arrival of the singers/guests began with a barrage of sound: tin pans banging outside our door.
“¡Asalto! ¡Parranda!”
The men played music—they beat a hard bongo and strummed four-string guitars, and, of course, everybody rattled the maracas. Our little house was filled with food and the scent of more food cooking—there was a heavy table laden with roast pork, all kinds of
pollo
, rice, spiced plantains. The men drank bottles of rum, smoked the fancy cigars they saved all year. My
abuelo
presented his private stash, the best cigars he rolled. The air was full of smoke and song, laughter and wonderful smells.

Even then, I knew 1935 was my best Christmas—but until now, I didn’t realize why.

It was the best because she knew—my mother knew, everyone in Juncos knew, everyone but me knew—it was our last Christmas in Juncos, our last Christmas in Puerto Rico.

How could I not know that this wasn’t really Christmas, that it was the last celebration of a way of life? The end of our family, my final holiday with Francisco? I see him still with my mind’s eye, his dimpled fingers opening his little-boy presents—tiny cars and puppets, a bouncy ball. He ran around the tree squealing for joy. How sad I would have been if I had known that this was the last Christmas my brother and I would share. But I knew none of this. I knew only bliss.

I am dazed with joy: Everyone loves me; my gifts form a small mountain. I dance around everyone in my new ruffled dress, and point my toe in my silken slipper. It is a delirium of delight. How can I know it is the end of my life as I know it?

THE GREAT CHANGE

W
hen did my mami decide to favor me over Francisco? Was her decision—which seems so cold, even cruel—made then, at Christmas, or did she decide later? Or was there another reason for what happened?

I had very little warning of the end, the Great Change. One morning my mother woke me earlier than usual, in the predawn darkness when the birds of Juncos were still silent and presumably asleep on their jungle perches. A disturbed rooster gave an angry squawk; even he felt the Great Change. Something very big, something fateful was about to happen. My mother dressed me in an unusual number of layers. She buttoned on an unaccustomed sweater.

Then, in the dimness, after I spooned up my special oatmeal custard, my mother presented me with a small suitcase and three
shopping bags packed with my dresses, my dolls, and their miniature wardrobe. Then Mami gave me a surprise “new” wardrobe—a heavy sweater, a woolen coat, some long knee socks, and a pair of new thick shoes, all closed up—no place for my toes to poke out, as they do from my sandals. Then she announces in a breathless voice, new as the morning shadows, “We are leaving Juncos. We are moving…to America.”

I am very excited at the thought of taking a trip on a ship. The puzzlement is that Francisco isn’t going with us—not yet. “But he will come too, later. I am taking you first because you are a big girl and you won’t cry.”

The magic trunk, repacked with all the treasure, will also take the trip back to New York City, along with several shopping bags, as is the tradition with poor people because they don’t have the money to pay for suitcases. The trunk is to be delivered to someone named Titi within a week or so.

Titi
means “aunt,” but my mami explains, “She is my
titi
, but in America, she will be your
titi
too, because we will stay with her until we find our own place for you and me and Francisco, when he comes…later.”

When she said “later,” was she already lying about Francisco? Was she deciding to abandon him then? Was this a deception on Mami’s part?

The disturbed rooster does not stop squawking. The hens cluck, ruffled in their nests. My special chick, Puchito, the one Francisco and I keep in our room, squawks too, and my mother tells me to return the chick to his mother hen. The little yellow fluff-ball chick always followed me and Francisco; he would sit in our hand and lie hypnotized if we turned him upside down. I don’t want to leave my little Puchito; I do so with reluctance. The hen
stretches out her wing and tucks him under, beside the warmth of her feathered body.