The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano (5 page)

T
wo weeks with Abuela felt like a month as the snipes between her and Mami grew sharper and sillier. They argued about everything. One night when I came home, they were standing over a pot on the stove in the kitchen.

“I can tell you right now that Porfirio doesn't like those kinds of beans,” Mami said. “He only likes red beans and black beans.”

“These beans don't go with rice. These you eat alone. It's bean soup. Like
asopao
,” Abuela countered.

“He hates any kind of
sopa
that isn't
asopao
or Cuban black bean soup. Any other kind of soup is for when you feel sick,” Mami argued.

Next they bickered about a song.

Abuela had put on an old 78 record. It must've been one of the first records ever made. It was thicker than a Frisbee, but still played. Even the big wave in its vinyl didn't prevent it from playing as it undulated around the turntable. The music was super corny. It was by a group called
Pajarito y su Conjunto
. The sound coming from it was so full of static, and so scratchy, that I could barely hear it. From what I could make out, it told a story about a massacre.

“Why do you have to play
that
song?” Mami said tightly. “Can't we just have music about
amor
?”

“This
is
about
love
. Love of Puerto Rico.”

“It's about bad memories,” said Mami.

Both were silent as the music played.

Heavy air had swelled between these two stubborn women. I muttered, “I gotta get … something from my room.”

My bedroom was still a mess with Abuela's stuff all over. I had to move her pink and orange long-line padded bras off the dresser just to be able to open my top drawer, which was stuck. I jiggled the drawer as hard as I could, and pulled the whole thing out of the dresser, spilling everything onto the floor — panties with the days of the week printed on them, hair rollers, clips, bandanas, and the thing that was jamming up the works — a photo album filled with greeting cards and pictures.

Three Valentine's Day cards and one Christmas card slipped out. The Valentines were puffy hearts. One was from a “Hernán,” another was from “René.” My
abuela
had lots of boyfriends.

There was also a Christmas card that my mother had sent Abuela in 1965. I couldn't believe Abuela had saved a card for four years. She didn't seem like the sentimental type. Keeping old Christmas cards was more like something Mami would do.

I looked through the whole album. There was a picture of Abuela as a young teen standing by my grandfather. Abuela looked better in the old days. Her clothes did anyway. She was wearing a light-colored dress with a round collar and black buttons that went from her neck to the bottom of her hem. She had on little-girl socks and wedge sandals with a strap that went around her ankle. The outfit looked pretty cute, and except for the clothes, it could've been me standing next to my grandfather. As a teenager Abuela looked even more like me.

There was also a picture of Abuela with a little baby. Was that my mother? I turned to the album's next page, where there was a picture of Abuela and three girls about her own age, taken at what looked like the top of a hill. The girls were watching the town below.
Villea
, was written on
the back of the photo. It was the only picture taken in a real place, not in a photo studio.

But it was the pictures stuck way in the back of the album that really flipped me out. They were worn and might've been from newspaper articles. Two were pictures of policemen with rifles pointed, but you couldn't tell what they were shooting at.

The third picture was so big it had to be folded to fit on the page. Or maybe it was folded over because it was so shocking. It was a photo of a sunny street in what looked like a small town in Puerto Rico. There were policemen shooting in that image, too, only you could tell what they were shooting at — a crowd of terrified people.

One thing was clear, though. Abuela's past was a mystery.

D
ios te bendiga, Dios te bendiga, hermana, Dios te bendiga, hermano.”

God bless you, God bless you, sister, God bless you, brother.

Three “God bless you's,” and nobody had even sneezed yet.

We were at the First Spanish Methodist Church on 111th and Lexington, where you were blessed fifty times if you were blessed once. Whenever somebody got up to read a passage from the Bible, the congregation was blessed. And somebody was always yelling “hallelujah.” You never knew where a “hallelujah” would pop up. “Hallelujah” could come from behind you, in front of you, or even from right next to you.

Mami was too uptight to yell out “hallelujah,” though she did like to “bless” all over the place and happily stood up, then sat down the fifty thousand times the pastor asked us to.

Going to church was not my favorite thing. Same for Abuela. She never joined us. Neither did Pops.
His
excuse was having to work at the
bodega
.

The pastor was saying, “… there are changes going on …”

Not around here
, I thought as he spoke.

“Hallelujah!” somebody yelled. Then we all stood up to sing a hymn.

After the hymn, the pastor asked us, “Is there anyone who needs a prayer?”

Ten people raised their hands, including my mother, who prayed for the same thing every week.

“Pray the lord sees fit that we buy our house in the Bronx,” Mami said.

Everybody else took a turn saying what he or she wanted most out of life.

“Pray that my wife's varicose veins go away.”

“Pray that my son doesn't do drugs.”

“Pray for my son in Vietnam.”

Pray so this is over and I can get out of here.

Mine was the only prayer answered almost immediately. It was finally over, and we left church.

On our way home, we saw something funny: Young boys sweeping the street with pink and blue house brooms. They were filling up trash bags and placing them on the corners nearby, or on top of the already-overflowing trash baskets. It was disgusting. Some boys were handing out flyers.

“Mami, look,” I said.

“Hippies,” she sniffed, and grabbed my hand.

I pulled my hand out of hers and lagged behind so I could get a flyer from the tall boy with kinky hair and sunglasses. I grabbed the flyer and put it in my pocket.

When we got to our
bodega
, don Juan, señor Cordero, and two men I didn't know were all inside staring up at the television set. Pops was behind the counter. Abuela stood on a milk crate, turning the channel on the TV.

“There is never anything good on television,” Pops said.

“
Sí
, all bad news,” said Abuela, winking at don Juan.

“Landing on the moon was good news,” he offered, smiling at her the whole time. And now my grandmother was flinging her hair around.

They were flirting!

“Good for who?” asked Abuela. “They can go to the moon but they cannot clean up
El Barrio
.”

“Hey, that's why those guys are sweeping up outside,” said don Juan.

I listened. I wanted to know who those boys were.

Don Juan said, “You know, we were playing dominos the other week, and this kid with long hair who could hardly speak Spanish asked us what we thought the neighborhood needed.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” said señor Cordero slowly. “We told him we needed to get this garbage off the streets. He looked really surprised.”

“I never saw that kid around here, but I think he is a college student or something. I think they all are,” added don Juan.

“College students? What are they studying, street cleaning?” snapped Pops.

Abuela found a news story about Woodstock.

“Change the channel on those hippies,” barked Pops.

“Wait, wait, I want to see that,” Abuela said suddenly. “I want to see about that Woodstock.”

On the screen was a bunch of young people freely swaying to rock-and-roll music. “I heard about all those hippies at that concert,” she said. “Look. It was raining and they are still singing and dancing and —”

“And going crazy,” said Pops, glaring at Abuela, forcing her down off the crate and climbing up himself to turn the channel on the TV. “Those hippies running around
son sucios
, dirty. You're not going to tell me they are doing something nice.”

Pops would not stop talking. “Evelyn, if I ever see you hanging around and acting like that … If I ever see you dancing around with no clothes on, I … I … I … You don't want to know what I'll do, you hear me?”

I could feel heat coming up in my chest and radiating out of my face.

“Do you hear me?”

Every eye in the store was on me.

“Leave her alone, Porfirio,” whispered Mami.

“I'm just saying that all this junk on television is going to put ideas in Evelyn's head. Those kids out there sweeping should get a job. They are setting a bad example.” Then to me he said, “If you think me and your mother work all day just so you can run around like a hippie, you got another thing coming, you hear me?”

I clenched my teeth.

“You hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you,” I hissed, and I walked out of the door. What did hippies in Woodstock have to do with me in
El Barrio
? I walked fast and furious through the streets, counting to keep calm.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
Tears burned my eyes. I squeezed them shut, tight as a fist.

I saw some more boys sweeping the street with their stupid little brooms, and it made me smile through my
crying. Who did they think they were? Who were they trying to help anyway? Those little brooms couldn't clean up this big mess! All they did was give the old ladies in the windows something to look at. I stopped and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to push my tears back inside. I kept walking. Fast. Hard.

Even with my counting, I couldn't block out the
bacalao
vendor, making the neighborhood even hotter and smellier with the frying grease.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

And I couldn't stop myself from seeing the kids vacationing on their fire escapes.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
And I couldn't erase the kids at other windows, too little to go out but dying to be free, with their faces pressed up against the mesh wire that kept them inside.

And as fast as I walked, I couldn't block out the sound of the screaming Pentecostals who preached in the street. I stepped over a pile of rotten rice and beans, a smelly heap on the sidewalk.

I was too far away from those boys with the brooms but couldn't help calling out, “Hey, you cute hippie guys — you missed a spot. Come sweep over here.”