By Sharon Díaz
La Tertulia 49 “Adiós, malezas y flores / de la barranca del río, / y mis noches del bohío, / y aquella apacible calma, / y los viejos de mi alma, / y los hermanitos míos.” Luis Llorens Torres, Valle de Collores My “abuela” always used to say “Mija, a donde vayas la mancha de plátano nunca se altera”. Through my veins, and through the years, this phrase has deeply corrupted my heart, in a good, painful way. Your heart pumps but your brain lays still as you take a plane looking for a better life, saddening your grandma’s poem line “Mija, la mancha de plátano nunca se altera”. As you move along the line, your soul starts to tremble in fear of the new circumstances. “No, I will not turn back!”; it establishes a feeling of discomfort and discontent. Living in Puerto Rico and being Puerto Rican are two lonesome but relatable gleeful tracks, where politics and the wishful thinking of statehood become null every four years. Where being “prieto” or “jíbaro” merge together to become the most devious paradox. Browsing my family’s photo album, from my mother’s side I ask myself “Well, then…how immortal can my identity be?” -“ Dad, who are these?” -“Chica…esa es la gente del campo”. -“¿Del campo?...tell me about it”. -“It’s a long story…you see, your mother’s family…they all come from Spain, my family as well”. Sitting with my dad is like opening a book with many disjunctives…but within these, emotions may startled him as the past awakes many powerful images of sadness. Pictures that may compete with diaphanous representations of poverty and realism. Sand, transparency, dirty pants, footprints and barefooted. Mesmerized by these I pointed at one… “that’s your mother and this is your grandfather.” As I looked at these my sensibility arose, a feeling of tenderness entrapped me. These were yellowish with a smell of old. My mother’s little smirk, my grandfather’s feet shadowed with dark mud and other cousins represented perhaps the happiness of the era. They were hungry and poor, but they were right on the shore, palms touching the sun and the crystal clear water, quoting my mother “a picture never imagined”; but they were happy. Behind them there was a house, not in brick or cement, but made of straw supported by four concrete blocks. As my grandmother used to recall it, “éramos pobres pero nunca nos faltó nada”. Fourteen children they had, my mother was the oldest and her mother’s main support. My grandfather, he was a harvester, sweat and pain collapsed with moonshine every night, but he certainly provided for his family, and this fact my mother, aunts and uncles never denied. In fact they are so proud of my grandfather, we called him our hero. Behind my mother in this picture I was still captivated with, was my grandpa. He was a tall, thunder black figure, tangled with coffee bean smell. Like the king and queen they were for us, my mother would visit them every evening, every day. I would sit in the balcony for long hours just listening to him. His tongue would only express the nostalgia of the times. -“Porque mija, el Partido Popular es lo que nos ha dado la Fortaleza, y la confianza de que todo saldrá bien”. -“Abuelo, things have changed…”. -“Para nada. Cambiarán cuando por fin respetemos lo que nosotros mismos hemos condecorado y luchado”. -“Abuelo, but…how can we change?”.
-“Native American Ms. Carson?’
-“Oh yes of course, aren’t you indigenous?” Having familiarity with my ancestry never seemed curious, but her words stuck with me in my conscience; I still decided to bite my tongue. I got home and instinctively bombarded my parents with many questions while the chairs weren’t enough to sustain their bafflement. Answers came in, I understood. My parents kicked back, defensive and strong willed. They spoke with the dean: “porque la ignorancia se mata con educación”. I wore the costume proudly; I found my essence. The plane arrived, applauses signaled the beginning of a new existence. Between asphalt and pits, rivers and dumps, I had to uncover my dichotomy; who I have yet to become. However, life and destiny had other astute and calculating plans for me. I have learned, that your “mancha de plátano”, the dichotomies from which we’re born from, the unanswered questions, and uncertain future, will always be with us, unwillingly. Carrying us back to that Berlin Wall of strangeness and forced struggles. I can still remember the smell of everything Puerto Rico; Christmas, the food, the smell of Church on Sunday mornings…even the smell of the beach on Saturdays. These…are the images of nostalgia, the diasporican’s cry of freedom…and forgiveness. “Bueno mija, recuerda llamar a tu abuela…no te olvides. Y a mí me esperas allá que voy a llegar pal’ pavo”.
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