by Gabby Rivera
Still, the idea of going to visit Ava and Titi Penny tempted me. Ava, the rebel, the brown goddess, the beautiful one, the one who received full scholarships to all the colleges she applied to, the one who wore black lipstick and fishnet stockings to temple. And Titi Penny, my secret favorite Titi, encouraged her and allowed all of it while still maintaining this standard of excellence that both of them subscribed too. I’d spent many nights listening to both trains rumbling by and my parents’ Christian music while wishing I was Titi Penny’s daughter, that Ava and I were sisters, that I was somewhere else.
But this wasn’t the right time to go on a trip to Miami. I was already somewhere beautiful and weird. I had a mission and nothing was going to distract me. Nothing.
Kira was at the information desk. She signed me up for a library card and helped me find the library’s sole copy of The Ladies Gallery. I sat in a cubicle, fully immersed, swallowing images of a strong Puerto Rican woman and her fight for liberation all told through the eyes of her granddaughter. I felt like a granddaughter too. Seated at the foot of a rocking chair, taking in a story of the life someone’s grandmother once lived. The weight of Lebrón’s legacy rested heavy, tumor-like, on the life of her granddaughter. In fact, right from the beginning, Irene Vilar admitted that she’d tried to kill herself and was in a mental institution. The genetic legacy steeped in acts of aggression against an oppressive super power afforded no other way to deal.
But I took pride in Lolita Lebrón’s bold moves; nobody stopped her from walking into the U.S. House of Representatives and busting shots in the name of Puerto Rican nationalism. It was 1954 and the U.S. government was treating Puerto Rico like its own private island: gouging it for sugar, using its shores for military purposes, and passing laws that made it illegal to display Puerto Rican flags or to fight for Puerto Rico’s independence from the United States.
Apparently, the U.S. didn’t ask the people of Puerto Rico if they wanted to be a protectorate or not; they didn’t ask the people anything. They just swooped in and took control after the Spanish American War. Lolita wasn’t having any of it. She was a nacionalista on the island and when she moved to the U.S. in the late 1930’s, she saw how her people were being discriminated against and how they were pushed into obscene poverty. Lolita Lebrón took an order from Pedro Albizu Campos, leader of the Puerto Rican Nationalist Party, and made sure it succeeded. She led the coup d’état into the House of Representatives. She fired the first shots. She shouted ¡Viva Puerto Rico Libre!
My United States did this to Puerto Rico? The country I pledged allegiance to all through school, this country that fought itself to end slavery, this country where allegedly anyone could just pull themselves up out of poverty and make something of themselves; this country decimated an entire island? And I thought banana republics were the worst of it. How could I not know this history? How could I walk around my block with a boriqua bandana wrapped around my head or march down Fifth Avenue next to the Goya float in the Puerto Rican Day Parade but not have even one clue that people were imprisoned and killed because they rallied against the U.S. occupation of Puerto Rico?
How did I know about Walter Mercado and Jennifer Lopez but know nothing of Lolita Lebrón? We watched West Side Story every Thanksgiving, rooted for the Sharks and cried for Maria’s heartbreak and grieved with her. Our identity as Puerto Ricans was tied into a movie where both lead actors was white. My parents didn’t tell me that either. I had to find out on AMC that Natalie Wood was white and I cried like a bitch that day. I felt robbed of something, as if a lie had been woven into the narrative of my Nuyorican identity. Why was a musical more important to have on a loop in our home but not an act of bravery in the name of a free Puerto Rico? Maybe America just swallowed all of us, including our histories, and spat out whatever it wanted us to remember in the form of something flashy, cinematic, and full of catchy songs. And the rest of us, without that firsthand knowledge of civil unrest and political acts of disobedience, just inhaled what they gave us.
I read and took notes on Lolita Lebrón’s life, not paying any attention to the people milling about the library. I didn’t even think about Kira. I wrote and read until my knuckles ached. The questions in my head didn’t give me any sort of break. Did my parents know about her? They had to, right? Why didn’t they ever tell me? Why was everyone on some, “Don’t tell Juliet about life shit?” I would have traded everything I knew about Abraham fucking Lincoln or Jesus turning water into wine for one afternoon of Lolita with my mom and dad. How could they leave this stuff out? What kind of Puerto Ricans did they want me and Lil’ Melvin to be?
A part of me wanted to get on the phone with my parents, stomp around the library and interrogate them. But that’s what I did with Lainie and it all blew up in my face. We still hadn’t talked to each other since our Banana Republic fight. To go through all of that with my parents seemed stupid. Besides, the absolute last thing I wanted to do was make things more awkward, to feel even more distance between us. I’d rather sit tight in emotional purgatory than dive right into the fiery pits of hell and question my parents’ motives behind our upbringing. Maybe I was just punking out. Either way, I wasn’t making any sudden movements in their direction. The letter I wrote to my mom was out in the world and going to be delivered soon. I didn’t want to fight with her while I was trying to make up with her. I counted to ten in my head and continued reading.
When they arrested Lolita Lebrón after her attack on the House of Representatives, she’s quoted as saying, “Yo no vine a matar a nadie, yo vine a morir por Puerto Rico.” Even with my limited ability to read Spanish, I got it. “I didn’t come here to kill anyone. I came here to die for Puerto Rico.” I wrote her words down in my purple composition notebook and wondered how they’d look tattooed across my chest. What did it feel like to be so committed to something that you’d die for it? I didn’t feel that way that about anything. Not about being gay or trying to become a feminist, nothing. Maybe that was the difference between me and Ava or me and Lainie or me and everyone else. Did everyone else have that type of purpose in their lives?
A note from above fell into the pages of The Ladies Gallery. I looked up in time to watch Kira turn the corner walking past with a pushcart.
Hi, I have cookies. Meet me on the front steps in 10? -K
I read Kira’s note a few times. A flush of heat passed through my body. Cookies. She had cookies and she was going to share them with me. Lolita who? What? I jumped up, stashed the book on Lolita in my bag, checked my fly to make sure my pants were zipped—nothing embarrassing was allowed to happen. I hadn’t had a damn cookie since I left the Bronx and landed in healthy vegan Portland with Harlowe who wasn’t exactly the baking type. I walked towards the front, saw the steps through the window, got nervous, and dodged left into the bathroom. Overthinking. So much overthinking. My breasts started to sweat, the skin above my lip started to sweat. Oh, God. Was meeting a girl for cookies a date? Did I have to inform Lainie? Had I already taken too long? I checked my watch. Eight minutes left. Maybe it was just a totally normal, friend-like cookie sharing situation and in that case, I was just wasting valuable cookie-eating time. Deep breaths.
The mirror reflected someone stressed out, too chubby in some parts, hair too frizzy around the edges. I hadn’t done my eyebrows in two weeks. The cute librarian wanted to hang out with me? I wiped the sweat off my breasts and neck. I splashed some water on my face, slicked back my baby hairs. I could do this. I could eat cookies with Kira. I pushed the door to the bathroom open and made my way to the front. She sat on the top step. Next to her was a tin box overflowing with chocolate chip cookies. My fucking favorite. She waved me over. Two halves of one cookie in her hand, she offered me one. I accepted and sat besides her. We ate in silence, glancing at each other, and tried to hide shy smiles. Her black boots came up to her knees. I stared at the gold buckles that crossed them at the ankles. In two bites, Kira’s half was gone. She broke another cookie in half and offered it to me.<
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“I bake things. Cookies mostly. It’s weird, but I can’t trust people who don’t eat sweets.”
The edges of her lips curled against her teeth when she spoke. Bottom lip pierced, I wanted to kiss her.
“Me neither. I don’t trust people who can’t share, so thank you,” I replied, trying not to die of nerves. Eye contact was officially happening between us. I shifted a little closer to the tin box.
“You’re welcome,” Kira said, wiping cookie crumbs off her lips, accidentally smudging her plum lipstick. “I walked past you twice, and it’s okay that you didn’t notice but it made me wonder what you were reading because, like, I’ve been reading all day and it hasn’t stopped me from noticing you.”
The amount of butterflies flapping inside of me was immeasurable. Like, hella immeasurable.
“The Ladies Gallery. It’s a memoir about a woman named Lolita Lebrón. Long story short, she shot up Congress in the ‘50’s all in the name of Puerto Rican nationalism. I’ve spent most of the afternoon wondering why my parents never told me about her. Then a sweet girl dropped a note on my lap and I almost hid in the bathroom forever because she offered me cookies.”
“I’m glad you made it out of the bathroom. And to be fair, I had three heart attacks before I dropped the note. I want to know more about your research and the woman who blew up Congress. And about you.”
“More about me?” I asked.
“Yes, you. But my break’s almost over.” Kira said. She slid her long black hair over her shoulder in one slow movement. “Maybe I could give you a lift later or walk you somewhere?”
She stood up. So did I. We were inches apart; no room to run. She smiled at me, a dimple in one cheek the size of a dime. Something I could press a finger into or my lips against.
“Um sure, either. A lift home or you could walk me across the street to the bus stop.” Could she tell that I was about to geek out? That if she reached for me I’d let her get it right here on these steps or melt into a giant puddle.
“I’ll see you outside on the front steps after closing. Glad you liked the cookies,” she said. Kira picked up her tin and headed inside. She disappeared through the entrance doors. I still had half a cookie in my hand and plenty of time to freak out before the library closed.
I don’t remember walking back into the library. All I remember is how warm I felt, how it’d been awhile since someone noticed me the way Kira did. In the Bronx, I was used to men catcalling me on the street or cornering me in the bodega. Unwanted attention pushed upon me or demanded of me. And at school, I pursued Lainie. I put the effort into being sweet and finding ways to talk to her. But Kira, this girl from the library, she sought me out. She thought I was cute. She wanted to get to know me better. Kira. I wrote her name in the margin of my notebook. The cookies were damn good too. I’d go on another cookie date with her any day of the week.
Back in the library, I attempted to pull myself together. I still had work to do. I couldn’t find any other books on Lolita Lebrón. I even asked Kira to help and we didn’t find any. But we did find some books about Puerto Rico during her time as an activist, before the attack on Congress. In those books, the focus was on the men leading the revolution. Anything about Lebrón was at most a paragraph and often just a footnote. She wasn’t alone in her ambush of Congress. There were men with her. Nothing about her or the attack was as substantial or as interesting as The Ladies Gallery. The research kept me busy for a few more hours. It made me forget my nerves about Kira and my anguish over the silence between Lainie and me.
“Attention, the Multnomah Library will be closing in 15 minutes.”
I made my copies and checked out my books. I walked right out of the library and then remembered about Kira offering to take me home. I made a hard U-turn and found myself back in the bathroom. Again, wild baby hairs and a nervous me. It was fine. It was just going to be a walk to the bus stop. I splashed cold water on my face and used wet hands to pat down stray baby hairs again. Pulled my black curls into a ponytail. The look: Severe. Slick. Cool. Unfazed. I pulled out black eyeliner, smudged a dark line along my eyelids, the slate grey light of the bathroom not helping bit. Then mascara, fluffed out long lashes, looking less Little House on the Prairie and more Mi Vida Loca. I used apple blast lip-gloss on my lips and took a look at myself. Better. Fresh faced, I stared hard into the static of the bathroom mirror, trying to imagine her wanting to kiss me. I looked again and saw myself and it was okay. I’d kiss me.
The air outside was cool on my face. People spilled out of the library alone or with their children. The sky cracked into pieces of neon orange and soft pinks. Two teenagers made out on the street corner. So jealous. They were leaning against a mailbox. I watched the bus I normally took fly by the stop. Damn, I’d just have to catch the next one.
I sat on the front steps of the library and waited for Kira. The flurry of people exiting the building slowed. The soft pinks pulsed into blood-orange hues, the sky moved west and rolled clouds with it. Still no Kira. From down the block, a motorcycle engine revved, sounded like a street bike of some sort, maybe a Kawasaki or a Honda. For the first time, I missed the Bronx. That sound reminded me of my next-door neighbor, Big B. He rode with the Ruff Ryders bike crew and fixed motorcycles for a living. The sounds of engines revving and tires being spun out for hard turns and endos filled my summer nights. I wondered what he was up to tonight. So lost in wishing I was home, I didn’t notice the bike until it pulled up right in front of me. It wasn’t a street bike, though. It was an old Harley, something you’d see in a movie from the ‘70’s or something. The rider wore tight blue jeans, and a black hoodie under a black leather jacket. The black boots looked hella familiar.
“Hi, hope you weren’t waiting long,” a voice said. She took off her helmet.
I stepped closer to her, mouth agape. This was definitely happening to me. Hot chick on a motorcycle. My mouth went dry, other parts of me not so much.
“Still up for a ride home?” Kira smiled at me, holding her helmet on her hip.
“I would love one.” I said. My brain was fuzzy. I felt all hot and twitchy. How were words even coming out of my mouth?
I told her Harlowe’s address and pulled the straps of my book bag tight against my back. Kira only had one helmet and she made me wear it. Chivalry was not dead in Portland. I wrapped my arms tight around her waist and breathed in the leather of her jacket. She zipped through the downtown area, a comet hurtling through the darkness of the galaxy. The vrooms and squeals of her bike as she accelerated and made turns thrilled me, made my thighs ache in that good way. I needed this noise to refuel. She felt like home, like the hum of a hundred street bikes and the neighbor who was more like a brother to me. Eyes closed, I imagined Kira zooming up the Bronx River Parkway and ducking under the elevated train on White Plains Road.
“You doing okay?” she asked, stopped at a red light.
“I’m amazing.”
She put her hand over mine for a moment. Dinosaur-sized butterflies fluttered in my stomach. She smelled like citrus and leather. I was so into it. The whole scene made me feel like I wasn’t myself. I was on the back of a vintage Harley, riding down the middle of a street I didn’t know with a beautiful biker librarian. I was free of self-doubt. No question of whether I deserved this or if this was even my life. No one was yelling at me or trying to make me feel inferior. No one was telling me this was just a phase or that I needed to be better about knowing my history. I wasn’t worried about my mom or my girlfriend or anything.
I held onto Kira’s waist as she accelerated through the intersection. She weaved in and around the streets, down quiet back roads. Her path to Harlowe didn’t follow the bus route. It might have been a little longer, but I didn’t care. She could have taken me on a road trip and I would have been just fine. Every time we stopped at a red light or a stop sign, she put her hands over mine. Each time made me weak, like for the first time ever I was swooning in real life.
Kira stopped her
bike in front of Harlowe’s house. I didn’t move. I felt her hands on mine again. I thanked her in a rush, slid off and headed up the front porch steps. She waited for me to get inside the house. Again with the chivalry, who was this girl? I couldn’t let her leave. I wanted to pull her inside with me. Instead, I spun on my heels, bounced back down the front steps and hugged her. Her leather-clad arms pulled me close; she felt strong. We took a minute to look at each other. Our lips were so close together. If I had licked mine, I would have touched hers. I couldn’t even breathe.
“You know that this means we have to go for another ride soon,” Kira said, her green eyes staring into mine.
“Word,” I said and nodded, trying not to kiss her even though that was all I wanted to do. “Word”? That’s the best I could do…?
Kira smiled. “Got a pen?”
Unable to formulate words, I pulled a sharpie out of my bag and handed it to her. She wrote her number on my forearm.
“Call me whenever,” she said, meeting my gaze. My body temperature increased by about ten degrees.
And then she kissed my cheek, revved her engine, and rode off.
This girl could ride. I watched her until she was a speck of magic dust in the distance. Deep breaths calmed my hands but didn’t ease the fluttering in my chest. I could still smell her hair and her leather jacket.
A small package awaited me on Harlowe’s front porch. The return address was Lainie’s home address, not the one for her internship. I picked it up, still breathless from being that close to Kira. The package felt out of place in my hands, like it didn’t belong in this moment. Lainie didn’t belong in this afterglow that someone else created. She’d never kissed me on the cheek like that. Kira’s kiss was thoughtful and gentle and why did Lainie have to arrive on this doorstep at this moment anyway?
