No Matter How Much You Promise

by Edgardo Vega

  His body, however, remained slim and taut, muscular without the need for much exercise. He often joked that she was all the exercise he needed. Looking at him, she felt a desire to be naked, feeling him growing aroused. She ordered a salad and a Bloody Mary, and as they ate she reminded him that they were due the following day at Alan Flusser’s to try on suits. It was her birthday present for him. She wanted him looking sharp and elegant for his official New York debut on the jazz scene. His response was that he felt like a kept man.

  “Well, you are,” she quipped. “I’m keeping you all to myself.”

  When lunch was over they jumped into a cab and headed for his apartment. In the cab all she did was lean against him for him to be fully erect. While looking at the rearview mirror from the backseat to make sure the driver wasn’t spying on them, she reached down between Wyndell’s legs, massaged the hardness, kneading the flesh, and reached up to kiss him. She felt daringly free and sexual and couldn’t imagine what it was going to be like to be away from him when she went off to school. Once in the apartment they made love desperately. She wasn’t as aroused as he was, but she was happy that he had been so passionate. During the lovemaking he called her negrita. “I love you, negrita,” he’d said.

  When they were done she asked him why he’d used that word. He replied that he was using negrita as a term of endearment, as she had explained. She told him that she didn’t think he was using the word as intended. He said she was paranoid, and she said he was still on a black-white kick. They argued about race and identity and prejudice until they were both angry and hurt again.

  “The word describes who you are. Aren’t you a negrita?”

  “That’s not the way Puerto Ricans use it,” she said. “We don’t use it to identify someone’s race. That’s the way you’re using it. And you don’t have the right to demand that of me, Wyn.”

  He accused her of wanting to be white and fooling herself about it. She denied wanting to be white. As she slipped into her jeans she explained that being white meant little to her.

  “Then how come you have problems thinking of yourself as black?”

  “Because I’m not, okay?” she said. “I’m American, not Irish-American or Puerto Rican—American. Anyway, if I had to choose an ethnic identity I’d have to pick Puerto Rican.” A little too stridently she explained that Puerto Rico had a history, a culture, a literature, painting and musical traditions, and a language that makes it distinct from other Latin cultures. “Don’t ask me why a little island a hundred miles long has created all that, but it has. The truth is that people in the United States can’t deal with it, and you’re a reflection of that.”

  “Maybe we don’t have to deal with it,” Wyndell said. “Maybe it’s not a big deal to the United States. Maybe the whole thing of Puerto Rico is insignificant. Another West Indian island.”

  “Be smug and reduce seven million people to a neat little stereotype of cute brown people who talk fast, smoke pot, dance well, and carry boom boxes so you can deal with all of them. Because there’s no question about it. They can be very unruly, unmanageable, and ungrateful. And attitude? You want attitude? P.R.s invented the thing. So now, just because you can’t deal with it, everybody becomes black. I bet it bugs the hell out of you when we speak Spanish.”

  “Well, it is kind of rude,” Wyndell said.

  “That’s right. Seven million Puerto Rican spics talking all at once and waving their hands. A gang of seven million people. One of them is the Surgeon General of the United States and the rest are welfare mothers and dope fiends. Seven million. Half here and half down there. Are you telling me that because this country has a hang-up about race, all seven million Puerto Ricans suddenly become black?”

  “You think white people care about what ya’ll think? They take a look at most Puerto Ricans and you know what they say? There goes a bunch of Spanish-speaking niggers.”

  “So what! That’s their problem. Some people in Puerto Rico are white and others are not. Look at my stepfather.”

  “So if they’re not white, what are they?”

  “We’re an ethnic group, a nationality, a culture with very different rules about race.”

  “No, but the ones who aren’t white, what are they?”

  “I don’t know, some of them are black.”

  “What about the in-betweens? The ones that have both.”

  “They have both, that’s all.”

  “So, what’s that make them?”

  “I don’t know. They’re just people. Why do they have to be black or white?”

  “They are persons of color,” he said, smugly.

  “Say what?” Vidamía said, staring at him. She had heard the expression but had never heard someone use it directly in a conversation. “Colored people?”

  “I didn’t say colored people,” Wyndell said, getting up from the bed and getting dressed. “I said people of color. Native Americans, Orientals, African people are all people of color.”

  “Asians.”

  “What?”

  “Asians, not Orientals,” she said. “Is this your concession to me?” Vidamía said. “I don’t have to be black but I can be a colored person like in South Africa? That is really great.”

  “Vee, a colored person and a person of color are not the same thing,” he said.

  “Well, you could’ve fooled me. It sure sounds like the same thing to me.”

  “It isn’t the same. It’s a way for all nonwhite people to unite against racism.”

  “Well, Puerto Ricans have all kinds of different people so what you’re saying is that because blacks in the United States were oppressed, all the other people who aren’t from Europe have to adapt to this misguided black agenda, this people-of-color crap? I’m not going to deny that P.R.s have been oppressed, but it’s a little more complex than just color.”

  “It’s a call for unity.”

  “So everyone can be oppressed as blacks have been?”

  “So you see black people as simply ‘being oppressed’?” Wyndell said.

  “Hello? Earth to Wyndell,” Vidamía said, getting attitudinal. “Aren’t black people oppressed? In fact, they are so oppressed that they cannot rid themselves of this hang-up with color and now they want to lay it on everyone else. You know what? You’re saying that color is more important than culture. Europeans got homogenized into whites. Africans into blacks and their culture was obliterated. And now ‘people of color.’ Why don’t you solve the problem of color by calling everybody People of Crayola. Crayola even has a white crayon.”

  “Cute, make jokes. You’re big with the jokes.”

  “Wyn, color is a conspiracy between rich blacks and rich whites to keep everybody confused. And now you want Ricans to join in the confusion. Well, honey, I’m clear about what I am. I have Irish ancestry and I love it. And I have Rican ancestry, and I love that, too. But I’m Rican. If I go to Dublin or Belfast and they see that my name is Farrell and they say I’m one of them, I’m down with it too.”

  “I’m not getting through to you about racism in this country. And I didn’t say anything about your ancestry not being important.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s all implied in wanting me to say I’m black. It sounds like you’re saying that folks can’t define who they are according to their reality. You’re saying that because this country is so powerful, Puerto Ricans have to play by the rules a bunch of evil people created to oppress blacks, and that blacks, out of fear, went along with it and whoever’s not white has to say that he’s black, or now, to make it more palatable, a person of color. It’s wack, Wyn. I vote for People of Crayola. That’s what you’re saying, and it’s bullshit!” she said, reaching behind to hook her bra and then putting on her blouse. “If I have to pick something to be I’m gonna choose Puerto Rican, because that’s how I was raised. Nobody was going around saying he’s black and she’s white. Everybody was Puerto Rican. Real clear.

  “The way we look at certain things is totally Puerto Rica
n. The way we look at friendship or family or the things we do for Christmas, the lullabies we sing our babies, our jokes are Puerto Rican. And you know what? I wouldn’t trade any of it. I’m just like every other Puerto Rican. Deep inside, like Cookie says, Yo tengo a Puerto Rico en mi corazón. I have Puerto Rico in my heart. I don’t know why, I just do. There,” Vidamía said and put her fist to her heart. “Tattooed to my heart is a big Puerto Rican flag. If you want ethnic, I’ll give you ethnic. Don’t ask me how it happened. Maybe it comes with the rice and beans. Not beans and rice, like y’all say. But rice, mostly white rice, and beans in salsa on top. And then we mix it all up. White rice and red beans. White rice and black beans. White rice and yellow chickpeas. White rice and pinto beans. Even white rice with white beans. No hang-ups, just good eats, honey. So why do I have to go and pretend that I’m something I’m not?”

  “That’s pretty impressive,” Wyndell said, not wanting to sound too sarcastic, but not pleased. “But from where I’m standing, it still sounds like you’re saying that you’re white,” Wyndell added.

  “I don’t believe I’m having no impact on you!” she said, her hands on her hips. “You’re just as prejudiced as the worst white supremacist.”

  “What?”

  “I’m totally convinced that underneath the color of their skin all American people are prejudiced. Black or white. Prejudiced and hung up on color.”

  She had finished getting dressed and, slipping into her sandals, walked into the living room to get her bag and leave. She came back into the bedroom, stepped into the bathroom, quickly put on lipstick, ran the brush through her hair, and returned to the living room. Wyndell came out of the bedroom wearing jeans, his chest still glistening with perspiration.

  “What are you talking about, woman? What in the hell are you talking about? You sound like a crazy person.”

  “Listen to me,” Vidamía said. “And don’t call me crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m good and pissed, but I’m not crazy. And if you keep it up, I’ma go upside your head with a fucking stick.”

  “Lookee, lookee. Miz Vee’s talking herself some honest-to-goodness, down-home Negro talk. Ahz sorry. I didn’t mean to call you crazee. I jes doan know what debilment got into me.”

  “Shut up, you asshole,” she said, picking up an ashtray and brandishing it at him. “You just wanna play the fool. You’d rather remain stuck in your little Afrocentric cocoon.”

  “Oh, oh, that’s it, bitch,” Wyn said, feigning seriousness. “Who you calling a coon?”

  Vidamía stopped dead in her tracks, took aim and let fly with the ashtray so that it traveled dangerously close to Wyndell’s head, thudded against the books in the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, and bounced harmlessly on the couch.

  “You gonna keep it up?”

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “Lighten up.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry, but relax. Oops. Sorry. Whatever. See, I’m sitting and I’m going to listen,” he said, picking up the ashtray. “Can I put on BGO?”

  “No, not now, dammit,” she said. “I know what you’re doing. You’ll put on the music, something deep will come on, Coltrane or Monk, and you’ll feel compelled to tell some story about getting up at night and playing your ax, just to illustrate how gifted you are. Forget it.”

  She sat down and looked away. Beyond the humming of the air conditioner there was no other sound in the room. Her breath was coming in quick spurts and her head felt light, her forehead hot, the sweat running from her armpits.

  “So?” he said, after a few moments of watching her.

  “Just hold on,” she said.

  “All right,” Wyndell said. “But I think I understand what you’re saying. That it’s not fair to be forced to call yourself black, because you have different types of backgrounds.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about,” Vidamía replied.

  “What, then?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t wanna argue. I just think people would be better off if folks cut out all this black and white stuff,” she said and took a deep breath. “Something doesn’t make sense. If you’re not supposed to look at difficult things in life in terms of black and white, why is the race issue seen that way?”

  “Because it is a black-white issue,” he replied.

  “Bullshit, Wyn,” she snapped, growing angry again, tears beginning to form in her eyes.

  “It isn’t?” he said.

  “No, it isn’t,” she said. “People call themselves black and white, but it’s a sickness. What about the people with one white parent and one black parent? What the fuck are they supposed to do? Being half black and half white makes you black? That’s crazy! God, Lurleen told me of small towns in Louisiana where every person, black and white, is related by blood to each other and yet they go on referring to this one as white and that one as black.”

  “Well?” Wyndell said, smugly.

  “Well, what? That makes sense to you?”

  “Yeah, it makes sense.”

  She was dying to tell him about Lulu McAlpin, but had sworn to Lurleen that she wouldn’t discuss it with anyone. Knowing that Lurleen and Cookie and the girls and Cliff had African ancestry gave her a certain kind of power, because they couldn’t be whiter. And yet that kind of thinking had to be eradicated from her heart.

  “The race thing makes the country crazy,” she said. “Can’t you see that?”

  “The country’s crazy because of all the hatred of white people toward black people,” Wyndell said. “That’s what makes the country crazy.”

  “Wrong. The country’s crazy because of hatred. White hatred. Black hatred. All kinds of hatred.”

  “Wait a minute, girl …”

  “Don’t ‘girl’ me, okay?”

  “Sorry. Anyway, now you’re gonna start blaming black people for the troubles of the country?”

  “Don’t twist my words, Wyn. You know I’m not blaming black people for anything. But there’s just as much black prejudice as there is white in the fabric of the country.”

  “‘Fabric’?” Wyn had said, smirking but unsure of what would next surface from Vidamía.

  “Fine, make fun of me. I’m eighteen years old, so I have to act like a retard and behave like some Westchester County valley girl, right? Like I have nothing but air between my ears,” Vidamía said, jumping up and making a megaphone out of her hands. “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and see the amazing girl chump. She oohs, she aahs, she bats her eyelashes, and no matter how dumb it sounds, things get by her.” She turned her face to the window and kept talking as she watched the street. “Anyway, the thing that holds the country together, that’s the fabric. I’m sorry if the metaphor offends you.”

  She returned to the couch and sat down.

  Wyndell got up and stood over her, this time seriously demanding a better explanation.

  “White people have fucked with blacks, messed over their dignity, and stolen everything they had, and now you’re telling me that we ought to relax because blacks are just as prejudiced as whites, right?”

  “First of all, sit your butt down and stop playing at being menacing, it doesn’t impress me,” Vidamía said. “And I didn’t say everyone black was prejudiced.”

  “You might as well have.”

  “You’re trying to confuse things so you don’t have to look at your own prejudice.”

  “On the contrary. I’m trying to get you to see yourself.”

  “And you’re failing miserably at it,” Vidamía said. “You can’t force people into things.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, otherwise people are going to make decisions just for appearances. Just like people behaved during slavery. ‘Yes, massa. I be the best house Nigra you could hab,’” she mocked him, and immediately hated herself for it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t wanna argue, Wyn, but you know there are blacks making life miserable for each other over how black they are or are not. Black people,
especially kids, are gonna go along with messed-up ideas because they’re afraid they’re gonna be pushed away. I’ve seen it in my school. Black girls who were friends with white girls breaking off friendships that went back to grammar school just because other black girls ran a trip on them. That’s messed up, Wyn. Excluding people because of their color. There’s no way you can figure out how many people in the U.S. Congress are racist because they’re too slick. I bet you eighty percent of black people who spout a lot of militant stuff do it because it’s expected of them. It’s the same everywhere. Maybe it isn’t true of your parents, but I know of black people whose parents would go through the roof if they found that their daughter or son was going out with a white person.”

  “They have rights like anybody else.”

  “To be prejudiced?”

  “No, to their opinion.”

  “Even if they haven’t met the person? Just because the person is another color? Forget it. That’s prejudice. But wait. Wait. Suppose that it was me, all white and green-eyed, and a black man said, ‘Mama, this is Vee, she’s black.’ Then they’d be overjoyed, wouldn’t they? You’d be improving the race, and the children might even end up with ‘good hair.’ It’s the same with P.R.s.”

  “Forget it, Vee,” Wyndell said. “That’s an old argument. White people have a right to their likes and dislikes, but when a black person does it, it’s wrong.”

  “I gotta tell you something, Wyn,” Vidamía said. “You’re probably a genius at playing the tenor saxophone, but you can’t think worth a damn.”

  “Forget it,” he repeated angrily. “Like I don’t have enough to do with this gig and now you’re trying to fuck my head up. Your own head’s fucked about race and you’re trying to fuck mine up.”

  She was on her feet immediately, demanding that he apologize. He turned away from her and when she grabbed his arm he pulled away roughly, the force nearly knocking her down. She was now seething with anger and headed for the door, slamming it on her way out. Let him go to the West Coast and find himself some other fool. That was it. She was through with him.