by Rita Moreno
Later I will wonder, What did my father want? Who would want someone else? Why cheat on young Rosa Maria, with her full lips and deeply curved waist? Surely he could find no one more desirable. Other men would want her; we would find out soon enough. Looking back, it was desire more than destitution that evicted me from Juncos, the most sensual place in the world….
All around us are the ferns, breadfruit and palms of El Yunque rain forest. Even the insects seem beautiful, unthreatening. One of my first memories is of lying on my bed, watching a large, hairy, hot-red-orange spider climb the wall. I am absently fondling myself. My awareness of being alive is near sexual. Every day I awaken aquiver to a world of pleasures.
El Yunque mountain rises in the mist, and the lush jungle sings to me. According to ancient Indian legend, the spirit Yuquiyu ruled from the mountaintop, protecting Puerto Rico. When we enter the rain forest, I can inhale the perfume of the earth. Often we find orchids—purple and white, or a deep yellow spotted with magenta—curled and twining up the vines…or hanging down in long, graceful tendrils. We do not touch these orchids, but allow them their long lives.
Elsewhere in the jungle, my mother delights in picking the special jungle plants—medicinal herbs, edible leaves. Part of her delight is that somehow, even at five, I can identify them, all the plants, common and obscure. I have a “nose,” and taste buds to discern the most subtle differences. Somehow I retain their names. This makes me something of a prodigy in Juncos. Mami shows off my special talent for her friends. She holds up exotic leaves for me to identify.
“Sniff, Rosita…and what is this leaf?”
“Recao,” I cry out, and everyone laughs and claps.
“Oh, Rosita, she is so clever. She is so pretty. She is so charming, what an adorable little girl. ¡Muñequita! Little doll!” my mothers’ friends say.
My mother smiles, so pleased. “¡Qué delirio!”
Every chore seems part of a delightful game—even kneeling at the stream and scrubbing clothes clean against the flat rocks. While the mothers scrub the wet clothes, they laugh and gossip; sometimes they sing, not low but loud, at the top of their young lungs. They are bellowing love songs.
There are tribes of mothers; another group of women calls across from the opposite shore; they sing their own songs.
How wide was that fast-running body of water? In my memory it is a river, too far to cross. We balance and jump from the hot rocks. The children wade and splash in the dazzle of sunshine on water.
We don’t think to swim; no one swims in Juncos. Only later do I learn about swimming, that in Puerto Rico, swimming is something tourists do and we don’t. I hear the mothers chatter about how hard the return walk to the village is—they carry the now heavy wet wash bundles on their heads. Then they walk single file on the dusty road, on the edge of the jungle. Maybe it is harder for the mothers, but they still laugh and sing; the birds fly above and call good news to one another, and warble declarations of love.
At home, in their ice-cream houses, if it gets very hot, the women snap open large handheld fans; the pleats become the magic skirts of dancers—the señoritas we will someday become. Our mothers, who were once like the painted beauties on the fans, hang their laundry on lines strung across the yard. Then, before the wash is fully dried, my mother runs out with her heavy flatiron, to the special white sand patch. That sand will burn your feet. She runs on sandals, and—quick—sets the iron down to superheat, then even quicker runs back inside to iron our clothes, to press out any wrinkles. This is a relay—she has more than one iron. As she irons with the first hot iron, the second iron absorbs the fierce heat of sun on sand. Somehow this works to perfection. My dresses are crisp. Everything smells of sunshine and an indefinable sweetness that must be the magic scent of Juncos.
It is more of a challenge to clean us children than our clothes. We are dusty; my tough little feet seem permanently browned by running barefoot. Sometimes, if we get dirty by the creek, our mothers wash us right there, soaping us up in the ice-cold rushing water while we screech. If we get filthy at home, into a galvanized bathtub in the yard we go, to sit solemn as our mothers wash us with rags and sponges, until they can smile and admonish, “Stay that way. Don’t get dirty,” which of course we do.
Then the children get smacked, sometimes with a strap—me too. My mami—who always calls me so sweetly her “Monkey” or “Cooookie,” drawn out like a coo—“Coooookie”—and cuddles me so close that I feel the heat of her warm body, her full breasts—is no exception. Slap, slap, smack, smack. Behave yourself or the belt. Back then in Juncos, no one calls these smacks abuse. Slaps are light; hitting is not serious; it is called raising children. And we know we are loved like crazy and will get whacked, smacked, slapped again next time we are bad, which we will….
At first we live in a little vanilla-cream-colored house, and I sleep in my own room, a tiny white stucco chamber, cool like the alcove of a church. Very soon, though, there is my dimpled look-alike baby brother, Francisco, and we move to the pink house, to another room, with bunk beds, and I sleep above baby Francisco, sleep my happy, untroubled sleep in the top bunk, until the roosters’ crows wake me better than any alarm clock.
I love having a baby brother. Before long, Francisco is toddling and can be my playmate and partner in mischief. Francisco and I love chasing little coquí frogs and catching them so we can race them. The tiny frogs are elusive little creatures because of their diminutive size—not even as big as my thumb—and they can hop as if they have springs in their legs. All this to the accompaniment of the coquí’s piercing cries. The coquí frog makes the loudest sound for its tiny size; it gets its name from that shrill whistle: co-keeeee, co-keeee.
Needless to say, sometimes it takes us hours to catch them. We place them in a small plastic bucket with a bit of water and leaves so they won’t get too frightened; then we cover the top of the bucket with a torn banana leaf to prevent their escape. After catching eight coquí, Francisco and I go to a flat, dry area where the sand makes almost a racetrack. We create “racing lanes” on the ground and race two at a time. Usually we find big pieces of wood and half bury the wood in the soft earth to hold them up—high enough to make the coquís think they can’t hurtle over these hurdles. We put fine chicken wire over the top of the construction to keep our racers from escaping. What follows is a cacophony of shrieks, admonitions, and raucous declarations of victory. “¡Yo gané! ¡Yo gané!” I won! I won!
We play so many creek games: We go with our friends to the rockiest section of the creek and see who can jump the farthest from rock to rock. My grandfather, Abuelo, fashions little sailboats out of banana leaves. Other times he uses the whole bananas and add sails made of rose leaves held up by slivers of bamboo. Those banana boats are the best, because they last the longest and also serve as lunch. Abuelo tried small melons as well, but you have to scrape them down to the skin or they sink from the weight. The best boat he ever made was from a hollowed-out papaya; we saved the seeds and used them to be our make-believe little sailors. We play at that creek an entire day, to the point where some family member has to come fetch us, or the jungle dark will overtake us.
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 y
ellow, 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.
