by Johnny Diaz
I live along Wollaston Beach, where I have a view of an aging seawall and the cluster of Harbor Islands in the distance. This area reminds me of a New England version of Hollywood or Fort Lauderdale because of its waterfront properties. From my bedroom window, I hear seagulls caw and planes hum overhead as they descend into Logan International Airport. And like one of the early explorers who arrived and never left this area, I—the resident Cuban-American—feel welcomed here in a town named after one of our American presidents. I like to think that I fit right in with my Chinese and Vietnamese neighbors and the Irish workers who inhabit the stately triple-deckers and Cape and Victorian homes in my blue-collar bay-front neighborhood.
As I bound to the subway stop, I bop rhythmically to “Brown-Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison playing on my iPod. Within a few minutes, I’m clutching the support pole inside the subway train as it rumbles and charges out of Quincy. The train glides onto the bridge that runs over the Neponset River and Dorchester Bay Bridge. From this vantage point, I catch my favorite morning view: Boston’s sweeping downtown skyline against a bright blue sky. My students await.
As the train surfaces in Dorchester and then South Boston, my cell phone vibrates. The caller ID reads “Mom.”
“Hola, Gabrielito! How are you today?”
I hunch down in my seat, look down at the black linoleum floor, and speak softly. I don’t want all the other morning commuters to hear me babble to my mom. Actually, when my mom calls, I rarely get a word in, because she tends to hog the conversation with her daily list of imaginary ailments.
“I’m good, Mom. I’m on my way to work. On the subway. Can we talk later?”
“Ay, of course. You never call, though. I always have to call you. I bet you call your father more.”
“Please, Mami, and no, I don’t call Papi more. I’m just busy with my students and their papers. I will call you tonight, okay?”
“Bueno, don’t forget your familia. There is more to life than working and going out with your, ahem, amiguitos,” my mother says, using her code word for “gay guy friends/boyfriends/hookups.”
“And are you taking your multivitamins, the ones I sent you from work? You need to eat more. The last time I saw you, you were too thin, hijo. Did I tell you that my lower back hurts again? Probably from picking up the cat too much. Celia eats too much, just like me. And my knees are still bothering me, especially when it rains outside, and—”
I jump in and cut her off or else I will never get off the phone or the subway. “Ma, I gotta go. I’m at my stop!”
“Okay, I love you, Gabrielito!”
“Love you too,” I respond, feeling slightly embarrassed as I am surrounded by tight-jawed, stoic morning commuters (are these people robots?) who clench their lattes and newspapers with intensity.
Half an hour later, the subway slowly screeches to a halt at the Park Street stop, right in the heart of the Boston Common, the city’s majestic mini-Central Park. I emerge from the darkness of the subway into the radiant morning light. I gingerly criss-cross the park toward Thomas Jefferson College, my home away from home. I stroll by former students who wave and smile at me. I pass rows of homeless people who slouch on the benches as bushy squirrels scurry up and down the grand oak trees. I drop a few quarters into a homeless man’s empty Dunkin’ Donuts cup. The seasonal actors who play patriots and old-world Bostonians greet tourists and take them on a small tour of historical spots. Fall blooms brightly, and the park makes me feel like I’m strolling inside a little kid’s drawing; the air is crisp and cool, and the scene is filled with bright yellow and scarlet leaves that plunge everywhere like Mother Nature’s confetti. I smile because I never tire of fall’s comeback; it’s my favorite season.
Before I know it, several students and I are packing into the tiny college elevator like lobsters in a tank at a local seafood restaurant. I ride the elevator to the fifth floor to my class. As I exit the elevator, I see Rosa, one of the college’s cleaning ladies. Her back is turned, but I know that it’s Rosa because I recognize her long, straight black hair, which she pulls into a bun. At five feet, three inches tall, Rosa is also shorter than the average student here, so she stands out in the crowd of backpacks, messenger bags, and Apple notebooks. Her cart, which is topped with cleaning supplies, also announces her whereabouts.
“Hola, Rosa! ¿Cómo estás?” I say, standing in front of her cart.
“Muy bien, Professor! Your room is all ready for today. I used that special strawberry deodorizer that you like so much,” she says in her thick Spanish-accented English. Whenever I see Rosa, I stop and chat for a few minutes. She’s one of the few employees here who speaks Spanish, and I know that she appreciates when someone tries to reach out to her in her native tongue. The other professors, who are mostly locked away in their offices or in their classrooms, don’t really interact with the help. They tend to reflect the conservative clannish city culture, something I still don’t quite understand.
“How is your daughter Laura? Is she still having trouble with math?”
“Ay, sí. I don’t understand Algebra,” Rosa says, putting her right hand on her forehead to convey her frustration. “I am looking for a tutor. Mi hija is too smart for me. I can only help her so much, Professor.” I smile and tenderly look at Rosa, who has this job and also works at Taco Bell so that her daughter can have the life that she didn’t have back in her native Honduras. Her work ethic reminds me of Papi’s.
“Bueno, if you need help in finding her a tutor, I can ask around.”
Rosa’s eyes fill with gratitude. “Ay, thank you, Professor. We need to find a tutor in Somerville.”
“My good friend Nick is a teacher at a middle school there. I can ask him and get back to you.”
“¡Gracias! I will tell Laura as soon as I see her tonight at home.”
I put my hand on Rosa’s shoulder. “Rosa, you can call me Gabriel, you know. Forget the professor stuff.”
Her face erupts into a warm smile as she wheels her cleaning cart toward the women’s bathroom.
Meanwhile, I amble toward room 542, where my sixteen students welcome me. “Good morning, Professor Galan!” some of them announce. I wave and reciprocate the greeting. I drop my messenger bag behind the desk, and I begin to prepare for today’s class: ethical issues in the media. I load up my lesson plans onto the projector. I lower the window shades to block out the view of the park and shafts of sunlight.
“Good morning everyone. Happy Monday! For those of you who are here mentally or physically, welcome back. I hope you guys had a nice weekend.”
“How about you, Professor Galan?” asks Alex, one of my brighter and more ambitious students. Although he looks like one of those rich white kids from a CW network show, Alex has the chops for broadcast television, his major. I call him “Anchorman” because he always wears a dress shirt and slacks. His head, full of thick, straight brown hair, was made for TV news or at least future shampoo commercials. In fact, most of my students come well dressed except for the five or so who come in their jammies since their dorms are upstairs. They literally come here after rolling out of bed.
“Well, I spent most of the weekend grading your papers, which I have here in my hand. You guys made two hours of grading fly by with your fantastic work. I don’t know if I’m making this class too easy or if you are actually taking what I say to heart.”
Missy, the girl with the long black hair pulled into a ponytail, chimes in. “Oh no, Professor. You make us work. This is not an easy class. Trust me, but it’s my favorite,” she says, flashing her blue eyes like a cartoon character. She’s buttering me up.
“So do you guys want your papers back now or after our discussion on ethical issues?”
Hands shoot up, and I hear a chorus of, “Now!”
“Okay, you win. Here are your papers.” I loop around the three rows of workstations and return the papers.
“Now don’t freak out when you see all the purple ink. It’s just feedback… feedback… like tha
t old Janet Jackson song”—and I mimic one of her dance moves from the 2007 video. The entire class groans and rolls their eyes in unison.
“Not cool, Professor Galan!” Alex says from the front row.
“What? You don’t like my cool moves? Okay, bad joke. But consider the feedback as good criticism. I want you guys to learn how to make your writing more muscular, so look at my suggestions in purple. Overall, you did a good job.”
As I walk around the room, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull out my phone, look at the number, and I see “Aunt Cary” displayed. I decide to call her back after class. As I begin my discussion on ethical issues, my phone vibrates again to alert me that there’s a voice mail message. That’s strange. My aunt never calls me in the mornings. I wonder what’s on her mind.
Throughout my whole discussion of recent conflict-of-interest cases with young journalists, my mind meanders back to her phone call. I decide that as soon as my students exit the classroom in an hour, I’ll step into the stairwell and dial my aunt.
Chapter 3
IT’S 9:15 a.m., and we’re wrapping up a lively discussion involving the ethical complications of an attractive education newspaper reporter who had an affair with a top school official while covering his office.
“I still think she was asking for it. You’re not supposed to be sleeping with the guy you report on your beat, no matter how much she liked the dude,” Missy announces with her right hand under her chin.
“Yeah, but the guy was pretty hot,” interjects Alex, sitting in his perfect anchorman pose and using his hands to emphasize his point. “I wonder who leaked their personal e-mails. That’s what exposed them. What a juicy story!”
“On that note, more news at eleven,” I say, dismissing the class.
Everyone gathers their bags. They rummage through their papers and books and log off from their classroom computers and laptops.
“See ya Wednesday, Professor,” Missy says as she exits the hallway, combing her hands through her hair and walking with purpose. She reminds me of a raven-haired Elle Woods from Legally Blonde.
“Bye, Professor Galan!” Alex says, adjusting his tie. He must be preparing for the midday newscast for Jefferson Today.
I lean over the podium and wave and smile as everyone pours out of the room.
“Remember to read the Daily and the Tribune for Wednesday’s current events quiz!” I quickly remind them.
As the classroom empties out, I wipe the white board clean of my notes and sling my messenger bag over my shoulder. I pull out my phone and dial my voice mail.
“Gabrielito, it’s your Tia Cary. I need to speak with you. Please call me later today. It’s about your father.” I press “End” on my phone and stare at it for a few minutes. The words it’s about your father replay in my mind. I have a half-hour break before my next class begins, so I scurry down the five flights of stairs as I weave between the parading students, some of whom linger in the stairwell. I finally reach the ground floor and venture outside into the sunny fall day. At a quiet spot outside the front of building and away from the pack of chain-smoking drama student smokers, I dial Aunt Cary and find out what’s going on with Papi.
I pace back and forth in my small corner of Boylston Street while the phone rings on the other end. Aunt Cary has always been the family insider, the one who knows the scoop on everyone else. She’s not a gossip in the negative sense of the word. She means well and looks out for everyone, including my mom, despite the divorce. Aunt Cary proves that just because someone isn’t legally part of the family anymore, that doesn’t mean you should stop caring about them. She calls my mom every now and then to gab about medicines, Mom’s Shaklee products, and their favorite Spanish soap operas.
Another thing that I always admired about my aunt is the fact that she was one of the few Cubans in Miami who actually learned how to speak English fluently when she came to the United States on one of the Freedom Flights in the 1960s. When she arrived with my late Uncle Jose, she landed a job as a cashier in a pharmacy in Miami Lakes. When Walgreens bought the store a few years ago and renovated it, the new managers promoted her to assistant manager because of her hard work ethic and friendly communication skills. The job keeps her busy and focused, especially since her husband died of a heart attack six years ago. My aunt must also work, because she couldn’t make ends meet if she were to retire. Social Security doesn’t stretch as far as it used to, people tell me. I’m glad she lives and works near Papi, because she likes to look after him. She acts like the elder sibling even though she is twelve years younger than Papi. She’s the only family my father has left, because my paternal grandparents passed away when I was in elementary school.
“Hey, Tia, I missed your call earlier. I was in class. How have you been?”
“Gabrielito, I’m so sorry to call you in the middle of work. I know how seriously you take your classes.”
“No hay problema. What’s going on? I always have time for my favorite aunt.”
“Bueno, I’m a little concerned about your father, but you can’t tell him that I told you this, okay?”
“Got it. My lips are sealed. What about Papi?” I say helpfully.
“I think his Parkinson’s is beginning to affect his walking. The other day, he had some difficulty getting up from the sofa when I visited him. And he doesn’t want you to know this, but he fell while picking mangoes in my yard. You know how much he likes mangoes.”
“What? Was he okay?” I say with alarmed concern.
“Yes, he had some scratches, but he’s fine. I think it’s the Parkinson’s, Gabriel. It’s aging him.”
“But that could be because he’s old. The more we age, the harder it becomes for us to do the things we used to,” I say, leaning against the brick rear wall of the college. Ahead of me, students and office workers dash on Boylston with the Boston Common in the background.
“No, Gabrielito, it’s not his old age. I told him that he should schedule a visit with his doctor, but you know how stubborn he is. He may need to adjust his medication for a stronger dose. His right leg seems to be weaker. He isn’t walking as fast as he used to. Other than that, he’s good, still exterminating part time, and he always has a Corona at night when he gets home.”
“Thanks for the update. I’ll call him tonight after my last class.”
“But don’t mention that we talked, okay? I don’t want your father to think I am spying on him or that I’m una chismosa.”
“I promise. I won’t say a word. And no, you’re not a gossip. Thanks for letting me know. How are you doing? You like to care about everyone else, but what you about you?”
“I’m good, nephew. I can’t complain. Thank you for asking. I was employee of the month, and Jessica visits when she can from the university. But it’s a six-hour drive from Gainesville. I talk to her every day,” she says, referring to my younger cousin, who is a sophomore at the University of Florida. I wrote her a letter of recommendation for her college application. Jessica is the closest thing I have to a sibling. I’ve noticed that among Latinos, cousins are like second siblings. And being an only child like Jessica, it’s nice to have someone whom I can relate to family-wise. Jessica and I are close because Aunt Cary and Papi are close and talk often.
“I know the feeling. Papi and Mom call me several times a week,” I tell my aunt.
“Because they love you and miss you, Gabrielito. You are all by yourself in Boston. When are you coming to visit your favorite aunt?” she says coyly.
I chuckle. “For Thanksgiving. The semester is going well, so I don’t like to be away for too long. But now that you’re telling me this about Papi, maybe I should use one of my free tickets and come down next week for Columbus Day weekend. Then I can see how Papi is really doing.”
“Okay. I’ll make your favorite Cuban sandwich with extra pickles when you come. Jessica will be down here for Thanksgiving, and then we’ll have the whole family together.”
“You got a deal. I can al
ready taste the sandwich. Anyway, I gotta get going. My next class is about to start.”
“Go to your class, and we’ll talk soon. Just talk to your Papi tonight and let me know if you come down sooner than Thanksgiving. I love you, Gabrielito.”
“And I love you too, Aunt Cary. Say hi to Jessica for me,” I say before ending the call.
I emerge from the alley and head back onto busy Boylston, where throngs of students, mostly artsy drama kids, smoke and gossip about their weekend. I smile as I walk by, remembering when I was a college student at FIU in Miami, where I commuted between two campuses and Papi and Mami’s homes. By the time I graduated, I had logged 140,000 miles on my little Toyota hatchback.
As I walk into the building, my cell vibrates again. The display screen reads “Papi.” His ears must be ringing. I return to my corner on Boylston to chat.
“How is my son, el professor?”
“Your son is about to head into class. How are you doing, Papi?” I say, standing near a pack of students. I cover my left ear with my hand to block out their chatter.
“I just finished exterminating the Holiday Inn in North Miami Beach. Talk about cucarachas. There was an army of them. It’s the heat, Gabriel. They multiply like raindrops.” Papi always enjoyed sharing his adventures in roach-hunting as if they were episodes in his own reality TV show: The Roach Hunter, starring Guillermo Galan.
