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Rinconcitois a special “little corner” in Somos en escrito for short writings: a single poem, a short story, a memoir, flash fiction, and the like. Autumn (para Abuela)by Eric Noel Perez After divorcing my grandfather (for the second time), my grandmother packed a bag, scooped up my mother and uncle, and left Puerto Rico headed for the Bronx. She touched ground in 1959, and I imagine she was like the Latina version of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz: a stranger in a strange world swept away by a tornado of failed love, and broken vows, hoping to find her yellow brick road somewhere between 144th Street and Willis Avenue. For herself. For her family. And eventually, for me. When she arrived light posts greeted her instead of palm trees, parking meters hemmed in the new world like iron stalks of cold sugar cane, and for the first time in her life she encountered the hands of autumn. They were brisk, multi-colored hands that cracked as they moved across her unaccustomed skin, hands filled with more doomsday fire, more foreboding than she’d ever dreamt during her hot, San Juan nights. Her dresses and sleeves grew longer as the daylight hours shortened, palomas metamorphosized into garbage picking pigeons, the deep, dark red of the leaves reminded her of Caribbean twilight, and childbearing. When my parents bought a house on Long Island she cried. My father asked, “Doña, que te pasa?” She said she was going to miss me. She didn’t know she was coming with us. She cried even more when he told her. The suburbs agreed with Abuela more than the city: less noise, more birds, backyard barbecues and hammock naps. Every night in summer the crickets faithfully fingered their miniscule fiddles, and though they certainly weren’t coquis singing her to sleep, she still appreciated their song. Abuela was my bridge to the past, my culture, built on girders of Spanish music and Bible verses, family recipes, and orange fingers that smelled of onion and Sazón, a reminder that in spite of the Heavy Metal and Hip Hop I’d adopted, mine was an inheritance of ocean music. When I turned 16, she began to change. It was little things at first, like, she’d forget that I’d already eaten, and another plate of rice and beans would magically appear before me. Important dates began slipping from her memory, then the ingredients to her favorite dishes as though bathed in too much Crisco. Next to go were the names of old friends, then the lyrics to her favorite boleros (Daniel Santos must have felt like a jilted lover). She started talking to herself often, answering strange questions from invisible inquisitors, even befriending her own reflection in the mirror, sharing perfume with the unfamiliar face that smiled sheepishly back at her). Soon, all the attributes that composed my Abuela fell from her in deciduous fashion, stripping her of comprehension, of identity, of life. By the time the Alzheimer’s was in full season she stood before us all diminished, a photo negative of the woman I once knew, naked as a tree in the heart of November: limbs gaunt and knotted with age, her memories scattered helter-skelter like desiccated leaves around her slippered feet. We moved her back to Puerto Rico in 1991 so she could die with the touch of a familiar sun on her face. Towards the end I hopped on a plane and went to visit her in the nursing home. She was sitting in a rocking chair on a veranda behind a metal gate meant to protect the residents from wandering off into traffic, into the death filled sea; her vacant eyes were like hollow conches, ribbons of light slipped through the iron bars. She didn’t remember my name. Abuela sat in silence as I held her frail, bony hand, the same hand that had rubbed Vicks on my chest when bronchitis struck with a vengeance, the same hand that dropped caramelitos into my pockets and loose change in my open palm whenever the ice cream man came tolling his bell. Holding that hand now was like holding an old eagle’s claw. My mother painted her gray nails, and cried. I kissed her cheek over and over again, knowing this time she was the one who would be moving, and that I couldn’t follow (not yet, anyway). As I stood to leave, large, warm tears stood in my eyes as her eyes grew heavy with gloaming stars. Gradually her lips closed, quietly, slowly, like the petals of a nocturnal flower. Not long afterwards we received word Abuela had passed. It was late April. Spring was casting its colorful gems to and fro. At her funeral I cast words of gratitude on her casket like amapola petals. October came. My first autumn without her. The days still shrunk, the sun still cooled, the wind still stripped the trees. My mother, in an homage to hearts and healings, made Abuela’s rice and beans. They were good. Really good. But something was missing. The clouds broke upon the cold, blue sky like waves on the Atlantic. Wherever she was, a piece of me was with her, and her with me, and I swore to myself that no matter how much I loved New York I wouldn’t forget Puerto Rico, that no matter how much I dug the sound of an electric guitar I’d hold a space on my heart’s altar for the cuatro. Today, I have each foot firmly planted in two soils. I taste life as I paint it, with two palettes, and though much of the world may want me to choose a flag, I have no problem straddling the border. Driving to the supermarket with the radio on my ears are filled with the clatter of synthesizer drums. But it doesn’t drown out the timbale beating in my blood.
9 Comments
 Political cartoon from the Chicago Tribune from 1914, Wikipedia.
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 | María Lysandra Hernández is a BA Writing, Literature and Publishing student with a minor in Global and Post-colonial Studies at Emerson College. She is currently the Head of Writing at Raíz Magazine, Emerson College’s bilingual and Latinx publication. For more poetry, you can find her on instagram at @marialysandrahern. |
Rinconcito
is a special little corner in Somos en escrito for short writings: a single poem, a short story, a memoir, flash fiction, and the like.
Benediction: Three Poems
By Eric Morales-Franceschini
Isla
My loss I call “isla”
my teacher, too
for to fall prey to it
is to forfeit every right to grow old with the devil
And say, yes, this is what it is to be sated with life
But woe to this trigueño body and to
every hymn
that conjures a love lost on nearby shores, borne on tempestuous waters
for memory holds at this and every other lonely hour
—innocent of all history
bound to a desire more fecund than Atabey,
less merciful than Juracán
for it defies all names and, thereby, all tenability
walks across warm sand,
a mother’s smile,
and a century
older than blood the scent of rum
nor does it know any end, sees only the color flamboyán
and blossoms every nightfall, as does the coquí’s coy song
if only I knew other names
—less sublime
indeed: less generic
to keep at bay this perversely welcomed hour
If only I had the decency to say no
and heed to a reality as dry as bone
If only, that is, the Virgen would make me righteous
just this once
and let me say, with impunity: I miss you
my teacher, too
for to fall prey to it
is to forfeit every right to grow old with the devil
And say, yes, this is what it is to be sated with life
But woe to this trigueño body and to
every hymn
that conjures a love lost on nearby shores, borne on tempestuous waters
for memory holds at this and every other lonely hour
—innocent of all history
bound to a desire more fecund than Atabey,
less merciful than Juracán
for it defies all names and, thereby, all tenability
walks across warm sand,
a mother’s smile,
and a century
older than blood the scent of rum
nor does it know any end, sees only the color flamboyán
and blossoms every nightfall, as does the coquí’s coy song
if only I knew other names
—less sublime
indeed: less generic
to keep at bay this perversely welcomed hour
If only I had the decency to say no
and heed to a reality as dry as bone
If only, that is, the Virgen would make me righteous
just this once
and let me say, with impunity: I miss you
Benediction
The tongue is a peculiar and amnesiac foil
which forgets that not all is bound by the color spic
for flesh and its miscellanea do speak loudly
but a logic older than the corpus knows that
even the ventriloquist is no rival
for the criterion of the “native”
who, after all, could afford to loiter about in editorial time
or seek asylum in the quintessential and the vulgar
when all must be said here and now
inevitably a stutter confesses, “I’m a fraud”
and you are laid bare to a world
that knows
not
how to listen for a new canto
either belatedly, or hastily
we fall prey to a grammar older than coarse mahogany
and a fetish that cast spells as earnestly as does a cliff’s edge
but this lengua I embody naively believes
that forgiveness is imminent
in every breath that whispers, “La bendición…”
which forgets that not all is bound by the color spic
for flesh and its miscellanea do speak loudly
but a logic older than the corpus knows that
even the ventriloquist is no rival
for the criterion of the “native”
who, after all, could afford to loiter about in editorial time
or seek asylum in the quintessential and the vulgar
when all must be said here and now
inevitably a stutter confesses, “I’m a fraud”
and you are laid bare to a world
that knows
not
how to listen for a new canto
either belatedly, or hastily
we fall prey to a grammar older than coarse mahogany
and a fetish that cast spells as earnestly as does a cliff’s edge
but this lengua I embody naively believes
that forgiveness is imminent
in every breath that whispers, “La bendición…”
A dissident etymology
there are dialects
that conjure wounds deeper than the Sargasso Sea
and its cryptic waters
for words are an index
in which every last breath can echo a biblical curse
or hail a tree’s limb
yet horizons come alive anew
in dissident etymologies
that speak their endearments in black
black is that enigma, after all, by which our beloved are beckoned,
and a quiet audacity held dear
for words are an index, too
in which every last breath can whisper a secret
or hail
a boricua’s kiss
that conjure wounds deeper than the Sargasso Sea
and its cryptic waters
for words are an index
in which every last breath can echo a biblical curse
or hail a tree’s limb
yet horizons come alive anew
in dissident etymologies
that speak their endearments in black
black is that enigma, after all, by which our beloved are beckoned,
and a quiet audacity held dear
for words are an index, too
in which every last breath can whisper a secret
or hail
a boricua’s kiss
Eric Morales-Franceschini was born in Humacao, Puerto Rico and raised in southern Florida. Eric is a former day laborer and US Army veteran who now holds a PhD in Rhetoric from UC, Berkeley and is Assistant Professor of English and Latin American Studies at the University of Georgia. He writes and teaches in the fields of decolonial studies, Caribbean literature, Cuban cinema, and liberation thought in the Américas and is at work on a scholarly manuscript, Epic Quintessence: the mambí and the mythopoetics of Cuba Libre, and a prose and poetry manuscript titled Post Festum. "Isla," "Benediction," and "A dissident etymology" are his first published poems.
Rinconcito
is a special “little corner” in Somos en escrito for short writings: a single poem, a short story, a memoir, flash fiction, and the like.
Did your father ever swear?
By Jenny Irizary
Come to think of it my father only ever swore
in Spanish Maldito sinvergüenza some verb porquerías
I could never catch what was being done to the porquerías
or if it was their being-made getting done to him
when I didn’t do the dishes
fast or often enough
(it was me he usually muttered that phrase to)
stoic not angry
but yes, sometimes he was angry.
You asked me did he ever take me
fishing? Yeah, and I was disobedient
or something I don’t remember
and he slapped
me. No, he didn’t do it a lot
just when I was being contrary.
My mother?
Never
calm
even that time I came home
and she’d stayed
to do laundry
caught her hand in the press lever
(we didn’t have tumble machines)
it looked like a crushed pomegranate
and sidewalk gum boiled into beet juice
but she didn’t cry
and my dad explained
what had happened
he wasn’t at work, either, which was odd
only happened one other time
I can think of
because he drank too much
and when the guy he carpooled with
to the factory came by
my mom peaked out the door
whispered he had a hangover
(she knew vernacular like that
words her relatives slipped on
into other verbs
I could never tell which ones
so she talked to officials
or just anyone speaking English
or I did).
So that was the other time my dad
didn’t go to work.
I was usually the first
home to take care of my younger brother
no, not the one that died in my mother’s arms at the bus stop
the one that got tied up
in the umbilical cord
wrapped up inside
came out blue not breathing
he’s why I always thought the Blues
was a good word for music you choke
out when people didn’t want you
to breathe
my brother didn’t speak
in the same sounds
assigned actions as other people
but his exclamations
aren’t exactly passive
and he never was, either,
which was why I watched him
like when he climbed out the window onto the roof
maybe searching for kites
or just a different view
when my dad showed up at the front door
I was staring down at
my shoes willing his eyes
anywhere but up
when he looked
and saw my brother climbing
smiling the rest of us were panicked
(but my brother seemed very relaxed)
took a hand off the roof
reached up
and our dad started
to coax him down
telling him not to be afraid
even though he clearly wasn’t
“Come back inside
where it’s safe”
that kind of thing
he rarely spoke
so soothingly to me
although when I threw a baseball
through the garage window
and pieced the glass back together
with glue he grinned
a little
at the notion I could
put one over on him.
I wasn’t a good liar and I felt guilty
so I usually just confessed
like when my brother and I were jumping
on the bed he seemed to stay in the air
longer than I could have
sworn he was up
when I came down
feet hard on his belly
sloshing like the sound those fish
would have made if I had caught them
instead of being a good-for-nothing
like my father said
(or whatever he said in Spanish
like I said I don’t know Spanish
didn’t teach you Spanish
but life sticks dictionaries you can’t
shake to your shoe
and you walk around like that
sometimes for a lifetime
maybe just for a childhood
anyway
my brother and I we were young and
the diagnosis
was around that time
I cried when I told my dad
I thought I knocked
the quiet voice out of him
made him loud with the sounds
people use to excuse the fear
they already have
maybe call the police
(and later, they did
and that’s why my parents decided
if I was going to college they couldn’t
take care of him
so I’m kind of the reason he was institutionalized
in a way because otherwise he might have
gotten arrested or hurt
but that place we dropped him
rotting mattresses lined up smelling of semen and urine
out of the movies or books
or the records those kind of places didn’t keep
or worse, the ones they did).
And the diagnosis when they called my little brother
“Retarded” then “Developmentally Delayed” then “Autistic”
and always “unacceptable”
this kid who loved to fly kites with me at Wrigley Field
until he took a roll of receipt tape from a vendor
and the guy yelled for some police
and they tackled him
my English almost wasn’t good enough
to get him off
not using language like other people
is one of those inexcusable cardinal sins I guess
or maybe stealing
while Puerto Rican
and what you kids call it
non-neurotypical
and running smiling
bent over looking up
a kite soaring overhead
we’re supposed to be docile
shouldn’t be able to hunch over
and move that’s some trickster terror
to some people
that day when my brother and I almost both got booked
for stealing juvenile delinquents
was the one time I saw my father cry
and he didn’t swear in English or Spanish
nothing he could get done with words.
Come to think of it my father only ever swore
in Spanish Maldito sinvergüenza some verb porquerías
I could never catch what was being done to the porquerías
or if it was their being-made getting done to him
when I didn’t do the dishes
fast or often enough
(it was me he usually muttered that phrase to)
stoic not angry
but yes, sometimes he was angry.
You asked me did he ever take me
fishing? Yeah, and I was disobedient
or something I don’t remember
and he slapped
me. No, he didn’t do it a lot
just when I was being contrary.
My mother?
Never
calm
even that time I came home
and she’d stayed
to do laundry
caught her hand in the press lever
(we didn’t have tumble machines)
it looked like a crushed pomegranate
and sidewalk gum boiled into beet juice
but she didn’t cry
and my dad explained
what had happened
he wasn’t at work, either, which was odd
only happened one other time
I can think of
because he drank too much
and when the guy he carpooled with
to the factory came by
my mom peaked out the door
whispered he had a hangover
(she knew vernacular like that
words her relatives slipped on
into other verbs
I could never tell which ones
so she talked to officials
or just anyone speaking English
or I did).
So that was the other time my dad
didn’t go to work.
I was usually the first
home to take care of my younger brother
no, not the one that died in my mother’s arms at the bus stop
the one that got tied up
in the umbilical cord
wrapped up inside
came out blue not breathing
he’s why I always thought the Blues
was a good word for music you choke
out when people didn’t want you
to breathe
my brother didn’t speak
in the same sounds
assigned actions as other people
but his exclamations
aren’t exactly passive
and he never was, either,
which was why I watched him
like when he climbed out the window onto the roof
maybe searching for kites
or just a different view
when my dad showed up at the front door
I was staring down at
my shoes willing his eyes
anywhere but up
when he looked
and saw my brother climbing
smiling the rest of us were panicked
(but my brother seemed very relaxed)
took a hand off the roof
reached up
and our dad started
to coax him down
telling him not to be afraid
even though he clearly wasn’t
“Come back inside
where it’s safe”
that kind of thing
he rarely spoke
so soothingly to me
although when I threw a baseball
through the garage window
and pieced the glass back together
with glue he grinned
a little
at the notion I could
put one over on him.
I wasn’t a good liar and I felt guilty
so I usually just confessed
like when my brother and I were jumping
on the bed he seemed to stay in the air
longer than I could have
sworn he was up
when I came down
feet hard on his belly
sloshing like the sound those fish
would have made if I had caught them
instead of being a good-for-nothing
like my father said
(or whatever he said in Spanish
like I said I don’t know Spanish
didn’t teach you Spanish
but life sticks dictionaries you can’t
shake to your shoe
and you walk around like that
sometimes for a lifetime
maybe just for a childhood
anyway
my brother and I we were young and
the diagnosis
was around that time
I cried when I told my dad
I thought I knocked
the quiet voice out of him
made him loud with the sounds
people use to excuse the fear
they already have
maybe call the police
(and later, they did
and that’s why my parents decided
if I was going to college they couldn’t
take care of him
so I’m kind of the reason he was institutionalized
in a way because otherwise he might have
gotten arrested or hurt
but that place we dropped him
rotting mattresses lined up smelling of semen and urine
out of the movies or books
or the records those kind of places didn’t keep
or worse, the ones they did).
And the diagnosis when they called my little brother
“Retarded” then “Developmentally Delayed” then “Autistic”
and always “unacceptable”
this kid who loved to fly kites with me at Wrigley Field
until he took a roll of receipt tape from a vendor
and the guy yelled for some police
and they tackled him
my English almost wasn’t good enough
to get him off
not using language like other people
is one of those inexcusable cardinal sins I guess
or maybe stealing
while Puerto Rican
and what you kids call it
non-neurotypical
and running smiling
bent over looking up
a kite soaring overhead
we’re supposed to be docile
shouldn’t be able to hunch over
and move that’s some trickster terror
to some people
that day when my brother and I almost both got booked
for stealing juvenile delinquents
was the one time I saw my father cry
and he didn’t swear in English or Spanish
nothing he could get done with words.
Jenny Irizary grew up along the Russian River in Northern California and now resides in Oakland. She holds a B.A. in Ethnic Studies and an M.A. in literature from Mills College. Her work has been published in Label Me Latina/o, Atticus Review, Sick Lit, Snapping Twig, District Lit, Communion, and other journals. Her poem, "If You Want More Proof She's Not Puerto Rican," was the winner of Green Briar Review's 2016 poetry contest.
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