Because she liked the “kind of music” that I
listened to and she liked the way I walked as well as the way I talked, she
always wanted to know where I was from.
If I said that I was from 110th Street
and Lexington Avenue, right in the heart of a transported Puerto Rican town,
where the hodedores live and night turns to day without sleep, do you think
then she might know where I was from?
Where I’m from, Puerto Rico stays on our minds when
the fresh breeze of café con leche y pan con mantequilla comes through our
half-open windows and under our doors while the sun starts to rise.
Where I’m from, babies fall asleep to the bark of a
German Shepherd named Tarzan. We hear his wandering footsteps under a midnight
sun. Tarzan has learned quickly to ignore the woman who begs her man to stop
slapping her with his fist. “Please, baby! Por favor! I swear it wasn’t me. I
swear to my mother. Mameee!!!” (Herdead mother told her that this would happen
one day.)
Where I’m from, Independence Day is celebrated every
day. The final gunshot from last night’s murder is followed by the officious
knock of a warrant squad coming to take your bread, coffee and freedom away.
Where I’m from, the police come into your house
without knocking. They throw us off rooftops and say we slipped. They shoot my
father and say he was crazy. They put a bullet in my head and say they found me
that way.
Where I’m from, you run to the hospital emergency
room because some little boy spit a razor out of his mouth and carved a
crescent into your face. But you have to understand, where I’m from even the
dead have to wait until their number is called.
Where I’m from, you can listen to Big Daddy
retelling stories on his corner. He passes a pint of light Bacardi, pouring the
dead’s tributary swig onto the street. “I’m God when I put a gun to your head.
I’m the judge and you in my courtroom.”
Where I’m from, it’s the late night scratch of rats’
feet that explains what my mother means when she says slowly, “Bueno, mijo, eso
es la vida del pobre.” (Well, son, that is the life of the poor.)
Where I’m from, it’s sweet like my grandmother
reciting a quick prayer over a pot of hot rice and beans. Where I’m from, it’s
pretty like my niece stopping me in the middle of the street and telling me to
notice all the stars in the sky.
- Willie Perdomo
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