by Norma Iris Lafé
I’m
a believer—a fanciful one. On the morning of May 28, 2014…before first
light…before el barrio’s feathered alarm clock crows the
Puerto Rican reveille Despierta Boricua, time to wake up! I
arise on my own from a peaceful Caribbean night’s sleep, not to my normal
writer’s ritual: café
espresso, a smoke, adrenaline pumping to the spirited Muse on my breezy
penthouse deck—living in the shades of the coastal town Vega Alta—but…to the
mourning pulse of sorrow. “Me” and my laptop poised again for the
battlefront arena (where no man or woman dares to tread).
The
words of lamentation moaning in cyberspace overnight, floated into my inner
sanctum. For this woman born in the USA—today living in “voluntary
exile”—their infinite meaning touches home in a sort of religious (no, more
like a mysterious way): “Maya Angelou: Lyrical Witness of the Jim Crow
South Dies At 86.” The NY Times headline, from my hometown, heralds
the “people’s poet” for her messianic deliverance of
Blacks in America from bondage. “Her
portrait—of 1930s rural Stamps Arkansas—“a Biblical study of life in the midst
of death,” that marked “the beginning of a new era in the minds and hearts and
lives of all Black men and women,” testified her poet/friend James Baldwin of
her magnum opus “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”
This
would be no ordinary solemn day, but a day to commemorate victory over human
suffering; to again bear witness to the righteous might of divine intervention.
For once in my life, all was right with the universe; that an Angel had gotten
her wings, that her day was not yet done, but was only just beginning (at least
for me). Mother Maya hopped the quicksilver messenger express back to the
Pearly Gates; didn’t even have to knock. St. Peter swifts her right
through, hefting the “Book of Life,” one heavy
laden hip to the other, slipping her a backstage pass.
There…perched
on the mystical twilight ledge rises the cynosure Star of Maya,
visible to those sensitive spirits of “The Light.” A miracle
sonnetist imbued with the spirit of “The Word,” as it was written, I envision
her seated at the right hand of the Father. The holy scepter entrusted by
the Creator himself to all His messengers on Earth (inconspicuous among the
troubled nations) is firmly clasped all aglow in her right hand, crackling
fiery sparks. For what seems an eternity minute, mesmerized by her ethereal
visage—so splendorous, so sublime—a deep and sonorous voice snaps me out of my
trance-like state. Waving me nearer to her stately, glistening golden
throne, she then extends her right arm and gently commands:
“Carry the torch.”
“ME???
“Yes you! Just follow the signs
and heed my direction: ‘There is no greater
agony than bearing an untold story inside you,’ the wondrous sage awakens
the first startling revelation.
“Um, um, pa-pa-pardon me, noble
Guardian of ethnic women writers, will these signs be in English or Spanish?”
“You’re being coy, you know the signs.
Translate as you always do, where needed.”
“You mean the light bulbs constantly
burning overhead?”
“Pay attention Miss Smarty Pants.
I’ve got your number right here…777-7777.”
Now
she’s standing 6 feet tall and majestic, an otherworldly presence ablaze in a
dazzling aura, ultra-bright flickering rays of burning light are blinding my
still-bleary eyes. Overshadowing my now trembling 5
foot frame, levitating in the gossamer cotton candy clouds, she fans the pages
of the “Book of Life.” Her shiny golden nugget, extremely refined fingers
point to my essay “The Runaway Boricua.”
(Oh,
oh I’m busted!)
“You think you’ve been lucky don’t you?
See, it’s all right here.”
“Including the times…?”
“Had you fallen from grace you
wouldn’t be standing here today, those turning points along your winding life’s
journey were part of God’s master plan to get you prepared, to bring you back
at precisely this juncture in island history. You’re not running away
this time. You’re distressed about Puerto Rico’s future aren’t you?
“Yes, I am. The future flashes
inside my head like a Nostradamus movie screening of ‘Apocalypse Now: Surviving
in Puerto Rico.’ What in the world is happening here? How do I make other
people see what I see?”
“Listen to that inner voice. Follow
your instincts as you’ve been doing so far. ‘People will forget
what you said or did in your life, but they will never forget how you made them
feel.’ You’ve written quite the potpourri of revealing sociopolitical
essays and personal anecdotes.”
“Yes, I’ve been writing up a storm of
controversy, I think. And I blame it on the Muse...she’s one of yours…a
guardian of “The Gift.” Says she’s the wordsmith “Justicia the Boffo
Warrior”…the defender of truth, justice and fairness, no less. I presume
you know I’m her assignment. The pen is mightier than the sword, I
know…but this one?
She shoots straight to the jugular, no rules of engagement at all. You’ll
see…if I make it out alive.”
For
all of that morning, into the night, I remained glued to my laptop. A
self-described chronicler of a 21st Century “colonial” reality, that so offends
my compassionate and learned sensibilities, my mission-filled life was put in
suspended animation. While on the island of Puerto Rico—1,000 miles removed
from mainland USA—I held a silent and solitary vigil honoring the legacy of an
inspiring Black American author whose groundbreaking 1969 autobiography “Caged
Bird” moved me beyond words. To the extent, a 1960s Puerto Rican American
South Bronx ghetto girl (once hidden in her own shadows) would grow up to be a
“Witness to a Dying Colonial Nation”—unwittingly, as it were.
In
that cosmic moment, the epidermal cilia shimmied the goose bumps all over my
bronzed high-yella body. Slumped in my desk chair, I waited for the
celestial conjuring to pass. The breakfast cocktail, tears of sadness
mixed with tears of joyous release that follows, filling me with the immensity
I’m no longer alone. My mourning with Maya proved an epiphany worth
telling, if only for the edification of my Puerto Rican people. And at my
age, sadly, the more things change…the more they stay the same.
Fingers
rippling across the keyboard, I chase link after link, to catch the stories
remembering the “life well-lived” of this literary Giant—a “phenomenal woman”!
Mother Maya bequeathed an amazing seven books
chronicling her life and times. Quite coincidentally, in 2013, finishing
her multi-volume autobiographical series with “Mom
& Me & Mom,” just as I was editing my first back-to-roots
memoir “Mami, Mija and Me,” unveiling the transcendental truths linking three
generations of Puerto Rican women—matriarch, granddaughter and daughter—back to
our catastrophic modern day Puerto Rico.
One
island dicho (or
wise folk saying akin to the “mother wit” of her rural South) says it best: no se puede tapar el
cielo con la mano. You can’t hide the heavens with one hand, meaning…don’t
even try keeping the lid on the truth.
My
mission accomplished: to boldly Puerto Rican-nize my strong-willed Calirican
adolescent daughter; and to lovingly escort abuelitos, her
retired grandparents, from California back to their native Borinquen.
At long last, fulfilling their final wish to be laid to rest next to the loving
kin they left behind; forced in the ‘50s to migrate to New York City—hungry for
work.
Barrio
Life those first years back was the best of times (all things considered)
shooting the warm tropical ocean breeze on a beachfront oasis, relishing the
island’s favorite pastimes: downing la fria cold
beer, talking politics and tuning in to barrio bochinche,
Salsa, merengue and bachata music rhythms blaring in the background. The idle
gossip—who’s kissing who, who kicked the bucket, who works who doesn’t, who’s
on drugs, whose car or house was looted and the keeping up with the Lópezes—was
least inspiring, hypnotized as I was by the “new Puerto Rico” itself.
When,
from 2008 to 2012—behind the scenes—“La Colonia” took
on the nightmarish quality of The Twilight Zone
and a gruesome Stephen King novel all rolled into one. Absent the fun in
the sun (the Medalla Lights booze haze that had been blurring my vision) I
could see the writing on the wall more clearly: Puerto Rico is no
Shangri-la you romantic fool! IT’S AN ISLAND DEMOCRACY IN CHAOS.
Continues: Part 2 at top of page
Continues: Part 2 at top of page
