wasn’t so polluted, I would go barefoot.
I drove to Montrose Harbor, my favorite spot. Before my mother died, my parents would take us here for picnics to escape the
suffocating city air. About twenty-five feet above the lake, there were man-made limestone revetments arranged to resemble
steps. Maya and I used to call them cliffs, chasing each other up and down the steps, pretending we were orphans who lived
on the beach while our parents cuddled at the very top. Swimming and diving was forbidden because of the rocks below the water’s
surface, but every year, inevitably there were news reports about some foolish teenager or drunken adult who thought they
were invulnerable and ended up with a crushed spine or fatal injury.
The lakefront was filled with people walking, running, sunbathing, and playing sand games. Farther down the coast, boats of
every size and model were cruising back to the marina as the skies darkened. As I settled on one of the available stepstones,
reviewing and proofreading my work, I couldn’t help but get distracted by the magnificence of the horizon in the distance.
Right after the divorce, the lakefront was the first place I brought the boys after returning to Chicago from North Carolina,
to contemplate my future without Anthony. Tony took one look at the horizon and asked,
“Is that heaven, Mommy? Is that where we go when we die?”
Ever since then, the lakefront was where I escaped when I needed to talk to God. If I closed my eyes and concentrated really
hard, all the noises around me would wither away: traffic, voices, barking, and momentarily, the world would be as God had
originally intended, and would one day return—peaceful, like paradise.
My reverie was interrupted by the sound of drumming coming from the dog beach, which had just opened up. Regretfully, I thought
about King and wished I had brought him. Shoving my papers into my shoulder messenger bag, I made my way in the direction
of the familiar Afro-Caribbean beat. A small crowd was forming a semicircle around the three percussionists playing two congas
and a bongo. Instinctively my head began to bop in appreciation and nostalgia, though I didn’t dare move the rest of my body.
“Muevete, Morena!”
called one of the conga players. I realized he was speaking to me since I was the only dark-skinned person in the crowd.
He was bare chested, his shirt tied around his head like a turban. I knew if Maya or Simone were around, they would have no
problem dancing in public. The conga player kept grinning in my direction, urging me to move, tempting me with his hands as
they banged furiously on his conga. He was a handsome Hispanic, brown like me, and too young, but still I could not help but
feel a connection, even a slight attraction. I glanced hesitantly at the off-beat dance moves on the part of some of the onlookers
and I thought,
These people don’t know
me. I had my shades on and my weekend outfit so no one would recognize me.
As I moved into the circle, swaying my hips and shoulders, I recalled an old Puerto Rican dance my mother had taught me as
a young girl called
bomba,
a dance with strong African roots. During the days of slavery in Puerto Rico, bomba dancers would form a circle and take
turns challenging the drums with their raised skirts to ridicule the fancy attire worn by plantation ladies and to poke fun
at the slave owners.
At first I felt embarrassed, wondering if the onlookers were thinking,
Minorities sure know how to dance,
but then I didn’t care. It had been so long since I had danced to the music of my youth. I lifted my skirt just above my
knees, shaking it in the direction of the copper-colored
congero,
who laughed and whistled, shouting the call-and-response phrases that are the style of the bomba dance.
Just as I was getting into the beat, and the drummers were taking turns banging out solos, lightning lit up the sky, followed
by thunder. Then the rain
I drove to Montrose Harbor, my favorite spot. Before my mother died, my parents would take us here for picnics to escape the
suffocating city air. About twenty-five feet above the lake, there were man-made limestone revetments arranged to resemble
steps. Maya and I used to call them cliffs, chasing each other up and down the steps, pretending we were orphans who lived
on the beach while our parents cuddled at the very top. Swimming and diving was forbidden because of the rocks below the water’s
surface, but every year, inevitably there were news reports about some foolish teenager or drunken adult who thought they
were invulnerable and ended up with a crushed spine or fatal injury.
The lakefront was filled with people walking, running, sunbathing, and playing sand games. Farther down the coast, boats of
every size and model were cruising back to the marina as the skies darkened. As I settled on one of the available stepstones,
reviewing and proofreading my work, I couldn’t help but get distracted by the magnificence of the horizon in the distance.
Right after the divorce, the lakefront was the first place I brought the boys after returning to Chicago from North Carolina,
to contemplate my future without Anthony. Tony took one look at the horizon and asked,
“Is that heaven, Mommy? Is that where we go when we die?”
Ever since then, the lakefront was where I escaped when I needed to talk to God. If I closed my eyes and concentrated really
hard, all the noises around me would wither away: traffic, voices, barking, and momentarily, the world would be as God had
originally intended, and would one day return—peaceful, like paradise.
My reverie was interrupted by the sound of drumming coming from the dog beach, which had just opened up. Regretfully, I thought
about King and wished I had brought him. Shoving my papers into my shoulder messenger bag, I made my way in the direction
of the familiar Afro-Caribbean beat. A small crowd was forming a semicircle around the three percussionists playing two congas
and a bongo. Instinctively my head began to bop in appreciation and nostalgia, though I didn’t dare move the rest of my body.
“Muevete, Morena!”
called one of the conga players. I realized he was speaking to me since I was the only dark-skinned person in the crowd.
He was bare chested, his shirt tied around his head like a turban. I knew if Maya or Simone were around, they would have no
problem dancing in public. The conga player kept grinning in my direction, urging me to move, tempting me with his hands as
they banged furiously on his conga. He was a handsome Hispanic, brown like me, and too young, but still I could not help but
feel a connection, even a slight attraction. I glanced hesitantly at the off-beat dance moves on the part of some of the onlookers
and I thought,
These people don’t know
me. I had my shades on and my weekend outfit so no one would recognize me.
As I moved into the circle, swaying my hips and shoulders, I recalled an old Puerto Rican dance my mother had taught me as
a young girl called
bomba,
a dance with strong African roots. During the days of slavery in Puerto Rico, bomba dancers would form a circle and take
turns challenging the drums with their raised skirts to ridicule the fancy attire worn by plantation ladies and to poke fun
at the slave owners.
At first I felt embarrassed, wondering if the onlookers were thinking,
Minorities sure know how to dance,
but then I didn’t care. It had been so long since I had danced to the music of my youth. I lifted my skirt just above my
knees, shaking it in the direction of the copper-colored
congero,
who laughed and whistled, shouting the call-and-response phrases that are the style of the bomba dance.
Just as I was getting into the beat, and the drummers were taking turns banging out solos, lightning lit up the sky, followed
by thunder. Then the rain
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