by a man named Fidel Astro,” I announced. “He was named after the dog on the
Jetsons.
”
Chapter 3
White Like Me
AS WITH MOST EVERYTHING ELSE in life, I first decided I wanted to be Puerto Rican based on the clothes.
One Sunday when I was six, I spotted two older girls from my school, Carmella and Lisa, standing on the steps of the church across the street from my building. They were wearing white party dresses that looked like spun sugar and tiny crowns made of seed pearls. Most unbelievably, they each had on a real lace veil. Seeing them dressed like that made me spastic with envy.
“Mom! Look at Carmella and Lisa!” I shouted, bouncing up and down and pointing. “Can I be that? Can I? Oh please Oh please Oh please?”
My mother laughed. “You want to be a Puerto Rican girl in a communion dress?” she said. “Honey, we’re not even Catholic.”
Until that moment, I’d thought being Puerto Rican simply meant you spoke Spanish and were allowed to get your ears pierced. But now, child genius that I was, I saw that it also meant you got to parade around on the steps of the Church of the Holy Name dressed like a miniature bride. A whole new vista of desire opened before me, and immediately, I set about campaigning to become Hispanic.
Fishing a doily and a tiny, beaded basket out of my closet, I stuck them on my head and promenaded around our apartment, enunciating loudly, “
Uno, dos, tres. Cuatro, cinco, seis. Leche.
” Counting to six and saying the word “milk” was just about the extent of the Spanish I’d picked up around the neighborhood, but it seemed to me like a good start.
“
Blanco!
” I shouted, pirouetting around the kitchen. “
Mira. Dos frittatas pro favor. Adios. Muchachas.
”
Sitting at the table, my father glanced at my mother.
“Our child now wants to be Puerto Rican,” she informed him. “God knows where she got the idea that it’s optional.”
My father chuckled. “Hey, Susanita,” he called to me. “Is that what we should call you from now on? Susanita?”
“Please,” my mother said tightly, my disgraceful kindergarten career still fresh in her memory. “Don’t encourage her.” Then she set down her wooden spoon on the countertop and looked at me.
“Speak all the Spanish you want!” she shouted. “But for the last time: You’re not getting a communion outfit.”
Years later, when I went to college, I dated a guy from Maine who told me that the first black people he’d ever seen were Gordon and Susan on
Sesame Street.
This both amazed and appalled me. Growing up in my neighborhood meant that I spent much of my time confronting racial issues, thinking about racial issues, and completely misunderstanding racial issues.
With its rubble-strewn lots and highly interactive junkie population, the Upper West Side of the early 1970s was what was optimistically known as “a transitional neighborhood.” Its butchered sidewalks were spangled with broken glass, and rows of vacant lots were boarded up using doors salvaged from demolished tenements.
Broadway—the main thoroughfare—was lined with pawn shops, check-cashing services, Off-Track Betting parlors, Chicken De-Lite takeaways, and furniture discounters that sold sofas on layaway. Many of the signs were in Spanish, including the marquee of the Edison porno theater, which led several local boys to believe that speaking Spanish was a prerequisite for getting laid.
In this neighborhood, it was simply a given that everyone came in different colors. The kids in our high-rise apartment building were black, white, Hispanic, Asian, interracial, tri-racial, you name it—though when we played together, the main thing on our minds, of course, was the same thing that was on the minds of most kids in America: namely, what we could get away with without getting caught by the grown-ups.
Behind our building was a long walled-in area euphemistically called “the backyard.” Devoid of any plant life, it was a wet dream
Jetsons.
”
Chapter 3
White Like Me
AS WITH MOST EVERYTHING ELSE in life, I first decided I wanted to be Puerto Rican based on the clothes.
One Sunday when I was six, I spotted two older girls from my school, Carmella and Lisa, standing on the steps of the church across the street from my building. They were wearing white party dresses that looked like spun sugar and tiny crowns made of seed pearls. Most unbelievably, they each had on a real lace veil. Seeing them dressed like that made me spastic with envy.
“Mom! Look at Carmella and Lisa!” I shouted, bouncing up and down and pointing. “Can I be that? Can I? Oh please Oh please Oh please?”
My mother laughed. “You want to be a Puerto Rican girl in a communion dress?” she said. “Honey, we’re not even Catholic.”
Until that moment, I’d thought being Puerto Rican simply meant you spoke Spanish and were allowed to get your ears pierced. But now, child genius that I was, I saw that it also meant you got to parade around on the steps of the Church of the Holy Name dressed like a miniature bride. A whole new vista of desire opened before me, and immediately, I set about campaigning to become Hispanic.
Fishing a doily and a tiny, beaded basket out of my closet, I stuck them on my head and promenaded around our apartment, enunciating loudly, “
Uno, dos, tres. Cuatro, cinco, seis. Leche.
” Counting to six and saying the word “milk” was just about the extent of the Spanish I’d picked up around the neighborhood, but it seemed to me like a good start.
“
Blanco!
” I shouted, pirouetting around the kitchen. “
Mira. Dos frittatas pro favor. Adios. Muchachas.
”
Sitting at the table, my father glanced at my mother.
“Our child now wants to be Puerto Rican,” she informed him. “God knows where she got the idea that it’s optional.”
My father chuckled. “Hey, Susanita,” he called to me. “Is that what we should call you from now on? Susanita?”
“Please,” my mother said tightly, my disgraceful kindergarten career still fresh in her memory. “Don’t encourage her.” Then she set down her wooden spoon on the countertop and looked at me.
“Speak all the Spanish you want!” she shouted. “But for the last time: You’re not getting a communion outfit.”
Years later, when I went to college, I dated a guy from Maine who told me that the first black people he’d ever seen were Gordon and Susan on
Sesame Street.
This both amazed and appalled me. Growing up in my neighborhood meant that I spent much of my time confronting racial issues, thinking about racial issues, and completely misunderstanding racial issues.
With its rubble-strewn lots and highly interactive junkie population, the Upper West Side of the early 1970s was what was optimistically known as “a transitional neighborhood.” Its butchered sidewalks were spangled with broken glass, and rows of vacant lots were boarded up using doors salvaged from demolished tenements.
Broadway—the main thoroughfare—was lined with pawn shops, check-cashing services, Off-Track Betting parlors, Chicken De-Lite takeaways, and furniture discounters that sold sofas on layaway. Many of the signs were in Spanish, including the marquee of the Edison porno theater, which led several local boys to believe that speaking Spanish was a prerequisite for getting laid.
In this neighborhood, it was simply a given that everyone came in different colors. The kids in our high-rise apartment building were black, white, Hispanic, Asian, interracial, tri-racial, you name it—though when we played together, the main thing on our minds, of course, was the same thing that was on the minds of most kids in America: namely, what we could get away with without getting caught by the grown-ups.
Behind our building was a long walled-in area euphemistically called “the backyard.” Devoid of any plant life, it was a wet dream
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