hamburger again, this time nosing my mouth beneath the bread. I didn’t want Papi to think I was ungrateful for my food. And if Americans liked hamburgers, then they had to be good. I figured I’d getused to the taste soon enough. “Do you think President Kennedy eats hamburgers?” I asked.
“Probably.”
“Do you—” I started to say, chewing on a hunk of beef.
“Verdita, we may be eating American food, but we aren’t American cowboys chewing tobacco. Swallow first. Then speak.”
Papi chewed tobacco sometimes. I decided not to bring that up. Instead, I swallowed. “Do you think he likes them?”
“You should never presume to know a man’s likes or dislikes—only your own.”
Papi’s hamburger sat on the tray. One bite in the side. I had a pretty good guess about Papi’s dislikes, but I kept quiet.
I ate until my stomach pushed into the table ledge. I didn’t even really like the hamburger, but I liked that it came from America—that I was eating like an American. It made me feel bigger than my finca on the mountain, bigger than the whole island. I’d seen the States, even if I hadn’t seen President Kennedy. My stomach was full of America.
We took our leftovers home in brown bags. I still had half of my Big Boy double-decker. I’d save it, freeze it next to the plucked chickens and ripe bananas. Then later, when I wanted to eat America again, I’d have it ready.
“You weren’t hungry?” I asked when we were back in the jeep, the Styrofoam box on my lap, Papi’s whole hamburger alongside my half.
“Not too much. I need your mama’s food to fill me up.” He turned the ignition key, and we started our drive back up the mountain. I’d freeze his too, just in case he changed his mind. Just in case Mama’s food wasn’t enough.
We didn’t talk on the ride home. My stomach was too full to feel, my mouth too slick for words. So I closed my eyes and pretended that I was outside my body, flying through the dark like the Big Boy Santa Claus, like President Kennedy in his airplane. Flying to the States.
A Taste of Puerto Rico
T HE N AVIDAD FELL ON A M ONDAY THAT YEAR . The Saturday before, there was a parranda , and our house was the start. Relatives began arriving in the afternoon. Tío Benny, Titi Ana, and my cousin Adel came extra early. They brought Tío’s guitar and a pan of creamy tembleque for our feast, since their house was too far to be part of the progression. Titi Lola and Tío Chacho arrived soon after with my cousins Delia, Teline, and Pepito. Teline and I were the same age, but Delia was sixteen and already a señorita , so she didn’t play with us as much as she used to.
“Hola , Verdita,” Delia said, and kissed both my cheeks. She smelled strong. Like the incense they flung around during mass. I wondered if she had just come from confession and what she’d confessed. Mamá said once you became a señorita , everything changed. She said that TitiLola took Delia to confession twice a week so that the priest could make her right with God. I wondered if I would have to go that often when I became a señorita . I hoped not. I smelled like coconut bark, and I liked it that way.
Teline came in with Pepito. He was only three years old and still needed someone to watch after him. When Teline stopped to hug and kiss my cheeks, Pepito pulled away and ran toward the line of potted poinsettias that Mamá had bought for decoration.
“Pepito!” Titi Lola yelled, barely inside the doorframe. She’d dyed her hair purple-red and wore a grass-green dress that cinched at the waist then belled out to her knees. Her gold stiletto heels made little click-click noises wherever she walked.
Pepito ripped pointy leaves from their stems, but before he brought the red handfuls to his mouth, Titi Lola click-clicked to him and pulled him back by the forehead. “Teline, you almost let Pepito die!” She emptied his fists. Jagged petals confettied the floor.
“It’s not my fault,” Teline
“Probably.”
“Do you—” I started to say, chewing on a hunk of beef.
“Verdita, we may be eating American food, but we aren’t American cowboys chewing tobacco. Swallow first. Then speak.”
Papi chewed tobacco sometimes. I decided not to bring that up. Instead, I swallowed. “Do you think he likes them?”
“You should never presume to know a man’s likes or dislikes—only your own.”
Papi’s hamburger sat on the tray. One bite in the side. I had a pretty good guess about Papi’s dislikes, but I kept quiet.
I ate until my stomach pushed into the table ledge. I didn’t even really like the hamburger, but I liked that it came from America—that I was eating like an American. It made me feel bigger than my finca on the mountain, bigger than the whole island. I’d seen the States, even if I hadn’t seen President Kennedy. My stomach was full of America.
We took our leftovers home in brown bags. I still had half of my Big Boy double-decker. I’d save it, freeze it next to the plucked chickens and ripe bananas. Then later, when I wanted to eat America again, I’d have it ready.
“You weren’t hungry?” I asked when we were back in the jeep, the Styrofoam box on my lap, Papi’s whole hamburger alongside my half.
“Not too much. I need your mama’s food to fill me up.” He turned the ignition key, and we started our drive back up the mountain. I’d freeze his too, just in case he changed his mind. Just in case Mama’s food wasn’t enough.
We didn’t talk on the ride home. My stomach was too full to feel, my mouth too slick for words. So I closed my eyes and pretended that I was outside my body, flying through the dark like the Big Boy Santa Claus, like President Kennedy in his airplane. Flying to the States.
A Taste of Puerto Rico
T HE N AVIDAD FELL ON A M ONDAY THAT YEAR . The Saturday before, there was a parranda , and our house was the start. Relatives began arriving in the afternoon. Tío Benny, Titi Ana, and my cousin Adel came extra early. They brought Tío’s guitar and a pan of creamy tembleque for our feast, since their house was too far to be part of the progression. Titi Lola and Tío Chacho arrived soon after with my cousins Delia, Teline, and Pepito. Teline and I were the same age, but Delia was sixteen and already a señorita , so she didn’t play with us as much as she used to.
“Hola , Verdita,” Delia said, and kissed both my cheeks. She smelled strong. Like the incense they flung around during mass. I wondered if she had just come from confession and what she’d confessed. Mamá said once you became a señorita , everything changed. She said that TitiLola took Delia to confession twice a week so that the priest could make her right with God. I wondered if I would have to go that often when I became a señorita . I hoped not. I smelled like coconut bark, and I liked it that way.
Teline came in with Pepito. He was only three years old and still needed someone to watch after him. When Teline stopped to hug and kiss my cheeks, Pepito pulled away and ran toward the line of potted poinsettias that Mamá had bought for decoration.
“Pepito!” Titi Lola yelled, barely inside the doorframe. She’d dyed her hair purple-red and wore a grass-green dress that cinched at the waist then belled out to her knees. Her gold stiletto heels made little click-click noises wherever she walked.
Pepito ripped pointy leaves from their stems, but before he brought the red handfuls to his mouth, Titi Lola click-clicked to him and pulled him back by the forehead. “Teline, you almost let Pepito die!” She emptied his fists. Jagged petals confettied the floor.
“It’s not my fault,” Teline
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