Las Christmas (16 page)

Piri Thomas

Piri Thomas is the author of the classic memoir
Down These Mean Streets
(Vintage) as well as of three other volumes,
Savior, Savior Hold My Hand (Doubleday), Seven Long Times (Arte Público Press), and Stories from El Barrio
(Knopf ).

A CHRISTMAS TREE

TWO MORE WEEKS and it would come around again. Christmas. The year was 1938. I was ten years old and living with my family in Harlem. Las Navidades was a sacred time for all the devout Christians regardless of color, for it was in honor of Jesus Christ, who had not even known the comfort of being born in a hospital, since there had been no room at the inn. Instead he had been born in a manger in the stable. Popi, who was a death-bed Catholic, would only see a priest when he was ready to kick the bucket, but when anybody asked him what his faith was, he would proudly boom out, “Me, I'm
católico.
”

For kids in El Barrio, Christmas was a time of great expectations and nighttime dreams of a beautiful yellow bicycle with balloon tires or a brand-new pair of ice skates. I dropped hints all over the place hoping to receive at least one or the other. I would write to Santa Claus asking for what I wanted, always sending my best regards to Mrs. Claus with the hope of establishing a better connection. But the truth of the matter was that nobody heard me. We Thomas children always got something, although not exactly what we had asked for. Our brave, tight smiles with the glimmer of a tear were meant to pass as the happy joy of receiving pretty close to what we wanted, but we sure didn't fool Mami, who, in gentle tones, would tell us that we ought to be thankful that we had received something, at least, since a lot of ghetto children had not gotten anything because of the great unemployment. The lines at Catholic Charities were long and not everybody in them was Catholic. The Twenty-third precinct on 104th Street gave out toys to the kids in our community, and then some of the cops proceeded to bust our chops for the rest of the year. La Casita María in El Barrio on 110th Street gave out warm blankets and clothes and bags of groceries and the Heckscher Foundation on 104th Street was there for us, too, and gave shoes and warm clothing to the very poor. Mami gave each of us a kiss and a tight hug and told us we should give thanks to God that our father had had a job at the toy warehouse for the past two years. I smiled in agreement, but with my thoughts I responded, “Sí, Mami, but they don't have yellow bikes with balloon tires and pro ice skates.”

Popi's boss was named Mr. Charles. Popi worked as a toy inspector who checked the toys, separating out the damaged ones as rejects. Popi also served with distinction as packer and porter. Popi had told us that his boss considered himself to be a good guy and so at Christmastime he allowed his workers to take home damaged toys as presents for their children. But all the toys Popi had brought home last Christmas were brand-new with the exception of one single reject among them. As it came out years later, Popi, who like many other parents wanted the best for his children, wanted brand-new toys instead of rejects, and had simply put prime-condition toys into a large potato sack and then placed a damaged one right on top, bringing them all home in one sack, which made us kids very happy on Christmas morning. Of course Popi didn't want Mami to know, because she, as a good Christian, would disapprove of any action that smacked of dishonesty.

It was four days before Christmas and we still had not gotten our tree. Popi had waited until he got his few dollars' Christmas bonus and then announced that it was time to buy our tree and asked us who wanted to come. Of course all four kids began to squeal and jump around, using any excuse for creating joy. I looked out the window of the living room which faced the street. The barrio was covered by a soft white blanket of snow that kept falling gently. “Dress warmly,” Mami admonished, and in no time at all the four of us looked like Eskimos, complete with warm scarves that swallowed our faces. As we ran out into the dimly lit hallway and noisily descended the stairs two at a time, I heard Mami call down to Popi about not going crazy and spending too much money on the Christmas tree.

The five of us stepped out into a white world of falling snow and muffled sounds. The snow looked good enough to eat. We could make snowballs and then pour on flavored syrup and eat the balls like
piraguas.
Popi exclaimed, “
Vaya
kids, look at all the snow, is this not a most beautiful sight?” We all shivered in agreement. Lots of
familias
with their children were heading toward Third Avenue. We turned the corner on 104th Street and Third and the avenue was ablaze on both sides of the street with millions of multicolored Christmas lights blinking at each other all the way up to 125th Street. Loudspeakers hooked to the outside walls of well-stocked stores blared Christmas songs like “I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas,” “Joy to the World,” and “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” with commercial breaks in English and Spanish that promised tremendous bargains with 50 percent off and instant credit.

José was anxious to get to the empty lot near Second Avenue, because he had been chosen to be the one to pick the tree. We all entered the huge lot full of all sizes and kinds of trees. Popi led us to where the regular-sized trees were trying to look their scrawny best, and we followed right behind him— that is, all except José, who was nowhere to be seen. Everybody took a point on the compass and frantically went José-hunting. I hoped he had not been kidnapped and held for ransom. Sis ended those lousy thoughts by waving at all of us to come over. We joined her and as she pointed to the more expensive, taller, and fuller trees, there was little José lost in wonder, looking up at one of the tallest and most expensive trees in the lot! I saw Popi's face like he was remembering what Mami had said about not going crazy and spending too much money. We all stared at José, who turned to us with a big grin on his small face and pointed to what from his vantage point must have seemed like a giant redwood straight from California. Popi smiled at little José, and we all followed suit as Popi tried to persuade José that he had to be kidding, trying to steer our little brother toward some Christmas trees more his size, but to no avail. José held his ground without a grin and kept his tiny forefinger pointed at the gorgeous tree of his choice. Popi offered him a delicious hot dog from a nearby stand, knowing that José (and us along with him) loved hot dogs with a passion, but José was determined not to be moved. His little lips started to quiver and his tiny forefinger was getting tired of pointing and just before the first tears formed, Frankie, my sister, and I were practically glaring at poor Popi, who was hung up in the middle with no place to go. Popi did what he had to do and snatched José up in his arms and raised him onto his shoulder and shouted out for José and all to hear, “Hey Mista, how much you want for this tree?” Popi's eyes pleaded with the Negro brother that the price not be too high, so that he could please his youngest child along with the rest of the family.

The brother, who was an old man of about thirty, looked the tree over, lips pursed like he was into a real heavy decision. Popi finally said, “Well, Mista, what's your price?” and added under his breath, “You know, if it's too high, I won't be able to deal with it.” I watched everyone closely. Their faces were somber. José had some tears ready just in case the price was out of the question.

“Well, sir, this tree is worth about ten dollars.” We gasped. Ten dollars in 1938 was like two months' rent and food for months and months. Rice and beans were about five cents a pound. Popi shook his head grimly and did not dare look straight at José, who was nibbling his upper lip with his lower. “How much do you have, sir?” asked the mista. “I got a five-dollar bill from which I gotta bring home at least two for the Christmas dinner.” Popi squatted down to José's size and offered him a whispered deal of how about us getting a smaller tree and José could have a whole dollar all of his own. José just shook his head and pointed his tiny forefinger up at his personal Christmas tree. Popi got up and whispered to the mista, “Say brother, what's the best you can do?”

“Wal, I sez if you don't mind giving me a hand tomorrow night, you got the tree for three bucks. Whatta ya say?”

“Done deal.” Popi shook hands with the mista and said, “My name is Juan but I'm known as Johnny.”

“My name is Matt,” and that was that. Popi gave Matt the worn fivedollar bill and got two bucks in return. José put on one of his famous grins and we all broke out in a victorious cheer.

The five of us struggled through the snow until we were across the street in front of our building at 112 East 104th Street. We were living on the top floor and it suddenly dawned on Popi that the hallway was too narrow and the turns up the steps were even worse. We tried getting the tree into the hallway, but to no avail unless we wanted to scrape the branches clean. By this time a small crowd of neighbors had gathered around us, some of whom stopped to greet Popi and admire José's great choice of Christmas tree. Then the debate began on how in the heck were we going to get that twelve-foot tree up to our apartment, where the ceiling was only nine feet high. Some suggested we bind the tree firmly and squeeze and bend it around the banister. Popi was listening to the suggestions of the men when Mami, full of curiosity, came downstairs and out onto the street where the small crowd had gotten larger. Mami quickly sized up the situation and brightly suggested, “Why don't we pull it up the side of the building to the fifth floor and then haul it in through the front window?” Everybody smiled and agreed that Mami's way was the best, and soon Pancho, who had a small truck, came back with a long strong rope and a small pulley. He and Popi went up to our apartment and quickly secured the pulley to the side of the fire escape and then ran the rope through it to the street below. By this time neighbors were serving hot coffee to whoever wanted some and small shots of rum to those who might be extra cold. Everybody seemed to be extra cold. The tall, full Christmas tree was then tied to the rope and with Popi on the fifth-floor fire escape directing the hauling, Mami took charge below, with Sis and Frankie watching José, who took in the whole scene with a tremendous grin. Tenants appeared on each fire escape and hands from each of the fire escapes carefully helped guide the tall tree upward until it reached the fifth floor without the loss of a single branch. Popi and Pancho pulled the big tree in amidst a mighty cheer that rose up from the muffled street below—the sound of victory brought about by the unity of neighbors.

After all that, the tree did not fit in our apartment. But Popi was not to be defeated, so he measured it carefully and Pancho sawed off three feet, finally making it the right size. Then Mami had us carry the three feet of Christmas tree down to Abuela Santiago, who lived alone but had almost everybody in the building for an adopted family. Mami took some lights and trimmings and went down to her apartment with José so he could be the one to present the tree to Abuela Santiago. We allowed Abuela and José to do most of the decorating, and Abuela blessed us after we finished. I thought that this promised to be a fine Christmas, indeed.

When Christmas morning finally dawned, my siblings and I dashed out of our bedrooms to look under José's tree, which was now brightly decorated with multicolored Christmas lights blinking on and off. Lo and behold, underneath the tree, in full view of the world, was a pair of ice skates just like the pros used, and on closer look, who the heck cared if they were secondhand, fresh from the Salvation Army thrift store? They were professional skates and that was all I cared about.
Vaya,
next year might just bring the beautiful yellow bike with balloon tires. “Merry Christmas,” I began to shout and my siblings followed my example. Soon we were joined by happy kids in the hallway stomping up and down the stairs, shouting Merry Christmas and
Feliz Navidad
to one another.
Punto.

Judith Ortiz Cofer

Judith Ortiz Cofer was born in Hormigueros, Puerto Rico. The recipient of
fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Witter Bynner
Foundation, she is the author of a novel,
The Line of the Sun
(University of
Georgia Press), two collections of prose and poetry,
Silent Dancing: A Partial Remembrance of a Puerto Rican Childhood (Arte Público Press) and The Latin Deli: Prose and Poetry (W. W. Norton), two volumes of poems, Terms of Survival (Arte Público Press) and Reaching for the Mainland (Bilingual
Press) and a volume of stories for young adults,
An Island Like You: Stories of the Barrio
(Penguin). She is professor of English and creative writing at the
University of Georgia.

THE GIFT OF A CUENTO

THIS IS THE STORY of a cuento that was given to me once upon a time, and then again.
Una vez y dos son tres.
I was thirteen. It was the year when I began to feel like a Cinderella whose needs were being totally ignored by everyone, including the fairy
madrinas
I fantasized would bring me a new, exciting life with the touch of a magic wand. I had read all of the virtue-rewarded-by-marriage-to-a-handsome-prince tales at the Paterson Public Library and was ready for something miraculous to happen to me: beautiful clothes, an invitation to a great party, love. Unfortunately there was a dearth of princes in my life, and I was not exactly the most popular girl at a school socially dominated by Italian and Irish-American princesses. Also, that year I was in the throes of the most severe insecurity crisis of my life: besides being extremely thin—“skinny-bones” was my nickname in the barrio—I was the new girl at the Catholic high school where I had been enrolled that fall, one of two Puerto Rican girls in a small, mostly homogenous social world, and I had also recently been prescribed glasses, thick lenses supported by sturdy black frames. After wearing them for only a few weeks, I developed a semipermanent ridge on my nose. I tried to make up for my physical deficiencies by being well read and witty. This worked fine within my talkative
familia
but not at school, among my peers, who did not value eloquence in girls—not more than a well-developed body and social status, anyway.

That Christmas season, the
cuentista
of our family entered my life. My mother's younger brother, who lived in New York, was the black sheep of the family, with a trail of family
cuentos
about his travels, misadventures, and womanizing behind him—which made him immensely attractive to me. His arrival filled our house with new talk, old stories and music. Tío liked to tell cuentos, and he also liked playing his LPs. My mother and he danced to merengues fresh from the Island—which he seemed to be able to acquire before anyone else, and which he carried with him as if they were precious crystal wrapped in layers of newspaper. He was the spirit of Navidad in our house, with just a hint of the Dionysian about him. Tío enjoyed his Puerto Rican rum, too, so his visits were as short as the festivities, because his bachelor habits eventually wore down my mother's patience.

Tío must have sensed my loneliness that year, for he took it upon himself to spend a lot of time with me the week before Christmas. We went for walks around the gray city, now decked out in lights and ornaments like an overdressed woman, and for pizza downtown. He asked me about my social life and I confessed that my
príncipe
had not appeared on our block yet, so I had none.

“Why do you need a prince to have fun?” my uncle asked, laughing at my choice of words. Unlike other adults, he seemed to really listen. Later I understood this was how he learned to tell a story. He told me that I had inherited his and my
abuela
's gift of the
cuento.
And because he was so unlike my other
cariñoso
relatives, who poured the sweet words on us kids without discrimination or restraint (or honesty, I thought), I believed him. I knew how to tell a good story. My mother had warned me that it was Tío's charm, his ability to flatter and to persuade, that usually got him into trouble. I wanted that power for myself, too. The seductiveness and the power of words enticed me.

His appeal had little to do with physical beauty: he was short, dark, wiry, with a Taíno Indian face. But he was generous to a fault, completely giving of himself. Our family dreaded his recklessness, but we also adored him for the many sacrifices he had made for our sake, the good deeds that I heard about, along with the spicy
cuentos
and the gossip about his complex love life.

“I guess I was thinking of Cinderella.” I didn't want Tío to think me a child, but I also wanted him to understand me in a way no one else could. I wanted magic in my life. Poised between a sheltered childhood and the yearnings of approaching adolescence, my dreams were hopelessly entangled with fairy-tale fantasies. The prince was the prize I had learned to want from the things I heard and saw around me.

“La Cinderella. That girl has really made trouble for us men,” Tío laughed.

We were standing in front of the drugstore where my mother bought her twenty-five-cent Corín Tellado romances—which I also avidly read. My uncle took my hand and guided me inside the store. The rack of Spanish-language
novelas
was a Christmas tree of romance. Passionate couples kissing on every cover.

“See what women read?” My uncle gave the rack a turn, making it go round and round, creating the illusion of a moving picture of embraces and phrases like
“la pasión,” “corazón y alma,” “besos,”
and the constant refrain of
“el amor, el amor, el amor.”

“Mami reads these,” I confessed, “and sometimes I do, too.” In fact, it was my job to memorize the titles she had read so she could send me for new ones as they came in.

“They are all Cinderella stories. Every one of them.” Tío gave the rack another turn. “The plot is always the same: Poor or unfortunate girl meets rich unattainable man. After many hardships he discovers that the shoe will only fit the girl whose beauty he had not ever really seen because of her rags. If he is an alcoholic, he stops drinking; if he's a miser, he turns generous; if he's short and fat . . .”

“Don't tell me—he gets skinny and tall!”

“Or at least he learns to act as if he were perfect in every other way.”

“So what's wrong with that?”

“La vida no es así.”
My uncle looked uncharacteristically solemn when he told me that the expectations of Cinderella and her female followers were simply not the way life really was for men and women, not even when they were in love.

But I didn't hear him. I knew only that my charming
tío
smelled enticingly of liquor and cigarettes when he leaned down to kiss me, and that he had other vices I could not yet name. But all of that made him alluring to me—the good Catholic girl waiting for life to begin happening for her. He was the mysterious man in one of my mother's
novelas.
I thought he was so much more interesting than my dull, hardworking father and my other male relatives. I didn't know of my
tío
's lifelong battle with alcoholism, or of the throat cancer that would silence his seductive voice forever, before he was much older than I am now.

I remember walking with him past the decorated storefronts of downtown Paterson one evening. My uncle made a game of asking me if I wanted this or that for Christmas: a Thumbelina doll like I had desperately wished for last year? No. I had received a hard plastic doll from one of my grandmothers in Puerto Rico, and my parents had decided that that was enough dolls for me. Only Tío had understood that the Thumbelina baby doll
felt
like a real fleshand-blood baby. We had gone into the store and held it. He had not bought it for me because that year was one of his
años pobres,
when he was between jobs, holing up or drying out at a relative's apartment somewhere, waiting until he could get together enough money to return to
la isla.
But this year he had money for gifts, he said. Did I want jewelry? We looked at all the shiny baubles in the jewelry store window. No. An
azabache
to wear around my neck to ward off the evil eye? No. I laughed. I was too sophisticated then for such superstitious nonsense.

“Surprise me, Tío.”

That week before Nochebuena I stayed close to his magical presence, taking in his masculine appeal, watching women's faces soften when he cast his dark eyes on them, smelling his dangerous other life when he kissed me on the cheek as he said good night and went off like the sleek cat he was to prowl the streets and return in the morning to my mother's kitchen, where his face revealed that he had been
doing
exciting things while the rest of us only dreamed about them.

Mami would frown through her first cup of coffee, then break down in girlish giggles when Tío told us a new joke or
cuento
he had picked up in his wanderings. I gathered these stories in my memory and brought them out during the loneliest times of my life. They nourished and comforted me as they had my mother, who was always hungry for words in Spanish during those first years away from the Island. I had no idea then that my uncle was using his storytelling in a similar way: to trade for attention, time, even affection from others.

“
Mira,
it was like this,” he would sit across from my mother at her little Formica table, both of them smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. “The girl needed attention and I gave her some. I will tell you from the beginning so that you know I am not the scoundrel you think. This is
la verdad, la pura
verdad.
”

This phrase was a key to their family joke. Whenever any of my
abuela
's children started a story with the announcement that it was the pure unadulterated truth, as the old lady always did before one of her
cuentos,
we all knew that it was going to be a good one. A whopper. No holds barred.

“And how was I to know that she was married? All I knew was that her big brown eyes, like my
sobrina
's there, were beckoning to me from across the dance floor.
Socorro. Ayuda,
they said to me, save me from this lonely life . . .”

“She had very eloquent eyes.” My mother might comment in mock seriousness.

“What could I do but respond to her silent cries for help?”

“If someone's eyes cry out for help,
pues,
you must do what you have to do,
hombre.
” My mother fell easily into the straight-man role that played such a large part in these entertainments. Their jokes and
cuento-
tellings were more like a little play extemporized by people who knew each other well.

“I did what any man with a heart would have done. I danced a few numbers with her. I bought her a drink. I asked her if she would like me to escort her home. You know the streets of this city . . .”

“Are crawling with criminals!” my mother offered.

“Exactly. Well, that's when she thanked me by telling me that her fiancé was getting off from a late shift at any moment. And . . . well, wasn't that him at the door now? Yes, it was the fiancé at the door, and he looked more like King Kong than any other man I have ever seen.
Hija,
he was covered with black fur from head to toe, and he was so huge that he had to squeeze in through the double doors. Good thing that slowed him down enough so I could end my dance with the lovely
señorita
as quickly as possible.”

“But how did you get the egg on your forehead,
hermano?
Did you bump it on your way out?”

“¡Ay, bendito!
King Kong gave me this little gift. You see there was no back door. And for a big ape, the fiancé moved fast. The only thing I regret is that he wasted a perfectly good bottle of Bacardi by using it as a weapon on my head.”