Para Elvis Rodriguez – Que en paz descanse

Estas son las cadenas, que antes cantaba

las cantaba mi madre cuando lavaba

las cantaba mi abuela cuando lavaba

My Papi comes from caña.  And rios.  And caserios.  From mariscos.  From la costa de una isla he still calls casa.

1968. Don Cornelio el primero wakes him early early to cut cane. Rough touch. Tongue sweet. Papi up up up, early early. Only early risers live up to big names like Cornelio el terzero. The cock crows and there is work to be done.

Afternoons are for maldades with Elvis. Playing in rivers. Running through baking rays of sun. Fighting con Rafi-seis-de’os, en esos tiempos cuando se peleaba a puños.

Elvis leaves because Nydia says so. And when Mami says let’s go. You go. And when Mami says Live with your grandmother. You live. Your abuela is the closest thing to sweet there is in this tenement cold. And you haven’t learned English yet. So you still speak Doña Nico’s language.

Fourteen-year-old fire-filled fists swing. Elvis’ knuckles speak universal languages. He tells stories the best way he knows how – a puños. A puro puños. Even the New York Daily News takes note of his translating skills. It is 1973 and he is the citywide campeón de los guantes.

Elvis returns because Nydia says so. And when Mami says let’s go, you still have to go. Salty goodbyes, mi Doña Anico. There is no sweet in leaving you behind.

Elivis returns with secrets of style too cosmopolitan for his barrio’s caserio. Papi takes hold. Teach me how to fold these sleeves. How to make this uniform pop. They walk to school as cool and hip as the salsa they will soon turn into salsa classica. No time for rios or rays of sun. Now is the time for girls. and girls. and more girls.

Elvis leaves because he can. Because he is a man. Because his mother, the heat, the river, the cane – these things cannot hold him now. He feels too big for all this small.

Papi leaves because he can. Because he is a man. And because Mama Merida says so. And when your mother says you have to go. You go. She is worried. Worried for you to stay. Worried for you to go. Maybe things are better alla afuera. Go and try your luck, mi’jo. Go.

Brothers are a strange thing. They are not like sisters who are all tongue and talk. A puños. Cortando caña. Los cortes de camisas. Brothers are all hands.

Elvis sings to Papi an old song made new:

pollito – chicken

gallina – hen

alicate – pliers

y llave – wrench

Te voy a poner en este business y tu siempre vas a trabajar. Porque donde hay buildings grande, tiene que aver alguien pa’ arreglarlos. Y ese va ser tu trabajo.

Hey Boss, I have a brother. Works hard. Learns fast. Give him a shot, boss. Give him a shot.

Herk Elevators. Grand Concourse. The Bronx. 1978.

maestra – teacher

puerta – door

hammer – martillo

screwdriver – destornillador

People tell Papi to be careful. Elvis means trouble. But Papi sees his brother’s hands. They do not box anymore. They want more than this constant clench. They tire of sore veins. Papi keeps him busy. The haziness lifts. They are men. They are brothers.

Papi marries Mami. Has me. Has Jason. Has his job fixing elevators.

Evlis was right:

As long as there are skyscrapers, they will always need someone to fix the elevators.

Elvis marries. Has Marianee. Works. Then doesn’t. Is clean. Then isn’t.

Papi argues with Mami. Leaves. Picks us up every weekend. Fixes different elevators now. Works in the projects.

Elvis is a man. A man with vices. A man with sweetness like cane in his veins. He is a man who lives with his grandmother. Sometimes with his daughter. Who has a brother they call Jun. Jun for Junior because Cornelio is too big a name for these caserios and their cold.

Thanksgiving is for family. Family wherever you can find it. In Puerto Rico we sing aguinaldos. In New York, we sing aguinaldos too, so that we can be in Puerto Rico.

Estas son las cadenas, que antes cantaba

las cantaba mi madre cuando lavaba

las cantaba mi abuela cuando lavaba

1992. Papi calls us on Thanksgiving. Spends the day with Elvis, Nydia, Doña Anico, and Marianee. Nydia makes two turkeys. One for all of them. The other for Elvis’ friends. Thanksgiving is for family. Family wherever you can find it.

Elvis leaves because the priest has already been here three times and Elvis is sick of it. ¿Que hace este aqui otra ves?

Papi says Elvis leaves porque si fuera por él estuviera en Puerto Rico cortando caña. pero ya no hay caña. There is no more sugar cane.

Elvis leaves because there are no puños that can fight this now. He leaves because. because. because. because. because. Just because.

Me cuidas a Marianee. You take care of my little girl.

Si te fuiste mi papito, ¿por qué te has hido?

Si desde que te fuiste, mucho he sufrido

Si desde que te fuiste, mucho he sufrido

1998. The year I start college. The year Jason starts high-school. The year Elvis says goodbye to the Bronx. The year he rests al otro lado del rio. The year Papi stops celebrating Thanksgiving.

The year Elvis goes.

Si te fuiste mi hermano, ¿por qué te has hido?

Si desde que te fuiste, mucho he sufrido

Si desde que te fuiste, mucho he sufrido

I am Papi’s oldest daughter. I have no sisters who share this blood. But I watch Papi dance that special dance only fathers and daughters know. She looks so lovely in white. And Papi holds her so tight. so tight.

Estas son las cadenas, que antes cantaba

las cantaba mi madre cuando lavaba

las cantaba mi abuela cuando lavaba

©Li Yun Alvarado

Li Yun Alvarado es  una escritora, poeta y maestra puertorriqueña criada en Nueva York hija de padres salinenses.  Actualmente es candidata a un doctorado especializado en inglés en la Universidad de Forham.  Ha publicado artículos, relatos y poemas en The Acentos Review, Kweli Journal, Palabra, A Magazine of Chicano and Latino Literary Art, y en Modern Haiku. Además posee su propio blog.  Li Yun colabora con la actividad denominada Fordham’s Poets Out Loud reading series, ha participado en el  VONA Writers Workshop en San Francisco, y coma facilitadora en Acentos Writers Workshop. Además ha enseñado literatura, escritura y poesía a estudiante de escuela intermedia en Boston, Nueva York, y en Dominicana. Reside en la ciudad de Nueva York y viaja frecuentemente a Salinas, Puerto Rico a visitar su familia. Seleccionamos este inusual relato en ingleñol como una muestra de la expresión literaria de los boricuas salinenses en la diaspora.