EL BARRIO
Continuing on with the best day of my life, Esperanza takes me to her house in El Barrio - and there I begin my education.
As I ponder this fascination with blinking lights, long forgotten memories of growing up in Brooklyn arise hazily from the corners of my mind. Blistering July and August days, so humid there would literally be steam rising up from the black tar streets, hanging out on the front stoop, gasping for a drop of wind, or air. Then sure enough, Victor Menendez and his little brother Gee-Gee, who lived in the apartment next door, would break out the wrenches to open up the ‘Johnny pump’ out front. Instantly, there would be all of us, a bunch of happy kids, jumping around gratefully in the torrent of gushing water. The force of it almost knocking us over until, inevitably, the Fire Department would arrive to shut it down. Amidst, of course, groans and shouts from the crowd. The old Italians would always complain about the “spics”, but, hey, they were the ones sweating.
The memories comfort me in a way, and I relax into them, the anxiety of being a stranger in an alien world, slowly dissipating. Turning off onto a deserted side street, we pull up into the driveway of a muted purple two-story house, which, although it could use a paint job, isn’t half-bad. In fact, this neighborhood seems almost suburban, I muse, as we get out of the car and head over to the front door. Esperanza takes out this clump of keys from her pocketbook, and proceeds to open up a number of locks. We enter a darkened hallway, the strong smell of Mr. Clean stinging my nostrils and watering up my eyes. We hop up the stairs until we reach another door, where this time, she unlocks, like, fifteen different locks. The door creaks open to a dimly lit room, and I immediately jump back. I’m startled by this, like, life-size Crucifix dominating the wall directly in front of me, and an equally life-like Jesus staring down from it. Blood pouring from his puncture wounds! Holy shit, that looks too real! For a minute, I feel like I’m Pontius Pilate on Judgment Day. It’s so bizarre. Right below the cross is a kind of altar. An imposing figure of the Virgin Mary, rosary beads dangling from her outstretched hands, standing there. A row of prayer candle votives cast spooky shadows over the paintings and statues of various other saints. I gaze around the room tentatively. It’s cluttered with all types of religious paraphernalia. An involuntary shudder creeps over me.
“Abuelita?”
Esperanza calls out over the din of a Spanish soap opera, blasting from a TV somewhere in the darkness. I follow Esperanza blindly, as she picks her way through this obstacle course of relics crowding the room. Finally, she reaches a small black and white Zenith, which is definitely looking worse for the wear.
“Abuelita?” she repeats, as we come upon an oversized Gothic-type armchair, from who knows what time period. I do a double take, then a triple take. I am astonished to find this tiny, brown-skinned old lady…easily the most ancient looking person I have ever seen, settled into it. I mean, she could be Miss Jane Pittman’s grandmother. Her face looks like a baked potato that has been left in the refrigerator for a year. An oversized pair of magnifying glasses, grey shawl, faded print dress, and crusty old house slippers complete the ghastly outfit. I stare at her with a mix of horror and fascination. Mainly because I can’t tell if she is alive or not.