Island of Poverty and Hospitality

My parents were married in 1945 in Puerto Rico.  My mother was 14 years old, my father was 19. It’s my understanding the two families knew each other.  It’s hard to  understand how this was considered acceptable.  Sadly, even today it still happens in parts of the world. 

In 1930, the year before my mother was born, The Brookings Institute, a Washington research and policy institute, sent researchers to the island to write a report on living conditions. The report was extensive and painted a bleak and heartbreaking picture of life on the island, particularly in the countryside.

 Most homes, it reported were simple thatched roof huts no bigger than 20 feet by 20 feet and were usually divided into two rooms with an average of 8 people living in the home.  Furniture consisted of a hammock for sleeping or a discarded oil can that was overturned for seating. Health problems were severe with contaminated water the leading cause of death. Typhoid was 5 times more prevalent than densely populated New York City.

Not surprising, the researchers noted that in the face of this harsh environment, the country dwellers or jibaros (pronounced hibaro) had a fatalism toward life. But they also found that the Puerto Ricans demonstrated an extreme hospitality even to strangers in the most dark and depressing circumstances. The researchers reported about one woman, whose dead husband’s body was being waked in the humble home.  She told them she feared for her future.  In the next breadth, she offered them a cup of coffee.

Although they thought highly of education, few of the jibaros had attended much school or sent their children simply because they couldn’t afford to buy them school clothes or afford the cost of transport, the report noted.  This would be the reason my grandparents gave my mother when she asked if she could attend high school in a neighboring town.  There was simply no extra money to pay for the bus fare.  Why bother to educate a girl further, they reasoned.  She would eventually get married and have babies anyway.  

My grandparents unloaded their daughter,  the second eldest of six children. When I got to know my grandfather years later, he was an amiable enough man who had a very friendly and happy nature. This made it harder to understand how he could just stand by and not fight for his daughter. My mother once told me that my father disappeared for two weeks shortly after they were married.  Why didn’t my grandfather hunt down my father and kick his ass?  Why did he look the other way when this emotional abuse began?  

My grandmother on the other hand never smiled and had a personality that was as cold and hard as armor.  There was no nurturing, never a kind or encouraging word.  

There wasn’t much emotional wholeness on my father’s side of the family.  He was one of 14 children born to a father who prayed and read  daily from Catholic devotional books. If his sons stepped out of line in any way deemed inappropriate for the time and culture, he disciplined them with a whip.   My grandmother was said to “have worn the pants” in the family.  She was domineering, involved in every aspect of her children’s lives, her loud opinions constantly being expressed.  

The attitude toward children in that era was that they were seen and not to be heard.  Also Latin culture, like many cultures around the world then and now, was very authoritarian.  The man was the head of the household.  Wives obeyed their husband, children obeyed their parents without question.  Unhappy feelings were bad.  Life was harsh. Happiness was a luxury for the wealthy.  You had to survive.

Puerto Rican White Girl

Whenever I introduce myself to people, they usually comment on what an interesting and unique name I have.  In English it's pronounced Hay and dee.  I respond by telling them my name is Spanish and that in Spanish the H is silent. The best way I can describe the Spanish pronunciation is to link the Spanish word hay (as in the way Ricky from I Love Lucy would exclaim "hay, hay, hay" when he was exasperated by Lucy's behavior), and add the word, day.

Usually then people ask me "So what are you?" I know they mean what ethnicity are you but inside I want to answer "Well I'm human and the last time I checked I was female."  But I respond by saying, "I'm American and my parents are from Puerto Rico." People usually respond with surprise, even shock.  "You don't look Puerto Rican," they'll say.  That's because I'm a white Puerto Rican.  Sometimes I'll smile faintly.  If I'm in good spirits I'll say, "Puerto Ricans come in many shades," and  I may launch into an explanation of Puerto Rico's three racial groups: Native Taino Indians, the Spanish conquerors, and the African slaves they brought with them to the island.

My parents came to New York from Puerto Rico in 1957.  Along with thousands of other Puerto Ricans, they moved to the South Bronx.  I have three older sisters and one brother who were born in Puerto Rico.  I was born in the Bronx, along with a younger sister.

My mother's family had what I would call the more Taino features--olive skin, brown eyes.  My father and his family had Spanish features--fair skin, green eyes.  I have cousins who have blond and red hair.

Puerto Rico had a strange type of caste system when it came to skin color.  The whiter you were, the better you were regarded on the social scale.  You were part of the ruling elite and even if you weren't directly, if you were just as poor as your darker brothers and sisters, you had the opportunity for  better education and better jobs.  My father's family certainly had these attitudes.  I would often hear my father and his brothers and sisters make disparaging remarks about other Puerto Ricans  because they were darker.  If one of my sisters had a boy who was interested in them and he was darker than we were, he would fly into a rage. My father despised one of my older sister's first husband because his complexion was darker. He was deadset against their marriage and almost boycotted their wedding.  It took massive amounts of pleading by my mother and sister for him to change his entrenched position.

So it was into this storm of complexion paranoia that my mother married into.  At the ridiculous age of 14 in 1945.

Self-Sabotage 101

I was sitting in a corner table in the high school library where I worked, out of view of anyone who peered in the glass panel of the door.  My makeshift "At Lunch" sign was taped to the door. The lights were off.  My eyes were welling up with tears and it was difficult to swallow.  I was feeling panicky and overwhelmed.  The article I was reading on the student laptop said that abused people begin to believe that the abuse is "their fault," and they punish themselves through self-sabotaging behavior. I had a history of making unsatisfying choices and then feeling resentful or feeling that I really had no choice at all.

As a high school junior in the late 70s, I made the decision that I wanted to go to college.  I was excitedly looking into the journalism programs at Boston University, Hofstra and several other schools. My mother said in no uncertain terms could I go  away.  I had to go to a local school.  We were so poor, but having stellar grades and being Hispanic, I could have gotten tons of financial aid and scholarships to any school I wanted. There was no point in trying to reason with her.  I gave up my dream of going away. 

In my early twenties I got a job as a newspaper reporter after lots of painstaking work to land it.  I felt out of sorts there.  As with any job, there were situations where I needed to speak up and assert myself. But I never did. As a copy "girl" on the news desk it was my responsibility to check the newswires and route the stories to the appropriate editor.  Sometimes things were hectic and the man in the wire room would bring out batches of copy for myself and another copy clerk to distribute.  The other clerk would spend hours yammering on the phone and avoiding work.  I would put some of the copy in his basket and he would take it and put it back in mine.  I was too terrified to speak up about this. I walked around in a black cloud of depression.

Later in my thirties I short circuited my goal of getting my teaching certification to teach high school English by forgoing that goal and taking a job teaching primary grades.  Again, not what I wanted to do, but I felt I needed to let go of my goal to meet an immediate financial need which looking back now, was not so pressing.

I sat in the darkened library with tears streaming down my face as memories of these and other disappointing decisions swirled around my head.  I noticed I had ten more minutes before the end of period bell rang and the senior high school girls would come pouring in.   I needed to compose myself and fast. I would go from being an information specialist to being the food, beverage and noise police officer.  I made a decision to use my information gathering skills to find a good therapist.

I'm 53 years old and I'm fucked. And not in a good way. The 31 year marriage I thought was at its best, suddenly blew up. Just like that.  I was blindsighted.  Maybe I was too busy crying and feeling depressed to see it coming.

When I turned 50 three years ago,  I was in a state of shock.  Where had the years gone?  It was just yesterday that I had my then 23 year old daughter and 19 year old son.  Now my daughter was finishing up her first post college job with the non-profit group City Year and my son was away at Kent State.  I would look in the mirror and see a still young looking woman looking back at me a little sadly.

Oh yes, let's not forget menopause.  I had officially become a card carrying member of that group the previous year.  "You're a little young, but it does happen," my doctor said consolingly.  I could hardly wait for the coming onslaught of hot flashes and even more mood swings to add to my deepening all around crappy feeling.

A year later, my bright and lovely daughter  had not found her second post college job and my son had boomeranged back home from college after his love relationship had blown up in his face and living with this person became too painful.  At first my mom instincts kicked in and I all too gladly offered consolation and comfort.  But the realities of having two unemployed 20 somethings living at home was becoming less appealing.  I offered too many suggestions, they bristled and we would argue.

Me to my daughter:  "It's October.  This would be a good time to hit some stores and fill out some applications for holiday work."

My daughter to me:  "Will you get off my back!  You told me this last week! Why would I want to work retail with a college degree?"

My son to me:  "Mom you're being a nag again."

Back and forth it went.  If it wasn't with my daughter, it was with my son and sometimes both. 

Did I mention that I was miserable at my job and that my marriage had become a joyless slog? Thanks to Oprah.com, thoughts of a one weekend a month marriage with me living serenely in my own apartment began to occupy more of thoughts at work and home.