“How did your maid treat you?” asked the nimble professor. He was aged, crooked from the head to his
sacral curve. He waded down but he
smiled gingerly at his students, encircling him. “Alba, how did your maid treat you?” he
asked cunningly, seeing if he could get his desired answer.
“I never had a maid,” she responded,
looking sideways to confirm that no other person acted otherwise. She was shy, and for a moment thought wealthy
students surrounded her and she feared she was the only exception. But a firmer looking classmate agreed,
stating that no one had maids these days, at least not like J.D. Salinger
proposed in his Nine Stories.
In unison, bursts of anger and
repulsion resounded from the class. Many
shouted but Roberto was the only one to speak clearly enough for me to
hear. He said, “We’re not Guaynabitos! You know, rich kids!” As he splattered his comment, my mind went
blank with repulsion. Well,
unfortunately I am your biased narrator.
Now, Roberto will tell you that the streets from Guaynabo are crowded
with wealthy, high-class executives whose only funk in life is that the new
Mercedes did not come in blue. But, I
will tell you contrary.
I never had a maid, though I wanted
to say that I did in front of the class.
In fact, after the class finished the unified commotion, I rather hoped
Prof. Fiet would ask me the same question.
That way, I could have given them rather a nice shock. But then I remembered that earlier in the
period, the professor had asked me directly in front of the class if there had
been any homework. Unfortunately, I was
the only one who had done it and therefore in a moment’s notice I became the
teacher’s pet while everyone glared at him as he emphasized everyone’s mistake
by inquiring personally if they had prepared the work. So, I think it was best that, on top of being
teacher’s pet, I was not rich girl.
Guaynabo is insulted
constantly. The phrase Guaynabito is used constantly all over
the Island. Lately, the prejudiced word
has evolved into Guaynabicha, a
hybrid from the words Guaynabo and bitch.
People joke that the municipal money in Guaynabo is spent mostly buying
palm trees and painting sidewalks. But
Guayanbo is much more than that. It is
the city that bred me, cultured me, and educated me. I grew up in Garden Hills, where the
sidewalks are for joggers and the circular streets are plenty.
We are people with big personalities…we are persistent and we
often have the most success. But,
contrary to common belief, Guaynabo’s citizens earn their happiness—we work
hard and we struggle, just like everyone else.
We just attract exceptionally good people…mothers who are always in PTA
meetings, fathers who lift away the obstacles for his family, women who can
teach Chanel a thing or two…and even men who resemble Roman gods. Our students were not enrolled in the best
schools of the Island; they made them.
Our houses are big…the bigger to fit our thriving personalities! We are a collection of happy people, from
Torrimar to Paseos. Why does the rest of
Puerto Rico loathe us? Have they
forgotten the historical importance of Caparra?
They do not understand; Guaynabo is a hybrid of Latino pride and North
American precision. Then…if we are so
good, what is the point of residing in the hatred? Why do they wallow in prejudice? We are Puerto Ricans! Or at least we used to be. Call me a Guaynabicha
one more time…I dare you.
No comments:
Post a Comment