A Journey

When you believe me static, do not tremble to admit that you are, in your entirety, absolutely and resolutely in the wrong.  I, in fact, march about with the beat of your tender heart, lifting one foot after the other, traversing your sweet, gentle skin to and fro until I, fatigued with greater pleasure, wreak havoc within the tumult of your hair.  I sink into you, past the point of return, and I weep with pleasure at having known you this profoundly. 

My journey does not end here but goes on, into the unknown world of your internal crevasse.  The passage leads downwards, where I fumble through your flesh.  I search for a meaning, for a kind of magnetism not found in this reality, found within the human soul, in fact. I have travelled long and hard through the wilderness of bitter hearts to find what you so desperately conceal within your monstrous hide. It lurks, in fact, in the deep realms of your humanity.

Whence I do find it, I crawl out with my prize in hand, and wander at last towards you.  I regard you in the highest degree, for I have seen what dark and light capacitates your being.  I have discovered that which you dream, that which you fear, and that which you will become.  What I see is beauty, an exquisiteness most divine that lurks not in the façade of an individual but in their midst. I have travelled upon you, through miles of horror and heaven combined and I have found only you.  I am an adventurer, you see, and, upon my last, I came to a region not unlike others, except for one peculiarity.  I read upon you the words that spoke most truly, “Not all who wander are lost.”  I am no longer lost.

On Guaynabo, The Illuminated City of Puerto Rico

            “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.