¿Bronciado, adonde tú va’? I had to ask him; you understand? Where was he going? He wasn’t there to dance. No one puts on a satin outfit prepared to sweat. He wasn’t part of the band, or the promotions staff, or even part of La India’s entourage.
¿Yo, Negra? he responded, with a confidence I did not expect. I’m going back to ask Yemayá to sink Colón so he doesn’t reach Borinquen to steal our gold, our cassava, and our original Boricuas. I’m going to find un cacique and ask him to bring all the Taínos and Arawaks back to the Washington Hilton. In just a few minutes, I’m going to look for Luis Palés Matos, and sit at his feet, hoping to catch the shavings of his pencil as he’s writing Ñañigo al cielo. I’m going to get a bullhorn, stand in the lobby, and summons Manuel Alonso to come so he can bless this place before the first salsa begins: ¡Jíbaro! ¡Jíbaro!
Negra, will you help me?
I’m going to 1560 to stand between a beautiful, flawless real life Brown porcelain doll and her master to keep her forehead from being branded. As I’m running away, I’m going to stop at 1873 and celebrate her great-great grandson’s emancipation.
Negra, I’ve got to go.
I gotta go to December 22, 1895, to watch the first Puerto Rican flag hoisted on my way to 1898 to watch from the gallery as Cambon and McKinley sign us away into a new slavery. As soon as the ink dries, I’m strolling over to 1917 to protest the Jones Act and different kinds of chains.
I’m going to bomba and plena with Changó and Ochún all through the calls for true independence, the emergence of press, political parties, cultural and educational institutions.
And when I’m finished, I’m going to Vieques to stand between the next military exercise and my Puerto Rico.
As soon as La India opens her mouth, that’s where I’m going.
¿Y tú, Negra? ¿Adonde vas tú?
I almost forgot to speak. I was already on my way to Lares to help Betances with El grito. I had just left to scoop up that porcelain doll and take her far away from battered fingers weary from fights with stalks of sugar cane.
The sweat was still racing down my face from a mean bomba I’d just finished with Changó and Ochún.
Bronciado, I told him, I’m going with you.
Contributor Notes
María Elena is a writer, yoga instructor, nature lover, bird watcher, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and bonafide popcorn addict. Her essays have appeared in The Acentos Review; in the award-winning SankShuned Photography Art Book; the anthology Peínate: Hair Battles Between Latina Mothers and Daughters; in the literary magazine, midnight & indigo; and, in the anthology, Anfractuous, published by Yellow Arrow Publishing. María Elena is AfroLatina of Cuban-Dominican descent and fluent in Spanish, rumbao and bachata (not necessarily in that order). When she’s not teaching yoga or writing or birdwatching, you can find María Elena at www.meechiemail.com. Always looking up.
