The Underside of the Melting Pot

What emerged for me from this week with the brouhaha over the Oliphant cartoon was the similarity of Cuban American experience. In his letter to the editor, Professor Carlos Eire recounts a childhood incident where a boy named Max spit in his face and called him a "Spic." A young woman writes that when her new Spanish teacher found out that she was Cuban, he raised his fist and shouted "viva Fidel." The ghost of Jose Marti is resurrected in the form of a letter to the editor from 1889 in response to a derogatory cartoon, a letter which is eerie in its similarity to our present situation. All of this on Babalublog, which has been on fire the last few days.

I, too, have those experiences. Because I moved to Staten Island in seventh grade, I was forced to attend public school where I lived in fear for a year and a half. There was no one to protect you, and you couldn't tell anyone; you learned to survive and cower. So when the time came, I applied to Catholic High School. You can imagine my joy when I was accepted into one of the best schools on the island, an ivy-covered haven for smart girls.

It was the first week of school, a Wednesday. On Wednesdays the school closed at 12:15 and sent us all to cultural, educational, and recreational venues for the afternoon. It was called the Wednesday afternoon program. I had been to the bowling alley and was on my way home in a NYC bus. The bus stopped and a crew of neighborhood hooligans got on. I sat there minding my own business. When they spotted me, they launched into a chorus of "mira, mira," which is how they had started hounding me every time our paths crossed. Then one of them, Benny, spit on me. This in full view of the other passengers and the bus driver. No one said a word.

I got off and ran to the house in tears. There was no hiding it anymore. When my father heard, he came to get me, and one by one, we went to the houses of the ringleaders. I can remember my Cuban father: "This time I came to see you," he would tell them, "but if this ever happens again, you will have to come find me." The message was that if they ever came near me again, he would personally beat the shit out of junior.

One family, our neighbors up the block, was horrified. They were Italian; they understood. But when we got to Benny's house, his father answered the door. His very drunk mother came striding out. Upon hearing the tale, she demanded of my father, what his thirteen year old daughter had done to her son that he spit on her in full public view? My father, sizing up the situation, just told her to make sure her son never bothered me again.

And they didn't, you know. I think they were afraid of Dad. I know they should have been. And that's the happy ending.