Chapter 6. Alien Turf....

Sometimes you don't fit in. Like if you're a Puerto Rican on an Italian block. After my new baby brother, Ricardo, died of some kind of germs, Poppa moved us from 111th Street to Italian turf on 114th Street between Second and Third Avenue. I guess Poppa wanted to get Momma away from the hard memories of the old pad.

I sure missed 111th Street, where everybody acted, walked, and talked like me. But on 114th Street everything went all right for a while. There were a few dirty looks from the spaghetti-an'-sauce cats, but no big sweat. 'Till that one day I was on my way home from school and almost had reached my stoop when someone called: "Hey, you dirty fuckin' spic."

The words hit my ears and almost made me curse Poppa at the same time. I turned around real slow and found my face pushing in the finger of an Italian kid about my age. He had five or six of his friends with him.

I looked at him and wondered which nationality to pick. And one of his friends said, "Ah, Rocky, he's black enuff to be a nigger. Ain't that what you is, kid?"

My voice was almost shy in its anger. "I'm Puerto Rican," I said. "I was born here." I wanted to shout it, but it came out like a whisper.

"Right here inna street?" Rocky sneered. "Ya mean right here inna middle of the da street?"
They all laughed.
I hated them. I shook my head slowly from side to side. "Uh-uh" I said softly. "I was born inna hospital--inna bed."
"Umm, paisan--born inna bed," Rocky said.

I didn't like Rocky Italiano's voice. "Inna hospital," I whispered, and all the time my eyes were trying to cut down the long distance from this trouble to my stoop. But it was no good; I was hemmed in by Rocky's friends. I couldn't help thinking about kids getting wasted for moving into a block belonging to other people.

"What hospital, paisan?" Bad Rocky pushed.
"Harlem hospital," I answered, wishing like all hell that it was 5 o'clock instead of just 3 o'clock, 'cause Poppa came home at 5. I looked around for some friendly faces belonging to grown-up people, but the elders were all busy yakking away in Italian. I couldn't help thinking how much like Spanish it sounded. Shit, that should make us something like relatives.

"Harlem hospital?" said a voice. "I knew he was a nigger."
"Yeah," said another voice from an expert on color. "That's the hospital where all them black bastards get born at."

I dug three Italian elders looking at us from across the street, and I felt saved. But that went out the window when they just smiled because this new whatever-he-was was gonna get his ass kicked or because they were pleased that their kids were welcoming a new kid to their country. An older man nodded his head at Rocky, who smiled back. I wondered if that was a signal for my funeral to begin.

"Ain't that right, kid?" Rocky pressed. "Ain't that where all black people get born?"
I dug some of Rocky's boys grinding and pushing and punching closed fists against open hands. I figured they were looking to shake me up, so I straightened my humble voice and made like proud. "There's all kinds of people born there. Colored people, Puerto Ricans like me, an'---even spaghetti-benders like you."

"That's a dirty fuckin' lie"---bash, I felt Rocky's fist smack into my mouth---"you dirty fuckin' spic."

I got dizzy and then more dizzy when fists started to fly from everywhere and only toward me. I swung back, splat, bish---my fist hit some face and I wished I hadn't, 'cause then I started getting kicked.
I heard people yelling in Italian and English and I wondered if maybe it was 'cause I hadn't fought fair in having hit that one guy. But it wasn't. The voices were trying to help me.

"Whas'sa matta, you no-good kids, leeva da kid alone," a man said. I looked through a swelling eye and dug some Italians pushing their kids off me with slaps. One even kicked a kid in the ass. I could have loved them if I didn't hate them so fuckin' much.

"You all right, kiddo?" asked the man.
"Where you live, boy?" said another one.
"Is the bambino hurt?" asked a woman.
I didn't look at any of them. I felt dizzy. I didn't want to open my mouth to talk, 'cause I was fighting to keep from puking up.
I just hoped my face was cool-looking. I walked away from that group of strangers. I reached my stoop and started to climb the steps.

"Hey, spic," came a shout from across the street. I started to turn to the voice and changed my mind. "Spic" wasn't my name. I knew that voice, though. It was Rocky's. "We'll see ya again, spic," he said.

I wanted to do something tough, like spitting in their direction. But you gotta have spit in your mouth in order to spit, and my mouth was hurt dry. I just stood there with my back to them.
"Hey, your old man just better be the janitor in that fuckin' building."
Another voice added, "Hey, you got any pretty sisters? We might just let ya stay onna block."
Another voice mocked, "Aw, fer Chrissake, where ya ever hear of them black broads being pretty?"
I heard the laughter. I turned around and looked at them. Rocky made some kind of dirty sign by putting his left hand in the crock of his right arm while twisting his closed fist in the air.
Another voice said, "Fuck it, we'll just cover the bitch's face with the flag an' fuck er for old glory."

All I could think of was how I'd like to kill each of them two or three times. I found some spit in my mouth and splattered it in their direction and went inside.

Momma was cooking, and the smell of rice and beans was beating the smell of Parmesan cheese from the other apartments. I let myself into our new pad. I tried to walk fast past Momma so I could wash up, but she saw me.
"My God, Piri, what happened?" she cried.
"Just a little fight in school, Momma. You know how it is, Momma, I'm new in school an' . . . " I made myself laugh. Then I made myself say, "But Moms, I whipped the living---outta two guys, an' one was bigger'n me."
"Bendito, Piri, I raise this family in Christian way. Not to fight. Christ says to turn the other cheek."
"Sure, Momma." I smiled and went and showered, feeling sore at Poppa for bringing us into spaghetti country. I felt my face with easy fingers and thought about all the running back and forth from school that was in store for me.

I sat down to dinner and listened to Momma talk about Christian living without really hearing her. All I could think of was that I hadda go out in that street again. I made up my mind to go out right after I finished eating. I had to, shook up or not; cats like me had to show heart.

"Be back, Moms," I said after dinner. "I'm going out on the stoop." I got halfway to the stoop and turned and went back to our apartment. I knocked.
"Who is it?" Momma asked.
"Me, Momma."
She opened the door. "Que Pasa?" she asked.
"Nothing, Momma, I just forgot something," I said. I went into the bedroom and fiddled around and finally copped a funny book and walked out the door again. But this time I made sure the switch on the lock was open, just in case I had to get back real quick. I walked out on that stoop as cool as could be, feeling braver with the lock open.

There was no sign of Rocky and his killers. After awhile I saw Poppa coming down the street. He walked like beat tired. Poppa hated his pick-and-shovel job with the WPA. He couldn't even hear the name WPA without getting a fever. Funny, I thought, Poppa's the same like me, a stone Puerto Rican, and nobody in this block even pays him a mind. Maybe older people get along better'n us kids.

Poppa was climbing the stoop. "Hi, Poppa," I said.
"How's it going, son? Hey, you sure look a little lumped up, what happened?"
I looked at Poppa and started to talk it outta me all at once and stopped, 'cause I heard my voice start to sound scared, and that was no good.

"Slow down, son," Poppa said. "Take it easy." He sat down on the stoop and made a motion for me to do the same. He listened and I talked. I gained confidence. I went from a tone of being shook up by the Italians to a tone of being a better fighter than Joe Louis and Pedro Montanez lumped together, with Kid Chocolate thrown in for extra.
"So that's what happened," I concluded. "And it looks like only the beginning. Man, I ain't scared, Poppa, but like there's nothin' but Italianos on this block and there's no me's like me except me an' our family."
Poppa looked tight. He shook his head from side to side and mumbled something about another Puerto Rican family that lived a coupla doors down from us.
I thought, What good would that do me, unless they prayed over my dead body in Spanish? But I said, "Man!, That's great. Before ya know it, there'll be a whole bunch of us moving in, huh?"
Poppa grunted something and got up. "Staying out here, son?"
"Yeah, Poppa, for a little while longer."

From that day on I grew eyes all over my head. Anytime I hit that street for anything, I looked straight ahead, behind me and from side to side all at the same time. Sometimes I ran into Rocky and his boys--that cat was never without his boys--but they never made a move to snag me. They just grinned at me like a bunch of hungry alley cats that could get to their mouse anytime they wanted. That's what they made me feel like--a mouse. Not like a smart house mouse but like a white house pet that ain't got no business in the middle of cat country but don't know better 'cause he grew up thinking he was a cat--which wasn't far from wrong 'cause he'd end up as part of the inside of some cat.

Rocky and his fellas got to playing a way-out game with me called "One-finger-across-the-neck-inna-slicing-motion," followed by such gentle words as "It won't be long, spico." I just looked at them blank and made it to wherever I was going.

I kept wishing those cats went to the same school I went to, a school that was on the border between their country and mine, and I had amigos there--and there I could count on them. But I couldn't ask two or three amigos to break into Rocky's block and help me mess up his boys. I knew 'cause I had asked them already. They had turned me down fast, and I couldn't blame them. It would have been murder, and I guess they figured one murder would be better than four.

I got through the days trying to play it cool and walk on by Rocky and his boys like they weren't there. One day I passed them and nothing was said. I started to let out my breath. I felt great; I hadn't been seen. Then someone yelled in a high, girlish voice, "Yoo-hoo....Hey, paisan....we see you....." And right behind that voice came a can of evaporated milk---whoosh, clatter. I walked cool for ten steps then started running like mad.

The crap kept up for a month. They tried to shake me up. Every time they threw something at me, it was just to see me jump. I decided that the next fucking time they threw something at me I was gonna play bad-o and not run. That next time came about a week later. Momma sent me off the stoop to the Italian market on 115th Street and First Avenue, deep in Italian country. Man, that was stompin' territory. But I went, walking in the style which I had copped from the colored cats I had seen, a swinging and stepping down hard at every step. Those cats were so down and cool that just walking made a way-out sound.

Ten minutes later I was on my way back with Momma's stuff. I got to the corner of First Avenue and 114th Street and crushed myself right into Rocky and his fellas.
"Well-l, fellas," Rocky said. "Lookee who's here."
I didn't like the sounds coming out of Rocky's fat mouth. And I didn't like the sameness of the shitty grins spreading all over the boys' faces. But I thought, No more! No more! I ain't gonna run no more. Even so, I looked around, like for some kind of Jesus miracle to happen. I was always looking for miracles to happen.

"Say, paisan," one guy said, "you even buying from us paisans, eh? Man, you must wantta be Italian."
Before I could bite that dopey tongue of mine, I said, "I wouldn't be a guinea on a motherfucking bet."
"Wha-at?" said Rocky, really surprised. I didn't blame him; I was surprised myself. His finger began digging a hole in his ear, like he hadn't heard me right. "Wha-at? Say that again?"
I could feel a thin hot wetness cutting itself down my leg. I had been so ashamed of being so damned scared that I had peed on myself. And then I wasn't scared any more; I felt a fuck-it-all attitude. I looked real bad at Rocky and said, "Ya heard me. I wouldn't be a guinea on a bet."
"Ya little sonavabitch, we'll kick the shit outta ya," said one guy, Tony, who had made a habit of asking me if I had any sen-your-ritas for sisters.
"Kick the shit outta me yourself if you got any heart, you motherfuckin' fucker," I screamed at him. I felt kind of happy, the kind of feeling that you get only when you got heart.

Big-mouth Tony just swung out, and I swung back and heard all of Momma's stuff plopping all over the street. My fist hit Tony smack dead in the mouth. He was so mad he threw a fist at me from about three feet away. I faked and jabbed and did fancy dance steps. Big-mouth put a stop to all that with a punch in my mouth. I heard the home cheers of "Yea, yea, bust that spic wide open!" Then I bloodied Tony's nose. He blinked and sniffed without putting his hands to his nose, and I remembered Poppa telling me, "Son, if you're ever fighting somebody an' you punch him in the nose, and he just blinks an' sniffs without holding his nose, you can do one of two things: fight like hell or run like hell---'cause that cat's a fighter."

Big-mouth came at me and we grabbed each other and pushed and pulled and shoved. Poppa, I thought, I ain't gonna cop out. I'm a fighter, too. I pulled away from Tony and blew my fist into his belly. He puffed and butted my nose with his head. I sniffed back. Poppa, I didn't put my hands to my nose. I hit Tony again in that same weak spot. He bent over in the middle and went down to his knees.

Big-mouth got up as fast as he could, and I was thinking how much heart he had. But I ran toward him like my life depended on it; I wanted to cool him. Too late, I saw his hand grab a fistful of ground asphalt which had been piled nearby to fix a pothole in the street. I tried to duck; I should have closed my eyes instead. The shitty-gritty stuff hit my face, and I felt the scrappy pain make itself a part of my eyes. I screamed and grabbed for two eyes with one hand, while the other I beat some kind of helpless tune on air that just couldn't be hurt. I heard Rocky's voice shouting, "Ya scum bag, ya didn't have to fight the spic dirty; you could've fucked him up fair and square!" I couldn't see. I heard a fist hit a face, then Big-Mouth's voice: "Whatta ya hittin' me for?" and then Rocky's voice: "Putana! I ought ta knock all your fuckin' teeth out."

I felt hands grabbing at me between my screams. I punched out. I'm gonna get killed, I thought. Then I heard many voices: "Hold it, kid." "We ain't gonna hurt ya." "Je-sus, don't rub your eyes." "Ooooohhh, shit, his eyes is fulla that shit."
You're fuckin right, I thought, and it hurts like coño.
I heard a woman's voice now: "Take him to a hospital." And and old man asked: "How did it happen?"
"Momma, Momma," I cried.
"Comon, kid," Rocky said, taking my hand. "Lemme take ya home." I fought for the right to rub my eyes with my eyelids. I could feel hurt tears cutting down my cheeks. "Come on, kid, we ain't gonna hurt ya." Rocky tried to assure me. "Swear to our mudders. We just wanna take ya home."

I made myself believe him, and trying not to make pain noises, I let myself be led home. I wondered if I was gonna be blind like Mr. Silva, who went around from door to door selling dish towels and brooms, his son leading him around.
"You okay, kid?" Rocky asked.
"Yeah," what was left of me said.
"A-huh," mumbled Big-Mouth.
"He got much heart for a nigger," somebody else said.
A spic, I thought.
"For anybody," Rocky said. "Here we are, kid," he added. "Watch your step."
I was like carried up the steps. "What's your apartment number?" Rocky asked.
"One-B--inna back--ground floor," I said, and I was led there. Somebody knocked on Momma's door. Then I heard running feet and Rocky's voice yelling back, "Don't rat, huh, kid?" And I was alone.

I heard the door open and Momma say, "Bueno, Piri, come in." I didn't move. I couldn't. There was a long pause; I could hear Momma's fright. "My God," she said finally. "What's happened?" Then she took a closer look. "Ai-eeee," she screamed. "Dios mio!" I was playing with some kids, Momma," I said, "an' I got some dirt in my eyes." I tried to make my voice come out without the pain, like a man.
"Dios eterno---your eyes!"
"What's the matter? What's the matter?" Poppa called from the bedroom.
"Esta ciego!" Momma screamed. "He is blind!"
I heard Poppa knocking things over as he came running. Sis began to cry. Blind, hurting tears were jumping out of my eyes.
"Whattya mean, he's blind?" Poppa said as he stomped into the kitchen. "What happened?" Poppa's voice was both scared and mad.
"Playing, Poppa."
"Whatta ya mean, 'playin'?" Poppa's English sounded different when he got warm.
"Just playing, Poppa."
"Playing? Playing got all that dirt in your eyes? I bet my ass. Them damn Ee-ta-liano kids ganged up on you again." Poppa squeezed my head between the fingers of one hand. "That settles it--we're moving outta this damn section, outta this damn block, outta this damn shit."
Shit, I thought, Poppa's sure cursin' up a storm. I could hear him slapping the side of his leg, like he always did when he got real mad.

"Son," he said, "you're gonna point them out to me."
"Point out who, Poppa? I was playin' an'--
"Stop talkin' to him and take him to the hospital!" Momma screamed.
"Pobrecito, poor Piri," cooed my little sister.
"You sure, son?" Poppa asked. "You was only playing?"
"Shit, Poppa, I said I was."
Smack---Poppa was so scared and mad, he let it out in a slap to the side of my face.
"Bestia! Ani-mul!" Momma cried. "He's blind, and you hit him!"
"I'm sorry, son, I'm sorry," Poppa said in a voice like almost crying. I heard him running back into the bedroom, yelling, "Where's my pants?"
Momma grabbed away fingers that were trying to wipe away the hurt in my eyes. "Caramba, no rub, no rub," she said, kissing me. She told Sis to get a rag and wet it with cold water.
Poppa came running back into the kitchen. "Let's go, son, let's go. Jesus! I didn't mean to smack ya, I really didn't," he said, his big hand rubbing and grabbing my hair gently.
"Here's the rag, Momma," said Sis.
"What's that for?" asked Poppa.
"To put on his eyes," Momma said.
I heard the smack of a wet rag, blapt, against the kitchen wall. "We can't put nothing n his eyes. It might make them worse. Come on, son," Poppa said nervously, lifting me up in his big arms. I felt like a little baby, like I didn't hurt too bad. I wanted to stay there, but I said, "Let me down, Poppa, I ain't no kid."
"Shut up," Poppa said softly. "I know you ain't, but it's faster this way."
"Which hospeetal are you taking him to?" Momma asked.
"Nearest one," Poppa answered as we went out the door. He carried me through the hall and out into the street, where the bright sunlight made a red hurting color through the crap in my eyes. I heard voices on the stoop and on the sidewalk: "Is that the boy?" "A-huh. He's probably blinded."
"We'll get a cab, son," Poppa said. His voice loved me. I heard Rocky yelling from across the street, "We're pulling for ya, kid. Remember what we . . . " The rest was lost to Poppa's long legs running down to the corner of Third Avenue. He hailed a taxi and we zoomed off toward Harlem Hospital. I felt the cab make all kinds of sudden stops and turns.

"How do you feel, hijo?" Poppa asked.
"It burns like hell."
"You'll be okay," he said, and as an afterthought added, "Don't curse, son."
I heard cars honking and the Third Avenue el roaring above us. I knew we were in Puerto Rican turf, 'cause I could hear the language.
"Son."
"Yeah, Poppa."
"Don't rub your eyes, fer Christ sake." He held my skinny wrists in his one hand, and everything got quiet between us.
The cab got to Harlem Hospital. I heard change being handled and the door opening and Poppa thanking the cabbie for getting here fast. "Hope the kid'll be okay," the driver said.
I will be, I thought, I ain't gonna be like Mr. Silva.
Poppa took me in his arms again and started running.
"Where's emergency, mister?" he asked someone.
"To your left and straight away," said a voice.
"Thanks a lot," Poppa said, and we were running again. "Emergency?" Poppa said when we stopped.
"Yes, sir," said a girl's voice. "What's the matter?"
"My boy's got his eyes full of ground-up tar an'--"
"What's the matter?" said a man's voice.
"Youngster with ground tar in his eyes, doctor."
"We'll take him, mister. You just put him down here and go with the nurse. She'll take down the information. Uh, you the father?"
"That's right, doctor."
"Okay, just put him down here."
"Poppa, don't leave me," I cried.
"Sh, son, I ain't leaving you. I'm just going to fill out some papers, an' I'll be right back."
I nodded my head up and down and was wheeled away.

When the rolling stretcher stopped, somebody stuck a needle in me and I got sleepy and started thinking about Rocky and his boys, and Poppa's slap, and how great Poppa was, and how my eyes didn't hurt no more . . .
I woke up in a room blind with darkness. The only lights were the ones inside my head. I put my fingers to my eyes and felt bandages. "Let them be, sonny," said a woman's voice.
I wanted to ask the voice if they had taken my eyes out, but I didn't. I was afraid the voice would say yes.
"Let them be, sonny," the nurse said, pulling my hand away from the bandages. "You're all right. The doctor put the bandages on to keep the light out. They'll be off real soon. Don't you worry none, sonny."
I wished she would stop calling me sonny. "Where's Poppa?" I asked cool-like.

He's outside, sonny. Would you like me to send him in?"
I nodded, "Yeah." I heard walking away shoes, a door opening, a whisper, and shoes walking back toward me. "How do you feel, hijo?" Poppa asked.
"It hurts like shit, Poppa."
"It's just for awhile, son, and then off come the bandages. Everything's gonna be all right."
I thought, Poppa didn't tell me to stop cursing.
"And son, I thought I told you to stop cursing," he added. I smiled. Poppa hadn't forgotten. Suddenly I realized that all I had on was a hospital gown. "Poppa, where's my clothes?" I asked.
"I got them. I'm taking them home an'--"
"Whatta ya mean, Poppa?" I said, like scared. "You ain't leavin' me here? I'll be damned if I stay." I was already sitting up and feeling my way outta bed. Poppa grabbed me and pushed me back. His voice wasn't mad or scared any more. It was happy and soft, like Momma's.
"Hey," he said, "get your ass back in bed or they'll have to put a bandage there too."
"Poppa," I pleaded. "I don't care, wallop me as much as you want, just take me home.
"Hey, I thought you said you wasn't no kid. Hell, you ain't scared of being alone?"
Inside my head there was a running of Yeah, yeah, yeah, but I answered, "Naw, Poppa, it's just that Momma's gonna worry and she'll get sick an' everything, and---"
"Won't work, son," Poppa broke in with a laugh.
I kept quiet.
"It's only for a couple days. We'll come and see you and everybody'll bring you things."
I got interested but played it smooth. "What kinda things, Poppa?"
Poppa shrugged his shoulders and spread his big arms apart and answered me like he was surprised that I should ask. "Uh . . .fruits and . . . candy and ice cream. And Momma will probably bring you chicken soup."
I shook my head sadly. "Poppa you know I don't like chicken soup."
"So we won't bring you chicken soup. We'll bring what you like. Goddammit, whatta ya like?"
"I'd like the first things you talked about, Poppa," I said softly. "But instead of soup I'd like"---I held my breath back then shot it out---"some roller skates!"

Poppa let out a whistle. Roller skates were about $2.50, and that was rice and beans for more than a few days. Then he said, "All right, son, soon as you get home, you got 'em."
But he had agreed too quickly. I shook my head from side to side. Shit, I was gonna push all the way for the roller skates. It wasn't every day you'd get hurt bad enough to wish for something so little like a pair of roller skates. I wanted them right away.
"Fer Christ sakes," Poppa protested, "you can't use 'em here. Why, some kid will probably steal 'em on you." But Poppa's voice died out slowly in a "you win" tone as I just kept shaking my head from side to side. "Bring 'em tomorrow," he finally mumbled, "but that's it."
"Thanks, Poppa."
"Don't ask for more."
My eyes were starting to hurt like mad again. The fun was starting to go outta the game between Poppa and me. I made a face.
"Does it hurt, son?"
"Naw, Poppa. I can take it." I thought how I was like a cat in a movie about Indians, taking it like a champ, tied to a stake and getting like burned toast.

Poppa sounded relieved. "Yeah, it's only at first it hurts." His hand touched my foot gently and then slapped me the same gentle way on the side of my leg. "Be good, son," he said and walked away. I heard the door open and the nurse telling him about how they were gonna move me to the ward 'cause I was out of danger. "Son," Poppa called back, "you're un hombre."

I felt proud as hell.
"Poppa."
"Yeah, son?"
"You won't forget to bring the roller skates, huh?"
Poppa laughed. "Yeah, son."
I heard the door close.

by Piri Thomas

from "Down These Mean Streets"
original copyright 1967