Fish Out of Agua:. Michele Carlo
ascended the stairs, plucked feathers stuck to the sides of your shoes like angel wings. When the congregation prayed in silence, it was underscored by the murmur of soft clucking. And the aroma of avian slaughter gave a whole new meaning to sermons about the redeeming blood of Jesus.
Of course, the sermons were in Spanish, so I barely understood them. My grandmother brought me there every Sunday anyway, though, perhaps in the hope that by absorbing the sound of enough ¡Gloria Allelujahs! I would miraculously atone for the sin of not being a bilingual child.
It was almost Christmas, and this Sunday I was in the front row where children weren’t usually allowed. It was reserved for deacons such as my grandmother, who throughout each service swayed, clapped, and took turns being “slain in the spirit,” which meant falling on the floor and thrashing around until being revived by one of the nurses who sat off to the side.
The nurses smiled at me and gave a respectful nod to my grandmother. In a congregation teeming with pious women, she was known as one of the most devout.
One of the other deacons handed me a tambourine and told me in English I could play along with the music. And this, after a year of being told to “shush,” “hush,” “be quiet,” and “Cállate—coño, me lo dijo cállate o te voy pow-pow!” made me very, very happy.
Each service always began with music, and we’re not talking about any wheezy moth-eaten Catholic Church organ. This iglesia had electric guitars, horns, congas, and timbales, all played by men, some of whom looked as if they had stayed up all night (arriving straight from their Saturday night salsa gigs), and today I was to be their accompanist.
I banged and shook my tambourine in perfect 4/4 time. I moved from the row of chairs to the aisle where I jumped and swayed, my hands in the air, singing “¡Gloria! Allelujah!” just like everyone else. The deacons now smiled at me, and I played and sang even louder. It was so much fun, I was about to ask abuelita if I could start going to church with her on Wednesdays and Fridays too, when all of a sudden I was pulled to the front of the room.
All I could see were people’s stomachs: rolls of flesh over belts pulled too tight, blouses badly tucked into waistbands, and a couple of missing buttons—until the crowd shifted and moved me into a line of people facing the pastor who was holding a little glass bottle.
The first man in line walked up to the pastor and tilted his head skyward. The pastor poured liquid from the bottle onto his thumb and pressed his thumb to the man’s forehead. As the man bowed his head, my grandmother and the other deacons began praying in different, strange languages, in voices that were either higher or lower pitched than the ones they usually had. They were speaking in tongues.
I had seen this many times before, and it always fascinated me that each one of them sounded completely different every time. Speaking in tongues was considered a great gift. It was considered an even greater gift if you could interpret what you said, which was what my abuelita was preparing to do.
The deacons cleared a space for abuelita, and I turned to look for Titi Carmen. She was in a back row with her wide feet rooted to the linoleum and her deep-set eyes tightly shut. Her face had a look of such joy that she was almost truly beautiful.
The man up front screamed. I whirled around to see him throw his hands in the air as he fell to the floor. The nurses jumped up and dragged him over to the side. Soon there were seven bodies on that side of the room. I knew there were seven; I might not have been able to speak Spanish, but I could sure count. I also knew that I was about to be next, and as I turned to run, the largest deacon—the one I had heard some of the younger women call La Gordita or The Fat One, behind her back—grabbed me and carried me to the front of the line.
I felt a thick greasy liquid drip onto my head; it smelled like the Goya oil abuelita fried her platanos in. I struggled and La Gordita turned me around, crushing me against her bra; her blouse was the one with the missing buttons. It wasn’t an undergarment as much as a device, with multiple straps, “cross your heart” stitching, smelly rubber, and bulky, cone-shaped cups. It mashed my face so completely that within seconds I felt as if I were suffocating.
I struggled harder, but she clutched me into her humongous smothering bosoms like a vise. With the last of my breath, I started crying, and as I did, I saw from far, far away, one of the kittens from my mother’s etching. It whispered that I didn’t have to be afraid…I could get away…if I wanted to…
With the last of my strength I bit, hard, right through the layers of stitching, rubber, and fabric and into pliant, living flesh. La Gordita yelled and dropped me to the floor where I sprawled, gasping, as the other deacons sprang to avenge her. One grabbed my legs. Another grabbed my arms. Another gripped me by the crown of my head. I heard another say in English, “The child has a demon!”
I closed my eyes and tried to find the kitten again but it had gone. I was fully awake and utterly trapped. No one would save me now. I wasn’t sure what a demon was, but I was sure I was now going to hell, which I knew was where all Bad People went to get punished.
Was it because I couldn’t speak their language? Was it my fault my mother had gone away? I didn’t know what I’d done. As I awaited my fate, I smelled something familiar. It was my grandmother, the aroma of her perfume (which I’d much later learn was called Tigress) preceding her as she and Titi Carmen fought their way to me.
“What are you doing?” they yelled in Spanish and English. “She doesn’t understand. She’s only a child. You’re the ones with the demons!”
La Gordita’s minions released their death grip and I was set back on my feet. There was muttering, whispering, and then silence as abuelita took my hand. With Titi Carmen walking shotgun, the congregation parted to let us through. Some of the people we passed had been smiling and attentive to me just an hour before but were now looking at all three of us with angry faces. Others gave a look that said they felt bad, but didn’t know what to do. A few others looked at the floor.
Just before we got to the door, I heard someone say in the first Spanish I ever fully understood, “Vamos a resar por ti.” (We’ll pray for you).
My abuelita turned, picked a chicken feather out of my hair, and said, “No mi vida, I will pray for you.”
I thought I was going to be in trouble for getting abuelita and Titi Carmen kicked out of church, but they never said anything more to me about it. They just held their own “church” in abuelita’s bedroom while they looked for another iglesia. As it turned out, they would have had to anyway. A couple of weeks later the New York City Health Department, acting on an anonymous tip, raided the poultry market, closing it down along with the church.
Abuelita and Titi Carmen eventually did find another iglesia a bit farther uptown, but I wouldn’t be going there with them—and not because I had a demon or because I belonged in hell. Just the opposite: I was going home.
8
PIONEERS
Little Enough to Ride for Free, Little Enough to Ride Your Knee
I was sitting on a bus with my father. We were by ourselves, which was a treat for me. I hadn’t seen him much in the last year, and when I did, he always looked worried or sad. Today he was happy.
We’d just left Grandma Izzy’s, who I also hadn’t seen for a while. She’d smothered me in kisses and stuffed me with arroz dulce, dulce de coco, and ice cream. Now my father was taking me somewhere else, to show me a surprise before dropping me back off at Grandma Mari’s. He swung my hand and whistled as we walked to the bus stop. Being alone with my father for an entire day was fun enough, and I couldn’t imagine where we were going or what was going to happen when we got there.
The bus ride to who knows where was long and boring. We sat across from the driver. I tried to kneel on the seat to look out the window, but my father told me to get back down. I swung my legs around and looked at the lady next to me as she opened her pocketbook and took out a Photoplay magazine.
In case you don’t know, the cult of celebrity obsession was in full force long before People magazine,