When I Was Puerto Rican - Esmeralda Santiago [88]
“How come?” I wondered, since in Puerto Rico, all of the people I’d ever met were either black or had a black relative somewhere in their family. I would have thought morenos would like us, since so many of us looked like them.
“They think we’re taking their jobs.”
“Are we?”
“There’s enough work in the United States for everybody,” Mami said, “but some people think some work is beneath them. Me, if I have to crawl on all fours to earn a living, I’ll do it. I’m not proud that way.”
I couldn’t imagine what kind of work required crawling on all fours, although I remembered Mami scrubbing the floor that way, so that it seemed she was talking about housework. Although, according to her, she wouldn’t be too proud to clean other people’s houses, I hoped she wouldn’t have to do it. It would be too embarrassing to come all the way from Puerto Rico so she could be somebody’s maid.
The first day of school Mami walked me to a stone building that loomed over Graham Avenue, its concrete yard enclosed by an iron fence with spikes at the top. The front steps were wide but shallow and led up to a set of heavy double doors that slammed shut behind us as we walked down the shiny corridor. I clutched my eighth-grade report card filled with A’s and B’s, and Mami had my birth certificate. At the front office we were met by Mr. Grant, a droopy gentleman with thick glasses and a kind smile who spoke no Spanish. He gave Mami a form to fill out. I knew most of the words in the squares we were to fill in: NAME, ADDRESS (CITY, STATE), and OCCUPATION. We gave it to Mr. Grant, who reviewed it, looked at my birth certificate, studied my report card, then wrote on the top of the form “7-18.”
Don Julio had told me that if students didn’t speak English, the schools in Brooklyn would keep them back one grade until they learned it.
“Seven gray?” I asked Mr. Grant, pointing at his big numbers, and he nodded.
“I no guan seven gray. I eight gray. I teeneyer.”
“You don’t speak English,” he said. “You have to go to seventh grade while you’re learning.”
“I have A’s in school Puerto Rico. I lern good. I no seven gray girl.”
Mami stared at me, not understanding but knowing I was being rude to an adult.
“What’s going on?” she asked me in Spanish. I told her they wanted to send me back one grade and I would not have it. This was probably the first rebellious act she had seen from me outside my usual mouthiness within the family.
“Negi, leave it alone. Those are the rules,” she said, a warning in her voice.
“I don’t care what their rules say,” I answered. “I’m not going back to seventh grade. I can do the work. I’m not stupid.”
Mami looked at Mr. Grant, who stared at her as if expecting her to do something about me. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
“Meester Grant,” I said, seizing the moment, “I go eight gray six mons. Eef I no lern inglish, I go seven gray. Okay?”
“That’s not the way we do things here,” he said, hesitating.
“I good studen. I lern queek. You see notes.” I pointed to the A’s in my report card. “I pass seven gray.”
So we made a deal.
“You have until Christmas,” he said. “I’ll be checking on your progress.” He scratched out “7-18” and wrote in ”8- 23.” He wrote something on a piece of paper, sealed it inside an envelope, and gave it to me. “Your teacher is Miss Brown. Take this note upstairs to her. Your mother can go,” he said and disappeared into his office.
“Wow!” Mami said, “you can speak English!”
I was so proud of myself, I almost burst. In Puerto Rico if I’d been that pushy, I would have been called mal educada by the Mr. Grant equivalent and sent home with a note to my mother. But here it was my teacher who was getting the note, I got what I wanted, and my mother was