Olga Dies Dreaming(20)

As if he could read her mind, he suddenly said, “Carl’s assistant plans his parties, you know. It was fine when they were sort of call the caterer, clambake, bachelor-pad kind of affairs, but now, with his new wife and all, they are putting him through it and he’s at his wit’s end—at least that’s what he was telling Charmaine. Anyway, seems like it could be a nice piece of business up for grabs. Certainly, I’ll put in a good word for you.…”

He took the invitation out of her hand, placing it back on his desk as he drew her near.

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s almost a yes, Cherry, and that makes me very happy.”

She felt herself stiffen in his arms, knowing that she was trapped by his offer. She was too weak-willed to refuse this kind of access, and the fact of that repulsed her. She felt smothered already, knowing what accepting the invitation would mean.

“And God knows,” Dick whispered in her ear, “won’t the old Exeter guys be wide-eyed when I walk in with the sexiest woman on the planet.”





MARCH 1995





March 30, 1995

Querida Olga,

Though your Papi hated what he was made to do in Vietnam, he always felt grateful for the opportunity it gave him to see the larger world. To see that oppression existed beyond the borders of the barrio he grew up in. For someone your age, fresh perspective can be invaluable. It’s why I was happy when Prieto decided to go upstate for college, and upset when he decided to move back home. Leaving home, getting space, it can be very helpful in teaching us who we are. It’s an experience I wish I’d had at your age. I say all this to make clear: my issue is not with you moving away.

No, nena, my issue is with this school. This kind of school. These bourgeois institutions that do nothing but reaffirm that in a capitalist society there are those who are anointed to rule and those born to serve. Do not confuse admission for a chance at power. This kind of college has no place for you, even if they offered you one of their precious “affirmative action” spots. They do not want to teach your people’s history; they don’t want to read your people’s books. They see no value in our culture, or the culture of any minority people. Your classmates won’t be the children of factory workers or housekeepers or even teachers. They will be the children of bankers and politicians. Children of a ruling class waiting for their turn at bat.

What will you do there? It’s dangerous at your young age to be surrounded by people who don’t value who you are. Who don’t understand you. A child can become lost.

I am sure that this opinion is unpopular. I bet you are being fawned over at school for the rare “achievement” of being admitted to an Ivy League college. That mi familia is so proud, so bowled over by the famous white names and faces that have gone there before you. So pleased that a place built on the back of slaves, funded by the sheep-like descendants of slave owners, run via nepotism towards advancing more of those descendants, took in someone like you. As if, somehow, you breaking into that system, your intelligence being affirmed by this institution, means that they, too, have accomplished something. I can imagine how my brother Richie is crowing! That somehow this means our family is an “exception” to every worst belief about our people.

Olga, don’t delude yourself. This means none of these things. Yes, you are bright. But you are also pretty and fair skinned and speak in a way that doesn’t rub white skin the wrong way. Your admittance to this place is nothing more than a minuscule gesture to reaffirm the myth of an American meritocracy, one that makes this school feel benevolent without damaging their elitist system. A system in which the only thing you’re certain to lose is your sense of self.

And, of course, your money. I won’t even waste my time discussing the ridiculous debt you will take on to do this. You will barely get your start in the world and be shackled already: your choices hampered, your options reduced. Debt is one of The Man’s great tools for keeping people of color oppressed. But, of course, you know that.

I must tell you, I resent you involving your Auntie Karen in all of this, asking her to write you that letter of recommendation. You put her in a terrible position, as even she, who is aware of my feelings about this, seems enchanted about this “opportunity” for you. For your photography. For your mind. That was what she called it. An opportunity. To this, I ask, for what? An opportunity to forget the values with which you were raised? To be surrounded by people who don’t understand you or where you are from or what you were born to fight for?

At the end of the day, though, this is your life. One that will be defined by choices that you make. All I can do, as your mother, is express myself.

Pa’lante,

Mami





AUGUST 2017





SYLVIA’S SOCIAL CLUB





It was the golden hour when Olga found herself on what she imagined was one of the last undeveloped corners of Williamsburg, navigating the broken concrete sidewalks in her heels. The sun’s last light so strong, it gilded the weeds that had popped up between the cracks. She passed an empty lot filled with old cars and a swing set, fenced in with chain link. The three-story, brick-front apartment building that cradled its left side was emblazoned with a spray-painted mural that paid homage, with improbable success, to the Puerto Rican flag, the coquí, Lolita Lebrón, Héctor Lavoe, and Big Pun, all at once. Underneath it said #respecttheanscestors and, as she read it, Olga reflexively made the sign of the cross, lowering her eyes as she did so. When she looked up, she noticed Matteo, seated at a card table outside the building, deeply invested in a game of dominos with three older, wrinkled men. They all four wore guayaberas and their bare forearms grasping at the dominos formed a melanin-rich ombré that Olga found beautiful.