Olga Dies Dreaming(91)
Olga eyed him cautiously. “You saw that, too?”
Igor laughed. “But of course! I have the Twitter!”
Olga giggled slightly.
“You know, Olga, my people really like your president. He is, what we call, a useful idiot. So, on that, we’ll agree to disagree.”
MAY 2016
May 20, 2016
Prieto,
Borikén, the original name of the island from which you and I descend, means Land of the Noble Lord. This name was given by the Taíno, the native people. For centuries, the Taíno lived in small, organized communities, until 1508, when a man named Ponce de León arrived. In short order, he robbed and cheated the Taíno of their soil and freedom, leaving them subjects and slaves to the Spanish. After the Spanish pillaged the island of its metals and ores, they claimed land that previously belonged to no one and stole African bodies to work it. In time, these acts of horror led to the birth of the Puerto Rican people as we know them today—a mix of Taíno, Spanish, and African blood. Our nation born, some might say, from the pain of colonialism. I, however, choose to see our people as birthed from the Land of the Noble Lord.
I believe this because for nearly as long as Puerto Rico has existed as a place oppressed, we have fought to break free. The year 1527 saw our first slave rebellion. In 1848, our first outright revolt. And of course, in 1868, el Grito de Lares. Each rebellion undermined the same way. Puerto Rican traitors. Weak-minded individuals, full of self-loathing. Who didn’t believe in the power of their Taíno blood, the strength of their African ancestors. Individuals who could only hear the voice of the colonizer, whispering to them that without a white master nation, we, Borikén, would fail.
In 1898, after four hundred years of Spanish dominion, Puerto Rico had its first free election as an independent nation. We did not know that as we took this step towards self-determination, one of our own—a true lombriz named Dr. Julio Henna—was meeting with U.S. senators, convincing them of the treasure to be had if they annexed Puerto Rico. Their nation—America—was restless after the collapse of slavery. White supremacists were desperate for new Brown bodies to dominate; the capitalists salivated for new lands to exploit. And so began their destruction of Puerto Rico.
The next year, 1899, nature assisted. A great hurricane came to the island, killing thousands, leaving a quarter of the population homeless and wiping out all the coffee crops the jíbaros had been growing. With our people bankrupt and hungry, the gringos came and stole whatever was left. The Americans took farmland, they taxed crop exports, and, in the greatest blow, they took over our schools and our language. They forced on us a second-class citizenship, one where we could be drafted into their wars, segregated by their racism, but not allowed a voice in our own governance.
But we never stopped rebelling. Some refused to become citizens, refused to fill out their census forms, refused to identify as one race when we were always made of many. We insisted on our language, insisted on flying our old flag. We rebelled in ways big and small. Boricuas like Pedro Albizu Campos began to organize our people. We began to rise up, but just as quickly, traitorous snakes would sell us out, telling the police of our plans and actions, getting Nationalists assassinated in the streets.
Elected officials are the favorite henchmen of this puppet American democracy. In 1937, months after ordering the massacre of Independendistas in Ponce, a Boricua governor legalized the sterilization of our women. If they couldn’t kill us off in the streets, they would stop our growth in the womb. In 1948, lombriz officials passed la Ley de la Mordaza: on the world stage America bragged about freedom of speech, while in Puerto Rico, we “citizens” were imprisoned for flying our flags, singing patriotic songs, speaking aloud the belief that we, the children of Borikén, could exist independent of an American master. Governors like Luis Mu?oz Marín, or Pedro Rosselló, or this current pendejo, García Padilla. They distract us with rhetoric, pocketing money with one hand and tightening our chains with the other.
Prieto, this boot has been pressing down on Puerto Rico’s neck for far too long, held in place by politicians of our own kind. I had taken pride in the fact that you, my son, were different. That you were trying to lift the boot off. That you were “our champion” on the mainland. Now, I no longer feel so sure.
For months, I’ve been writing to make what should seem the obvious case as to why you cannot support PROMESA. Yet, I see nothing in public from you but silence. You’ve yet to indicate how you will vote. No op-eds, no official statements against this garbage legislation. Is this indecision? Or is it treachery?
This will be my final plea. This bill you will vote on, PROMESA? It’s not a promise, but a death sentence for our people. The last bit of pressure that will finally break our necks. It’s designed to worsen our people’s lives while stuffing the bankers’ coffers. It forces puertorrique?os to foot a bill run up by gringos and our complicit compatriots. Anything this American government feels we owe them was paid for, in full, by the land and crops and lives that their imperialism has already stolen from us.
And so, I will wait. To see if you will be my son of the Noble Land or just a son of a bitch.
Pa’lante,
Mami
OCTOBER 2017
IN THE MOUNTAINS