After the Hurricane(74)
He walked from the train station into the campus area, looking for the admissions office, where his letter had informed him he should report immediately once arriving. All around him he saw lanky coeds, boys and girls, some with the wide-legged pants and vests he had seen in photos of members of bands he liked, some in jackets and ties, dresses with full skirts that had been popular throughout the last decade. Most of the students were surrounded by people, families. He straightened his shoulders and kept walking, stopping to ask one or two people if they knew where the admissions office was. One, another freshman like himself, looked terrified when Santiago talked to him, and it was then that he realized everyone around him in this moment was completely and totally white. Santiago, whose fair skin was his mother’s pride and joy in her more lucid moments, was the darkest person there.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and almost sighed with relief to see a Black male student in front of him, his hair teased into a modest Afro, his expression friendly.
“Are you looking for the admissions office? I can show you the way.” Santiago nodded and let Julian Lee, as he would introduce himself on the way, guide him. Once they were past the green where Santiago had only seen whiteness, Julian grinned at him.
“That kid looked ready to shit himself,” Julian said.
“Probably thought I was going to stab him. Seen West Side Story too many times,” Santiago replied, smiling back while carefully concealing his missing tooth.
“Oh shit, you’re Puerto Rican? Then you are most certainly the first Puerto Rican kid he’s ever met. But round here, you might be the first Puerto Rican most people have met. This is Chicano country. Where are you from?”
“New York,” Santiago said.
“Chicago,” Julian said, pointing to himself. “This might be California, but this campus is pretty snowy.” Santiago looked at him, confused. “White.”
“Oh,” Santiago said.
“Here you go, you’re going to go through those doors and meet your scholarship liaison. Mine was a nice girl named Shirley from Michigan who flinched every time I reached inside my pockets. She absolutely was sure I was going to knife her, but she did her best. We still exchange holiday cards,” Julian said, calmly. “You’re gonna get some rich white kid who is going to settle you in and make sure you know how things work. They might ask questions that make no sense, but think of them like people at the zoo trying to understand animal behavior, because that’s how they are going to look at you. Smile and don’t make any sudden movements. The more the university values you, the higher up the food chain the liaison is. Shirley’s family owned a steel mill.” Julian smiled, confident, a little arrogant, and Santiago saw the shark behind the friendly face. This was a competitive place, he realized. He’d never been in one of those before.
“Good luck.” And he was gone. Santiago walked into the building, another golden-brown Spanish edifice, where a smiling woman asked his name and for his identification. Santiago gave her everything, and watched her mouth his name to herself, obviously trying to figure out how to pronounce it.
“You can just call me Junior,” he said. “Everyone does.” She looked at him, smiling gratefully this time, and pointed him over to a stiff-looking boy his age, sitting on a nearby chair, who jumped up as Santiago approached him.
“I’m Thomas. You must be—”
“Junior,” he said, and watched that same look of gratitude flash on this boy’s face. It would be a look he would become very accustomed to within his first few weeks at Stanford, the relief people felt at not having to learn to pronounce a name they were not familiar with. The relief they felt that he would accommodate them, their clumsy tongues, their complete lack of understanding of anything outside their own experience. It was a look that would haunt the rest of his life, that would, years later, fill him with rage and shame, hatred at himself, that he allowed this, supported it, made it possible. That he did not on that day and every day after patiently let them stumble and mumble and fail, and teach them how to say his name, perfectly, naturally, as he already knew how to say theirs.
Thomas was the son of an oil family from Texas, and he had numbers after his name, so Santiago privately concluded that he was, indeed, important to the university, a worthy competitor for Julian and anyone else who came along. Thomas showed him the campus, pointing out the libraries, cafeterias, schools of law and business, the dorms, the class buildings, the fraternities, the gym. He showed him his room in Lucie Stern Hall, where Santiago would be living with a boy named Neil Stevens, who looked askance at him over thick glasses. Thomas told him he was there for Santiago if he had any questions, or needed anything. Then, his eyes alight and curious, he leaned in close and asked Santiago if he had been a member of a gang back in New York and how he learned to speak English so well and was it true that Puerto Ricans were closer to apes than any other race, at which point Santiago bid him a polite farewell and started to unpack.
He didn’t have much. All of the things he had thought were worth bringing had fit into a duffel bag and a small shopping bag he had taken home on his last day bagging at Gristedes. He had fifty dollars in his wallet, which was supposed to last him for any additional expenses until the end of October. It took him less than an hour to find a place for his clothing, his copies of The Count of Monte Cristo and The Grapes of Wrath; the rosary from his First Communion; a Santeria candle Irena had given him when she had hugged him goodbye, crying into his collar like a baby; a toy car courtesy of Hermando, who had tucked it into his pocket when he wasn’t looking; an extra pair of glasses he had used his precious summer job money to buy; a Bible from his grandmother; and a photograph of his mother. The rest of the room went to Neil, who quickly filled it with posters and knickknacks and books and a globe and items of clothing and snacks and a piggy bank and all kinds of things Santiago couldn’t imagine having enough money to own.