Remembering Maria
Now that we are experiencing the one-year anniversary of hurricane Maria, which had such devastating effects on the island of Puerto Rico and its people, I want to attach a short story that I wrote about a fictional family who survived the storm.
María
On that last day before the storm, I first noticed
something was funny when our family went to the mercado in Las Altas. We arrived very early, just as sunshine was
coming over the tops of the mountains. Around the dusty little plaza the shops
were opening, and vendedores were
setting up their stalls like always. But the grown-up people seemed worried and
nervous. I could hear them whispering to each other as, if a secret, a certain
word: “huracán.”
What could it mean? I was sure I’d heard it before, as
a word for an ocean storm, but just the same I asked my big brother Eduardo
about it. He paused and looked up for a minute from where he and some friends
were tossing stones into the fountain.
“Oh, huracanes are
those storms we have at the end of the summer every year,” he said. “But you’re
too little to remember any of the really bad ones—like one that hit us when I
was small. The strongest huracanes sweep
right in from the ocean with days of heavy rain, and winds that can knock over
a tree. That’s why the big palma de coco near our house has always been
growing kind of on its side.” Then I guess he thought he’d explained enough,
because he turned around and went back to his game.
Mami came and took my hand and said we needed to shop for
some extra food, and that she was lucky to have an hijita like me to help her. We took our bags and baskets all
around the square and bought as much food as we could carry up the steep trail
to our house— nearly at the top of the mountain. Rice, gandules, cooking oil, and a few onions. When Mami had spent almost
all the coins from her apron pocket my little sister Arielis began to fuss, so
Mami sat down on one of the old iron benches and opened her blouse to give her
the breast.
I began to
laugh when I looked at the big sacks of rice and beans we’d been carrying and
said, “Mami, vamos a tener una gran
fiesta, no? Aren’t we going to have a big party?” But instead of smiling at my joke, Mami
frowned and said, “Niña, callate! Lo que viene va a ser nada de
fiesta!—Hush, little girl; what’s coming will be no fiesta!” The way she said it sort of scared me and left me
feeling I’d better keep my questions to myself.
Then Mami reached into her blusa and took out a bank note. It was decorated with fancy green
designs and the picture of an important-looking man.
“Take this to the ferretería—the hardware shop—and ask for
a flashlight and a package of batteries. Then with whatever’s left over get us
some big candles and a box of wooden matches. I’ll wait here with the baby and
our bags of food.” She folded the bill and pressed it into my hand. Feeling
important, I took the money and hurried off.
In the hardware store people were bustling to buy up
all sorts of things.There was a long line all the way from the doorway to the
counter. A kindly old abuelo noticed
me and said, “Let the little girl go first!” The others stood back and let me
move to the front of the line while they all watched. This made me feel so
embarrassed that I forgot the names of the things Mami had asked for! I knew
one of them had something to do with flashing light, but all I could think of
was the word “quiebraplata,”—which en Inglés means “firefly!”
When I said
that word in my shy little voice, the people standing around began to laugh. But
Señor Ramos, the shopkeeper, said, “Tienes
buena suerte, my daughter—you’re lucky—because you’re getting the last
“firefly” I’ve got left in the store!” A few of the men behind me grumbled, but
someone pointed out that no family would need the light more than us since we lived
so high up the mountain and far from town! Several men I that I knew were my
Papi’s compadres nodded in agreement,
and the stubble-faced viejito who had
helped me in the line made the sign of the cross over me and muttered a prayer
for God’s protection .
Señor Ramos knew about the batteries I needed, and
took down from a shelf a packet of the right kind. When I asked for velas, he handed me several big, waxy
white ones, and also added the matches I’d nearly forgotten! These things went
into a plastic sack, and I paid for them with Mami’s paper money. The ferretero gave me a few coins back and
slipped a couple of bright-colored lollipops into the bag as a treat for
Eduardo and me.
I thanked him
and turned around to leave. Then I noticed that in just a few minutes the
little store had become even more packed with people jostling each other to grab
just about anything that was left on the shelves. They seemed frightened, and I
felt that way too as I made my way toward the door passing among many scuffed rancheros’
boots, tattered skirts, and dusty knees poking through worn-out work pants.
What a relief it was when I got outside and saw
Papi—all my fear went away, and I felt safe as if by magic! He was standing
beside our little burro, el Chaparrito,
tying some big pieces of wood onto the pack saddle on the shaggy one’s back.
Papi didn’t notice me at first, so I ran up behind to surprise him by jumping
onto his back with a big hug. When he reached around and saw it was me he took
me in his arms and happily cried out, “Mi
reina!” He tossed me high in the air
still clutching my bolsa, and caught
me and gave me a mustache-bristly kiss on my way down.
“Looks like you’ve been helping your Mamá with shopping,”
he said, inspecting the contents of my bag. “Such a smart girl to be helping us
get ready!”
Hoping I’d
finally found someone who could explain everybody’s ansiedad, I pleaded, “But Papi, what is it we’re getting ready for?”
“Ay, mi hija,”
he replied, “Every so many years a really big huracán comes up from el Mar
Carribe and vents its wrath on poor Borinquén! The people who have radios
and wireless telephones are saying that a really strong one is coming to Puerto Rico soon, so everyone on the island is getting
ready to keep safe in their homes until the storm is over!”
“But why is the sea so angry at us?”
“Well,” said Papi, “That’s how some people think about,
it. But to me the storm is just something caused by our Mother Nature. She has
her moods like any woman—sometimes she sends us sunshine and soft breezes, and
sometimes she stirs up the waves and makes a great storm. It’s according to
God’s will, and we must take shelter and be patient until it passes!”
“Are you going to build something with the boards?” I
asked hopefully, remembering a picture I once saw in a magazine from Miami—a little
pink house with some girls playing in it.
“Well, not really build anything new, Lupita, but try
to make our house stronger by nailing these across our shutters and windows.
Now let’s go find the others and get ready to head home.” He took Chaparrito by
his rope halter and turned his head toward the center of the square.
We found Mami, the baby, and Eduardo back near the fountain
where I’d left them. Mami was still busy
with Ariely, who after nursing had needed a change. Edi was impressed to see
the large boards and other hardware we’d gotten, and offered to carry some of
the heavier packages of food. We bundled all we could onto the burrito’s back and made our way toward
the trail that led up the mountainside to our casita. My rubber sandals skidded on the gravel as I walked up the
path.
When we got home Papi started right away to latch all of
the house’s shutters and nail the big boards across them. Eduardo wanted a turn with the hammer, so
Papi gave it to him and let him bang in some of the nails.
While Edi was hammering, Papi sat down on a stone to
rest. He seemed sad and started to talk about it.
“At times like this I feel sorry that when I built our
house—back before you were born—there wasn’t enough money to buy cement for all
four walls. I kept promising myself I’d fix the last one, but somehow I was
always too busy.”
So the fourth side of our house was made out of trees
stripped of their branches covered with palm fans. We called it the bohío wall, because that’s the name for the
open wooden houses the country people used to make for themselves down in the
valleys. It did sometimes let in wind and rain, but we covered it with a big
plastic curtain and never thought much about it.
Mami went straight to the cooking area and built a big
fire in the horno. She sent me with a
jug to fetch water from the cistern under the house, and began to cook up a big
pot of rice while the pigeon peas were soaking. When the rice was done she
scraped it out into another pot and boiled the peas with some chiles, onions, and garlic.
She sent Edi
and me out to our little garden to pick all the vegetables that we could, even
the ones that weren’t quite ripe, since we needed to collect as much food as we
could before the rain started. We also collected as much wild fruit as we could
harvest from the nearby trees: plátanos,
mangos, and guayabas. As I carried my heavy basket into the house I looked
behind me at all the plants that looked so empty and bare!
While Mami prepared the cena, I amused Arielita by bouncing her on my lap and singing to
her. Like all little ones, she loved the
song about the coquí, the tiny frog
that sings all night long in our island’s trees. I held her little hands and
clapped them in time with the chorus, which made her laugh. “Coquí, coquí , coqui-quí-quí-quí!”
While I sang, Mami looked over from the hearth and smiled.
We had a hearty dinner of the gandules and rice, and the ripest of the frutas. We put the leftovers
in a big iron pot with a lid, which Papi carried down to the cisterna to set it on the stone shelf
where the water would keep it cool for tomorrow.
From what my parents heard in the village we were
expecting the rain to start falling that night, so while it was still daylight Edi
and Papi searched the woods on our hillside for dead branches. Papi chopped
them up with his axe and machete to
lay in a store of extra firewood. Edi
brought the wood into the house and stacked it next to the cooking fire where
it would keep dry. Papi took his shovel and dug a trench around three sides of
the house so that any heavy rainwater would flow away from us downhill. Then he
and Edi penned up the goats and el Chaparrito, and shooed the rooster and
chickens into their coop.
That night when we said our prayers and bedded down to
sleep, we could hear the coquí frogs
singing like they always did in the trees around our house. When Mami was done
nursing Arielis, it seemed that she and Papi shared an extra-long hug and kiss
before they blew out the candle in the lantern.
I’d been sleeping soundly, but in the middle of the night
I woke up suddenly to loud sounds of rattling, whooshing, and bumping. Soon I realized I was hearing heavy rain drumming
on our metal roof, and very strong winds flapping the banana trees growing
around our little casita.
“Mami, I’m scared!” I cried out in the noisy
darkness.
“Come here and get in bed with us, mi amor!”She said, and as soon as I climbed in with my parents I
felt very warm and safe.
I dropped off
for a while. When I woke up again the sky was starting to lighten up a little,
though we all knew there would be no real sunrise. The rain and wind sounded
stronger than ever, and the storm seemed to come and go; passing over the
mountains in great waves. I could tell that now even my parents were getting nervous.
That made me nervous too, and I noticed that during the night even the brave
Eduardo had crept over to join the rest of us in our parents’ big matrimonio. We’d spent most of the night
with all five of us huddled together, glad to be warm and dry.
But of course we were also worried. Papi finally quit
his snoring and woke up to listen to the huracán.
“I’m so glad that we moved your ancianos down to Ponce last year,” he said to Mami, who nodded sadly
in agreement.
“Of course they
miss all of us and the mountains, but they’re safer there in a place where
people are always there to take care of them. Though today I wish I could be at
their bedsides! At least my sister and
cousins are nearby…”
Right after Mami said that, the sound of the wind grew
so loud that it sounded like a roaring lion, and I hoped that the storm wasn’t
so fierce down in the city where my grandparents were living.
We were all
wide awake now, and could see that one corner of our roof was being lifted up
and then dropped down again by gusts of wind. After what had seemed like a very
short morning, the sky had already become dark. A trickle of rain began leaking in from under
the bohío wall. Papi put batteries into the flashlight and went
over to the door. He opened it a crack and peered outside, shining the light
around to see how things looked.
“We must move this bed closer to the fireplace and
chimney—that’s the strongest part of the house,” Papi said as he closed the
door and latched it.
So we got up and worked together to move the heavy
piece of furniture. I didn’t want to say
anything, but I was beginning to feel still more scared since Papi seemed
concerned for our safety. I remembered the American story of “The Three Little
Pigs” that the teacher had read to us in English on the first day of school. I
could imagine there was a huge wolf outside trying to blow our little house
down!
“Papi, you built this house very strong, didn’t you?”
I asked at last.
“Yes, as strong as I could, mi hija!”
But I could hear a worried tone in his voice and
wondered what he had seen when he opened the door. We children were now
forbidden to look outside.
Mami got up and lit the fire and started to boil some
water for coffee for the grown-ups. Once
the ground coffee and hot water had been poured off into the pot to brew, she
made some corn meal mush for the rest of us. While that was thickening she set
the heavy skillet off to one side of the bed of coals. Then she sliced up some plantains and fried
them in the tiniest bit of oil I ever saw her use.
“I think I’ll cook some extra plátanos in case we want them later!” and soon had cut up and fried
almost all of them.
This seemed odd to me, but then I noticed that drops
of rain were beginning to splash down the chimney and make a hissing noise as
they fell in the fire. I wondered if my mother was worried that the cooking
fire might go out. But I didn’t say
anything.
So that was how it was, and it was like that for days;
huddling together to keep warm and dry, eating what food we had, and struggling
not to be afraid.
Sometimes I
felt like we were the family of Noah in the Ark, and wondered when the rain
would stop. Then maybe we could send out
a dove to bring us back hopeful news.
And I wondered fearfully what had become of our animals; our goats and
chickens, and our dear, patient burrito
who was like a family pet. Surely by now their pens had been torn up by the
wind and they were scattered far and wide across the hills and barrancas. I hoped the animalitos had not gotten hurt and didn’t
feel scared. And of course I was also worried about the other mountain
families, whose daughters were my playmates at the village school.
For soon it became clear that there was a great deal
of water streaming down the mountainside, and each hour a little more of it
came into our house! It was now our job
just to do our best to keep our spirits up. Mami had set aside the lollipops that Edi and
I got from the herradura, but she
decided to give them to us now. Sucking on them cheered us up and helped us feel
a little less hungry. Most of our food
was gone and the tiny meals we were having were not very filling.
We tried to while away the time with songs and riddles
and telling stories. We passed the hours
curled up in the bed or crouched by the chimney, trying to chase away boredom
by making every chore and activity last as long as possible.
When she wasn’t
busy cooking, Mami took out her sewing basket. By the light of the lantern she made
a new dress for my rag doll, Pepita. Then she took out her special needle and
made a pretty band of lace to sew on Ari’s little cap. The third morning Mami took a long time
brushing my hair, and then braided ribbons into it like she’d done last winter
for la Navidad. She held up her little mirror to show how
pretty I looked, and we both laughed. During those days I learned that laughing
is powerful—it drives off that feeling of terror deep in the belly of a person
who feels completely helpless.
From somewhere Papi took out a jackknife we didn’t
know he had, and taught Eduardo how to open it up, sharpen the blade, and use
it for whittling. Taking turns, they
carved little fish and funny people from some sticks of firewood.
“You must
always take good care of the sharp edge of any sort of knife, mi hijo,” Papi instructed my brother.
“If you don’t treat it with respect, the orisha
Ogún, who rules all blades of iron, might cause it to act against you.”
Edi nodded
gravely, but looked confused about the name Ogún and the word orisha.
Right after Papi had said these things, Mami glared at
him, and he seemed embarrassed. “You know, mi
amor,” she chided, “That’s not the Christian way of thinking that we want
to teach our children!”
“You’re right, of course,” our father admitted. “But
when I was a boy how I loved to hear my
bisabuelo tell the stories of Santería!”
“What stories? Tell us, tell us!” Edi and I cried,
bouncing up and down.
Papi looked at Mami and she shrugged her shoulders and
gave him a look that said, “Well, alright!”
So we spent a long afternoon feeding our sputtering
fire and listening to Papi tell the ancient tales of our isla and the gods and goddesses of the Mar Carribe. These were the
things the Indians and African slaves of Borinquén once believed before the
Spanish priests came, and we knew that many on the island still honored the old
powers.
As Papi talked, he taught us about the orishas—the gods and goddesses of nature—and
of their special colors and costumes, their dancing and drumming. We learned the meanings of thunder, sunshine,
and the ocean waves; and heard tales of great storms, battles, and romances. It all seemed so delightful that somehow I
couldn’t imagine that our loving Jesús Cristo would disapprove. Especially if
it helped a poor jíbaro family in
danger to hold on to their hope and faith!
I think it was on the third night or perhaps the
fourth when the earth floor of our little casa
was finally streaming with water and the fire had completely gone out. Papá had
made many trips to the cistern for water, but it had become too muddy to drink
or cook with. So finally we gave up and just put our biggest kettle outside the
door to fill with rain. Everything was soggy now and it was only by holding
onto one another in the big bed that we could feel at all warm. We had eaten
most of the food we’d been able to gather and prepare.
Suddenly we heard the sound of the wind become ten
times louder than we’d ever heard it, and with every bump the loose corner of
the metal roof began to flap up higher and higher into the darkness. We all crouched on the bed together,
trembling under the soaking blankets, crying out “Ay! Ay!” and praying out loud to la Virgencita to save us!
Then, in a dreadful instant, there was a terrifying
ripping noise, and we watched as our roof was torn completely away to sail off
like a huge kite with a great, whistling roar. We could hear the big sheet of
metal rattling and banging its way across rocks and treetops as it flew through
the storm and away from our house forever.
Then we had nothing above us but the black and
terrible sky with its powerful winds and pelting water! We heard a creaking and cracking, and all at
once we could see that the bohío wall
too was breaking down and at any minute would be splintered to pieces. Papi
leaped up and grabbed the wooden table, now starting to rock on its heavy legs.
He lifted it up and lowered it over us on the flooded frame of the bed.
“Children, keep under this for protection!” he shouted,
as the wind whipped him and blew all sorts of things against his body.
Quickly, Mami handed me the baby and reached out to
grab a corner of the plastic curtain just before it too flew away. She and Papi
used it to make a kind of tent to cover the table and bed, and then crawled
under it. There was barely room beneath
this shelter for all of us.
To our horror we then heard fragments of what had once
been our house’s fourth wall as they rattled and scraped by just inches from
our heads before disappearing into the howling darkness. The wind seemed
stronger than ever now, with no wall and roof to hold it back. Edi and I
clutched our parents and moaned loudly, and little Ari added her baby’s wailing
to our cries.
What a long and miserable night it was, and how
unprotected we were from the terrible huracán!
I tied my braids together behind my head to stop them from lashing my face in
the wind. The plastic tent that kept off some of the rain flapped wildly, and
my parents held tightly to its corners. Papi gripped the table’s legs with all
of his strength to keep our last bit of protection from blowing away!
What was even worse was seeing the place where we’d lived
so happily destroyed before our eyes. We watched in horror as one by one each
of the furnishings of our little home was snatched away by the wind and carried
off to someplace unknown. There went our
furniture, floor mats, and crockery; our photographs of our abuelos, our holy pictures and our
calendar. Even the big boards that Papi and Edi had nailed so firmly over the
windows came loose and began to swing to and fro. We saw great branches and
even whole trees go flying by overhead, along with boards and fences and all
sorts of things that could only have come from other people’s houses!
Finally, wanting to protect us from seeing any more, Mami
made Edi and me close our eyes and put our heads down on her lap to try to
sleep. In our bravest voices we all
recited the bedtime prayer, and Mami rocked us and sang to us softly. As I finally dropped off, it seemed as if the
storm might be calming down just the tiniest bit.
Well! We had gotten so used to pounding wind that when
we finally heard silence, it seemed like thunder!
It was truly a miracle, for when I woke up in the
morning the storm had passed over. For the first time in days I saw faint
sunlight. Beside me under the table, Mami was nursing little Ari as Eduardo
dozed with his head in her lap. Papi was
standing over the table peeling back the dripping plastic, clearing away trash,
and looking around at what was left of our world. He saw me open my eyes, and lifted me out
from underneath. Then, taking my hand, he guided me toward the gap in the walls
that had once held our front door. We
walked across a mud- and rubbish-filled space contained by what was left of our
house.
“Hija, ven conmigo y miremos
juntos!” Papi
said. “Daughter, come with me and let’s look together!”
We walked
through the frame of the door and into the midst of a terrible vista—the tops of the trees that had once
been green and shady had been stripped off so that only trunks and bare sticks
remained. The spiky stalks on the far hillsides reminded me of bristles along
the back of a wild boar. New streams that had never been there before now
flowed into broad arroyos that led to
the valley. The water gurgled softly.
I gasped and
began to cry. My Papacito picked me up
and hugged me so tightly against his chest that I could feel his heart-beat. I
could tell from his breathing that he was weeping too.
Then Papi
hoisted me up onto his shoulders so I could see far, far, down the side of the
naked mountain. Though before it was always hidden by the forest, I could see
the dome and cross of our village church, la
Iglesia de la Virgen de Divina Providencia—named for the Mother who watches
over our island. The sunlight grew stronger until the cross gleamed
in its rays.
“Figúrate, hiija,” Papi said to me softly, “Sobrevivimos! Just think of it—we survived!” He lifted me over his head and set me down on
the muddy ground.
“Sí, Papi!” I said, looking up
at him. “Our Mother Nature is so very strong—now she’ll make the trees grow
back, and we’ll raise food from the earth!”
My father gazed at his three cement walls. Within
them, the others were beginning to stir and crawl out from under their shelter.
“A house can always be rebuilt,” my Papi whispered, “but
never a family!”
THANKS FOR READING!
EMILY
