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
Though blindfolded by a band of fabric gone damp with his own sweat, Prieto could tell from the pitch of the road that they were heading into the mountains; the weight of his own body pushed against the back of the hot car seat. The drive was slow. They stopped frequently to, by the sound of it, clear blockages from the roads. Periodically one of the Pa?uelos Negros would cock their pistol, pressing it to the back of Prieto or Mercedes’s heads, reminding them not to touch their blindfolds. The first time this happened, Mercedes grabbed the fingers of Prieto’s hand and he squeezed them in return. By the third time, they kept their hands bound to each other for comfort.
* * *
PRIETO HADN’T PLANNED on returning to Puerto Rico quite so soon, but when Mercedes reached out to say she was pursuing a news story of concern to him, he booked himself on the first flight his schedule would allow. He’d been surprised to hear from her. They had struck up a friendship, but given the difficulty making calls from the island—even with the solar-powered cellular balloons Google had deployed—he knew it must be of import.