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.
“Hi,” she said, finding herself a bit shy.
“Hey, hey!” he said, jumping up and breaking the rainbow right in the middle. “Caballeros, you’ll excuse me, but, frankly, something better has come my way.”
The viejitos surveyed her quickly.
“Bendición,” one of them said to her.
She winked at him in response and he laughed. It had been a while since she’d been blessed by a man, of any age, in the streets, this pleasurable spark of Brooklyn life largely extinguished by gentrification. It delighted her and made her homesick for Sunset Park all at once. How could one be homesick for a place just a few miles away? She made a mental note to go back to the neighborhood and see her niece that weekend.
Olga realized now that they were outside a bar, of sorts, though she’d only discovered that by looking inside the door, which was propped open with a Bustelo coffee can filled with pennies and screws. The interior was dark, the space paneled with wood that absorbed what little light came through the small windows on either side of the door. The bar itself was clearly handmade, the top nothing more than a Formica kitchen counter, the stools a shiny gold glitter vinyl, the back bar festooned with blinking Christmas lights despite it being August. There was a pool table in the back and a disco ball over the center of the room, card tables and folding chairs scattered around the edges of the place. Faded covers from the Post and the Daily News sports pages featuring Bobby Bonilla and Jorge Posada were taped onto the walls, flanking both sides of an oil painting of Roberto Clemente, done, it seemed to Olga, by the same artist as the mural outside. She spotted the jukebox—the old-fashioned kind, no debit cards welcome here—tucked in the corner. Cheo Feliciano played in the background. The only thing up-to-date in the whole place was a small flat-screen TV mounted on a wall, which Olga instinctively knew was for baseball and baseball only. She was surprised it wasn’t on now.
“What is this place?” she asked, slightly incredulous.
“Sylvia’s Social Club. The last of the Puerto Rican social clubs. There used to be a ton of them, but you know rules, regulations, that kind of thing, most of them closed. I got the sense that you were into a good dive bar, so I thought you might dig this spot.”
“I mean,” she said, beaming, “this is real-deal Brooklyn. I can’t believe no one has torn it down and erected a high-rise. Is this place even legal?”
Matteo chuckled. “Why? You too upright a citizen to patronize an unpermitted establishment?”