“Congressmen Acevedo, I recognize that no man can be all things to all people, but as one of—what are you?—four Puerto Rican representatives in Congress? And as the head of the Congressional Latino Caucus, how can you explain your recent decision to cancel the oversight hearings for the board implementing the austerity measures in Puerto Rico?”
The crowd, completely ignorant of the subject matter at hand, but hyper-aware that the tone of the question was hardly friendly, grew silent. Olga sucked in her breath and slowly retreated to the back of the crowd, making her way towards the inquisitor, whom she of course knew to be, without needing to see him, Reggie King.
“Well, first, let me say, hello Mr. King,” her brother began. “It is, as always, great to see you. As you know, I’ve been a very vocal supporter of a path to statehood for Puerto Rico. But in answer to your question, the truth is that the PROMESA board is comprised of bipartisan presidential appointees, and our oversight is purely ceremonial—”
“But surely,” Reggie interrupted, “even a ceremonial hearing can help to raise awareness of the neocolonial state that PROMESA has put Puerto Rico in? People are fleeing, schools are closing, and at this very moment people are waiting out a hurricane unsure if the island’s infrastructure can survive the season.”
“With all due respect, Reggie, I’m very aware of what’s happening on my island.”
“Our island,” Reggie added.
“Gentlemen!” Olga called out loudly for the crowd to hear, cheer injected into her voice. She slipped her hand into the crook of Reggie’s arm. “There is nothing that would make my grandma more proud than two people so passionate about their Puerto Rican roots. For those of you who do not know about the fiscal crisis in Puerto Rico, I encourage you to take a moment and speak to my brother,” and she waved at her brother, “or to Mr. King here, who are both quite knowledgeable about the issue and would be happy to fill you in during the rest of the reception.”
The hostess smiled widely at Olga, grateful to have avoided the actual discussion of politics or policy at her political fundraiser. Her brother winked at her from across the pool, where he was already swarmed by donors, and she found herself face-to-face with Reggie. This was why her brother had wanted her there.
* * *
THEY HAD MET in another era, when cell phones were a novelty and email was for work. Before planes were flown into towers. When everything seemed extremely possible, including the unlikely possibility of being a recent college graduate, hustling at her first job, and being called into VIP by an older, handsome guy who happened to be behind countless songs that she had sung along to as a teenager, in college, and in that very nightclub where they met. He didn’t try to take her home with him. Instead they went to Café Express at 2 A.M. and dined on moules frites—the first time she’d ever tried them—and talked until it was nearly time for her to go to work. He drove her home, she showered quickly, and then he drove her to her office. From then on, for nearly two years, it was like this: more than friends, but not quite committed, either. Him chasing his fortune and Olga chasing some sense of satisfaction that always seemed to evade her.
One day, he told her he wanted to get more serious. He was ready to settle down. He knew he would never find anyone else like her. Abuelita was delighted. Her mother, horrified. What was the point of all of that education, all of that insight, just to be an accessory to a man so lost he hides his own culture? A man so focused on money. Eventually, Olga told him she wasn’t ready, she was far too young, she had too much she wanted to do with her life, though she wasn’t quite sure what. He was the first and last real boyfriend Olga ever had.
Their parting was very friendly, not a hint of animosity. She was surprised by the sadness that consumed her when she read his wedding announcement a year later. She was less surprised when, a couple of years after that, he showed up to pay respects at Abuelita’s funeral.
Though he was hip-hop royalty, Reggie’s true wealth hadn’t come from music, but from several wise, early investments in biotechnology firms and wind farms. And, of course, his real name was, in fact, not Reggie King, but Reggie Reyes. He’d changed it early in his music days when he made the transition from producing salsa and freestyle music to more mainstream pop and R & B. In recent years, perhaps to make amends for having not exactly hidden his Puerto Rican heritage, but not heralding it either, he had become a highly vocal advocate for decolonization efforts on the island. This initially perplexed the tabloids and hip-hop gossip sites, who followed his moves closely, as people seemed confounded that one could be both Black and Puerto Rican concurrently. The result was a bizarre media blitz during which Reggie appeared on various podcasts, talk shows, and CNN segments explaining Afro-Latino identity to the masses, which had struck Olga as surreal. They’d kept in touch, largely on social media, occasionally via text if she saw him in the news or he saw her on TV, just to say hello or “big up” or what have you, but it had been years since they were face-to-face.