A Pearl in El Barrio

By Judith Roman

Living a life torn between not belonging, poverty, and domestic abuse, Cristina must choose whether to start anew or just end it all. Depiction on how life in a culturally diverse world and the realities of acceptance play a role in her life. Reflections on the past tell her story in a captivating scenario of events and a need for a purpose to exist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781646549894

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A Pearl in El Barrio

Judith Roman

Copyright © 2020 Judith Roman

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2020

ISBN 978-1-64654-988-7 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64654-989-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Fitting In

La Rata

Taino Princess

From Passion to Turbulence

Mama’s Tribulations

La Familia

Annaliese Y Manny

Asalto—Into Oblivion

Tranquility

This book is dedicated to my grandchildren:

Drake Christian Roman

Miranda Lee Roman

Brice Matthew Roman

Alexandra Jasmine Roman

Alyssa Michelle Roman

Brittany Nichole Roman

Rowena Gabriela Roman

Always follow your dreams and never give up!

Chapter I

Fitting In

I could hear the heart monitor steady beeping. Sometimes it was the only sound for hours on end. On occasion the nurse would come in striking a conversation as if I could talk to her. How are you this morning? I hope you have slept well, but then again, that is all you want to do. You need to wake up because your family is waiting for you, she would say.

I felt her hand as it gently touched my arm to check on my IV, making sure it was working. I heard her clicking on the computer as she typed, and then the footsteps faded away. How long had I been here? The blood pressure cuff deflated, and the humming sound began as it inflated again.

So how did I get here? My mind drifted to my childhood. I could mentally see myself playing with my sister, Magdalena. I was the older one. It was a sunny day, and we already had lunch. We were playing in the school playground until the recess bell rang. As always my mom stood outside the fence with other mothers discussing their day.

It was like a tradition; the Hispanic moms would gather at lunchtime to watch their children play during their break at school. After all, the moms needed to make sure their children were safe. They participated in social chitchat as they kept an eye on all of us.

Being raised in Spanish Harlem was different. Our lives were somewhat secluded, overbearing, and overprotected. While our male counterparts were given liberties of a somewhat more open atmosphere, the young girls were just about covered in a shroud of overprotection. We were walked to school in the morning, watched over during lunchtime, and picked up from school at the end of the day.

We participated in no afterschool activities, learned no outdoor sports, and associated with no one outside the home or the few hours at school. Not a one of us ever learned to ride a bike—an American pastime for all young children except us.

But here we were, unaware of the depravation we had because we were not alone. Many families were the same. God forbid a young girl was out and about. What would people say? I guess it stemmed back into this first generation of migrant families who, despite the fact they had come to the continental US to live, they still were untrusting of the people who lived there.

My parents had arrived in Manhattan in the early ’50s. Puerto Rico was already a United States possession, but the people were compelled to search for the American dream across the ocean. I never understood that. Why would you seek adventure and a new life in a country that even the language was different and you are already a part of that country in your own land?

Why do you wish to learn a new language? Why are you giving up tropical paradise for the harsh cold winters of New York? Why open yourself up to prejudice and racial tension? Isn’t it better to live in a home than in a dilapidated New York City slum? I never got around asking my parents these questions, although I would have liked to know the answers.

Both of us were born in New York City. Magdalena was born during better weather mid-July, but I was brought into this world in the midst of the coldest month. I felt a shiver just thinking about it. The fact that I was born in New York made no difference to me. I just could not tolerate the cold weather.

I wish someone would come in the room and throw a blanket over me. If only I could move my arms. I didn’t hear anything but the heart monitor, so I guess I was still alone. I started remembering again.

The bell rang, ending recess, and both of us ran up to Mommy and, as always, asked for her blessing—a tradition we as Hispanics always do. Then we ran inside before the late bell rang. I turned around and watched her start walking away, talking with a neighbor who resided in the building.

This neighbor had two sons. My mother had befriended her since the woman lived in the building and also walked her two boys to school. She was a single mom who was haunted by her own demons. She drank every day and not just beer. My mother, on the other hand, was a quiet woman and a housewife who dedicated her life to the care of her children. They had almost nothing in common except that their children were in the same school and they both were Puerto Ricans.

Spanish Harlem, or El Barrio, was located in Manhattan’s East Harlem area, stretching from Ninety-Sixth Street to 125th Street, where Harlem started to the East and Harlem Rivers. At one time this area was mostly Italian immigrants, but as other nationalities moved in, most Italians moved out.

We still enjoyed going to the Italian festival to eat hot sausages and my favorite, zeppoli. The smell of the Italian bakery located at the corner filled the air with the delightful smell of cannoli, biscotti, and tiramisu—not to mention the pizza parlors that to this day I have found none that could compare.

Despite the fact that it was considered a mostly Puerto Rican area at that time, PS 80 was over 90 percent African Americans. In fact, I was the only non-Black child in my class. Magdalena shared classes with one of the neighbor’s sons. I started in kindergarten. My teacher, Miss Feldman, was Jewish. She was a young lady and very understanding. I guess I can say she was my inspiration. Most teachers at the school were Jewish at that time. I don’t remember if there were any other races, so I prefer to say most during my elementary years. Around the holidays, she would have the Star of David sitting atop her desk. I didn’t know what that was until my latter years with her as my teacher and she explained it all to me.

We were shy, not by choice but by circumstance. We were out of place, ridiculed every day, and having to keep to ourselves. The neighbor’s sons were big boys and did not associate with us too often but were not picked on as we were. I remember a time when a classmate compared me to another student.

He said, Michelle, did you notice Cristina is the same color as you are?

For which, she replied, Yeah, but she doesn’t have the Black soul I have!

Then the two laughed as they walked away.

It was a difficult time, and I drowned myself in my schoolwork to avoid confrontations, but they always followed me. My long hair was a target of envy. Reaching close to my knees, it had its share of yanks, tugs, and pulls no matter where I was—the cafeteria line, assembly, or even at my seat in the class. My mom always maintained our hair tied in tight braids to avoid head lice, and it worked for that, but it