Fablespinners: Literature's Online Open Mic!

by ROBERT MC KENNA



I guess you can tell from my name that I am not a Latino by birth. I was born into an Irish Catholic family in the South Bronx of N.Y. in 1949. Growing up in the South Bronx and living in the police district called “Fort Apache” was quite an experience because as you will see, I was the minority.

All my friends were Latinos. Most of them were Puerto Rican, but I also had friends from the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Mexico and Peru. I do not use the term “friends” lightly. They were more than friends. They were my companions in good times and bad, my teachers, my tormentors, my protectors, and my family as well.

I took more than my share of beatings from the Latinos but the truth is that I received beatings more often and more severe from the Irish kids who lived just outside my neighborhood. Why? For the simple reason that I hung out with and played with and lived with Latinos.

Regrets? I have none. Those were the best times of my life. I had friends then that I wish I had now. I did not realize it then but I would never have friends of that quality ever again in my life. When someone bothered them I fought for them and they in turn would fight for me when needed.

I was the only non-Latino in the entire neighborhood. As such, I was the minority. I lived in a world where I could not understand the language, I did not fully understand the music, and I did not know the values. In the 60’s, I came to be known as “The Longhair” and everyone knew me.

Eventually, I learned enough of the language to get along fairly well. Some would say I learned the language too well as I could curse and swear with the best of them. I came to like the music and Tito Puente and Cal Tjader were as much a favorite of mine and my friends were introduced to The Beatles and The Beach Boys. More importantly, I came to understand their values regarding family, friends, worship and hard work.

I was invited to dinner at their homes and they at mine. I came to like cuchifritos and pasteles and they came to like Corned Beef & Cabbage and Irish stew. Their families accepted me in their house and vice versa. We all lived in cramped apartments so sleepovers were impossible but on hot steamy nights it would not be unusual for my friends and I to put a blanket on the metal “fire escape” adorning each apartment building and sleep outside all night. It was kind of like camping, city style. We could speak to each other as we all lived in the same building so the fire escapes were our little world. We could run up and down with sodas and snacks and even watch TV from the outside looking in. For those of you who never slept outside on a fire escape you missed a wonderful experience.

Sometimes they went with me to St. Jerome’s church and sometimes I would go with them to Iglesias De Dio. They thought my churches hymns were cool and we used the missal for the Mass as a kind of code breaker for a secret language and made believe we were spies sitting in on a secret ritual. I thought their music at the storefront glossies replete with tambourines and guitars was way cooler. We used to dance and sing along both inside the glossies and outside.



We all worked in the neighborhood although at different stores. I worked for a Jewish family in the only real Haberdashery in the shopping district. My ability to speak enough Spanish to help the local’s buys fine clothing made me invaluable to the owners. The Latinos that I knew were hard working people. They had not only the usual jobs of bus drivers, policeman and fireman, construction, etc. but they also ran the first 7-11’s in the U.S. called Bodegas. These Bodegas were the first stores open 24/7 but instead of being owned by some corporation in Texas they were Mom & Pop stores. They carried everything you could possibly want including homemade candy and specialties.



Some of my friends would build wooden carts, buy a block of ice and cover it with burlap and would sell Snow Cones. On the top of the cart were the usual flavors like Cherry, Grape and such but on a shelf under the cart they carried a homemade drink called Chococo. This heady mixture of cocoa, coconut and Rum could be added to the adult’s snow cones for an extra 25 cents. My friend Carmelo’s parents made this drink and sold it out of their apartment to everyone in the neighborhood for years as I was growing up. I was totally unaware of this until one day when no one was home we opened a bottle and drank it. It tasted so good we drank it all. I think I still get a hangover just thinking about it.



Our particular block was well suited to stickball games and the older guys would play for serious money. The whole neighborhood would come out to see the local boys take on another neighborhoods boys. Really they were “gangs” and this was a peaceful way of besting each other and having bragging rights. People would line the streets and stand on the fire escapes to watch the games. It was Yankee Stadium in El Barrio. Carmelo’s grandfather an elderly man of 70 or so would walk up and down the streets with a steaming pot of homemade pasteles to sell to the crowds. He was the Latin hot dog vendor. Of course, many on the sidelines could be seen sharing a bottle of my friend’s family recipe of Chococo that was basically the first Mudslide drink.



Yes, the Latino community was filled the friendliest, kindest, most religious, and hardest working people I ever knew. They also had a sense of decency and dignity that belied everything they did. In closing I want to relate my last remembrance of living as a minority in El Barrio. As I grew, my friends and I became separated by marriage, the draft, college, and some went back to the Island. Over the years, I grew and went to Spellman High School which was far from the slums of the South Bronx and lost my connection with the new people who moved into the neighborhood. We always nodded to one another but really did not know each other. I felt more and more like an outsider and became more concerned as the violence and crime in the neighborhood grew with each passing year.



One day, I was coming home from school and a man approached me that I did not really know. I was on guard fearing the unknown nature of his approach. He was rather tough looking and swaggered up to me as I approached my apartment building. He said, “Hey Longhair, I want to speak with you.” I put on my best poker face and stopped to see what this was about and inside was a little more than scared about the situation. He said, “You know, we always see you coming here with your girlfriend”. I grew very suspicious, as this conversation did not sound like it was going in the right direction. He continued, “ We notice you coming to and from school and going to work too. I just want to speak for all the people in this building and the neighborhood. We respect you a great deal and think you and your girlfriend are really nice people. We wanted you to know that we have been watching you for some time now. You should know that you must never be afraid as we all watch out for you and her and would never allow anything to happen to you two or your mother and father. I don’t want to delay you further but I thought you should know.” He walked away without my being able to say anything but “Thank you”. The lump in my throat prevented me from saying any more. I wanted to say more. I wanted to tell him how much that meant to me but that was impossible. How could anyone relay what that meant to me.



I eventually moved out of the neighborhood and moved to somewhere on Long Island where I was no longer a minority. Although I am now part of the majority, I never felt as safe, secure and yes, loved as much as I did as a minority in El Barrio.