Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— You want to oppress your people.

— I want to stop thinking like my people.

— You want to stop being Puerto Rican. You want to become American.

— I don’t have to become what I am.

— You’re American? Listen to her. She says she is American.

— Why should I deny I was born here?

— But where here? Stop clowning around.

— So what do you think about Fidel? Tell me what you think.

— That’s a frivolous question. Fidel transformed my life.

— Well, if he did transform your life, then it’s not a frivolous question.

— You asked it in such a casual manner.

— Ask her seriously, c’mon, in a deep voice with your chin held high. Not casual like:

— Do you want butter or cream cheese on your toast?

— Never ask a Cuban about Fidel. It’s like talking sex with your parents.

— You always talk nationalities.

— Because Chicanos don’t have a nation. Wherever I go, I am considered to be the maid of the world. When in Germany, I’m Turkish, when in France, I am Algerian, when in Puerto Rico, I am Dominican. You know, she’s not asking you a frivolous question. She honestly wants to know what you think of Fidel.

— I refuse to be baited by a flippant tongue.

— Do you have a gut feeling about him? If he transformed your life, you must have a gut feeling about him. That’s what I want to hear. But no, you are afraid I am going to judge you: reactionary or revolutionary. But no, I just want honest, goddamn guts — do you have guts? Speak to me from your guts, from your exile, from your transformation.

— Don’t psychoanalyze me.

— I hate psychoanalysis.

— I don’t, it’s a very serious discipline.

— Then I’m going to tell you what you think of Fidel.

— It’s a complex issue.

— I’ll give you a complex answer: he’s a Bastard with a capital B. However, he has done some good things for the Cuban people. That’s what your guts say.

— Don’t speak for my guts. You don’t know me.

— Don’t pick on her. Let her finish her thoughts.

— She has no thoughts. And you, chicana mía, what do you think about the situation in Mexico?

— So far from God, so close to the United States. I am the maid of the world. I am married to a white man now, but I don’t reap the fruits of his privilege. When we go to a restaurant, they still seat us near the kitchen. Now my white man has become red because he married the maid of the world. I am the one who holds up the lines at airports and bus terminals. I am always the suspect, and my baby is strip-searched because he looks like me. He is the only baby who is busted.

— I want to know what this has to do with identities.

— Poets and anarchists are always the first to go.

— Where?

— To the front line. Wherever it is.

— I love it when she slips into a trance. I long for those stretches of glazed silence.

— How? Like this?

— No, like this. Wide open without blinking. Only then can I slip into bed and light up the set without any trepidation.

— How can you stand her? Why don’t you fight for your rights? Even in India women are allowed to watch television if they have one. Don’t indulge her habit of rocking. She is disconnected enough from society. She doesn’t watch television or read the newspapers. How can she write if she doesn’t know what is happening in the world. She should go to jury duty. Or town hall. I bet she doesn’t even vote. If she would get a job. I offered her a job as a messenger. I need someone to run visas to Rockefeller Plaza. $50 a pop under the table, papi. But she doesn’t want a job either. So what time does lazybones roll out of bed?

— Mumi, she reads all night long.

— That’s not work, hon, that’s laziness, which is hereditary like drunkenness. Look at her father, sitting on the sofa reading the papers all day long. While his wife brings home the bacon and fries it up in a pan.

— Rocking in children is a sign of loneliness.

— It’s unhealthy. She has to exercise her brain or she’ll end up like her aunt Violeta with Alzheimer’s, which is also hereditary. You talk about her trances, sugar, all you have to do is talk to her to know that she lives on Pluto. Five, right, five. She is like Sibyl. If she doesn’t like what they’re telling her, she disconnects and takes on the next personality. Shielding herself from the solitude she suffered as a child. But I was there as a witness to it all. She makes a mountain out of a molehill.

— It doesn’t matter if it’s true. It only matters that she believes it’s true.

— You’re doing her no favor by humoring her. It’s all a lie. Encourage her to write about her past, but afterwards, show it to me, and I’ll chop her demons down to size. She has to confront reality in black and white. Look how she is always twirling her hair and rocking like a goosey girl. And yet, she is such a powerful public speaker. Perfectly calm. Sibyl, right, papi. It’s Doña Juanita’s fault for not letting her play with other children. We used to break into their garden and shoot birds with slingshots. I was the best shot. She used to watch us from the window. Doña Juanita wouldn’t let her come out and play with us. She used to dress in pastels and ruffles. Now look at her. I’m going to buy her a pink sweater from Ferragamo because she looks so pretty in cheerful colors. Why does she always dress in black like Hamlet, mourning ghosts? Playing the role of a village artist. Insecurity. Why does she have to pay $100 for a haircut? Insecurity. I’ll pulverize her delusions. Calling Lourdes a lesbian. It’s a shame that she has to define herself by projecting her sins onto others. She doesn’t like me. Because I tell her:

— Come here, you flaming fag, and look at yourself in my eyes.

— No thanks, Mumi, I have my own mirror.

— You could be free like me if you go to therapy.

— I don’t want to be like you.

— It’s not what you want to be. It’s what you are. You don’t want to accept yourself as you are.

— It is so if you think so.

— You think so. You think so.

— No, I don’t think so. But if you think so.

— I think so.

— Well, I am not if you think so. I am if I think so. Only, if I think so. Myself is not yourself. And it is not if you think so. Only if I think so. And I don’t think so. So, if you think so, in my book, it is not so. Not if you think so, it is not.

— It was a theater with plush red drapes. It was your first gig at Radio City, and you were playing a Mahler symphony on electric guitar. I was sitting alone in the first row with nobody behind me in the second row except for a petite woman. The rest of the hall was packed with restless, confused rockers who hadn’t heard anything like it, so they didn’t know whether to cheer or boo. I clenched my fists and focused all my good energy:

— Let it be great, please, let her bring the house down, blow the roof off, set the house on fire, oh please God, show us some love tonight, give us magic, fire, delight, and all the money in sight.

Suddenly shorty in the second row jumped to her feet and started singing in Mick Jagger’s raw voice. You were playing the guitar staring at the floor, and she turned her back to you to embrace the crowds, raising her fist, inciting them to sing along with her voice of oregano:

— Hey! Heeey-ho!

The rockers went crazy cheering and clapping:

— Look who it is!

— Heeey-ho! — she sang to the crowds.

— Hey-ho. Heeey-ho! — the crowds sang back to her.

I was rubbing my temples, and my head was bursting.

— Rain, rain, shower me.