Breadloaf Anthology

By: Eliana Martinez You want me to tell you where I’m from?

I’ll take you there.

I’m from a bright green house with the number painted on in 3rd grade handwriting, Bead curtains that don’t billow, Old family portraits, faded and distant.

I’m from my grandmother’s dark closet down the hall, An altar to the saints that ‘saved my life’ when I was born premature, Candles, incense and a Bible.

The mosquito net on each bed tells you just as much about where I’m from, As the broom made of twigs and the old TV with the antenna and hand dials.

If you must know, you can get there a few ways, Hop a plane, hitch a ride, flag a concho, pay a busfare on Caribe Tours, And then have your cousin pick you up at the end of the road, Because no one will go that far.

Have some spare cash for the guards at the checkpoints, And if your skin is dark enough, have your Dominican or American passport handy.

It’s a long ride, but people will sell you fried everything along the road.

Just eat it!

You will know you’re in my town When you see the fences made of sticks with laundry shamelessly hung to dry, The decrepit unpaved streets with sick-looking stray dogs And children pushing tires with a stick.

There will be chicken coops and wooden benches in the yard.

Between 12 and 2, everyone will be sleeping.

When the lights go out, find a house or a colmado with a generator.

The Doña will offer you some fresh-squeezed fruit juice in a tin cup.

You’re not allowed to say no- they look down on desaire.

At some point, stop and smell the ocean, even if you can’t yet see it.

Don’t ride your pasola too fast near the beach, you can lose grip on the sand.

Wave at the kids in the makeshift basketball court; they love strangers!

Are you there yet?

Are there kids rain-bathing in their underwear?

Is everyone wearing a t-shirt that someone brought them from “Nueva Yor”?

Then you’re there.

Now make yourself comfortable.

Enjoy the tamarindo, quenepas and guayava.

Listen to the story of how Monchy, Tuto, Chacho and Chelo Chased down the dog that was biting Mamá’s goats.

By the way, no one here goes by their real name, Especially not Teofilo and Narciso.

When my family gets comfortable enough, They will show you the photo album that is falling apart And ask you to stay the night because, “El Diablo no duerme en su cama.”* Welcome to where I’m from.

Enjoy your stay. * Translation: The Devil doesn’t sleep in his own bed.