A Dash in Between

By Diégo De Jesús

My identity wasn’t a big part of my childhood. I learned I was Hispanic through my name, but I learned I was Puerto Rican–or Borican, I later learned–when I was in high school from my abuelo. My family’s from Mayagüez, my abuelo told me. It’s on the western coast of Puerto Rico. He would tell me about all his visits to the island when he was growing up, adventuring through the jungle or walking through narrow Spaniard cobblestone streets twisting his ankles. But whenever I asked him what our trade was, he never answered. I continued to ask him over the years, only met with the same answer. I needed someone to tell me more about myself, and it was frustrating how my abuelo wouldn’t, couldn’t, or maybe even shouldn’t tell me. It had gotten to the point where I even came up with stories of who my ancestors were. They could’ve been anywhere from peasants who came to the New World looking for a fresh start to, conquistadors who ruined the untouched half of the world. The latter disturbs me to my core, making me feel guilty just from the hypothetical, and whenever race comes up, people don’t believe I’m Hispanic until they hear my name.

That was at the same timeframe when a Dominican substitute teacher came in and urged all of the Hispanic kids to put accents on their names. He was calling attendance at the head of the room for history class. I was used to our history teacher coming in with a shot of espresso held by sallow fingers with the acrid aroma of his cigarette break. I guess the cigarettes caught up to him since he was “unwell” that day and remained so for the rest of the term.

“Diego De

Jesus?”

Everyone else said “here,” but I said “aqui.” I wanted to appeal to him. To be Hispanic enough and not some white-passing guy who only knows licks of Spanish. Nothing came of it, but I felt embarrassed. I wasn’t sure if I was out of place or if saying it was.

“Make sure you put accents on the ‘e’ in Diégo and the ‘u’ in Jesús,” he said when he got to me. He was one of those fastidious substitute teachers that actually cared and, better yet, wanted our assignment done on paper by the end of class.

Until then, I didn’t know that my name had accents.

Diégo De Jesús.

It was “my” culture. It wasn’t a huge difference. Without accents, my name is Diego De Jesus, pronounced the same way too. My name feels and looks naked without them. It’s like not giving credit to an entire culture; Puerto Rican or Boricua. It’s even more chilling now that I’ve learned untold histories and realize my ancestors were oppressed only for me never to know them. Only to learn about their suffering later on in my twenty-one-year-old life and be overcome with a sense of incompleteness.

He continued.

Ladrón, on the “o.”

Marín, on the “i.”

And Rodríguez, put yours on “i” as well.

The bell rang, and we all handed in our papers. The next period was lunch.

Lunch was always at noon, at least for me, and conveniently for most of my friends. My friend group would grab whatever the lunch ladies were serving then we’d go into the study hall on the top floor. The hall guards were chill; they didn’t care as long as we didn’t make a mess. The meal of the day was pizza, and we all obliged. We grabbed our slices and went up to the study hall, where we could watch TV on a couple of couches.

I was particularly tired that day and didn’t contribute much to the bullshit and teacher shit-talk. I just enjoyed my pizza and waited for my grandfather to pick me up after calculus.

A couple of hours later, I was in the back of my grandfather’s van with every poison you could imagine. Rodenticides. Insecticides. Herbicides. Bactericides. There were some metal cages piled on each other and snap traps missing the bait. My grandmother was riding shotgun. I was on my phone, stretched across the back seat. I was probably watching another Markiplier playthrough of an indie-horror game. We were done working for the day and pulled up to the apartment building where my grandparents lived. I made twenty bucks a day being my grandfather’s little assistant carrying his pest arsenal back and forth. Sometimes I got tips.

Sometimes.

It wasn’t a bad gig either way.

I don’t remember how much I made that day. I just remembered that it was Friday, cause I was looking forward to the weekend. They usually picked me up on Fridays. Both my parents worked overtime. I always loved getting picked up by my grandparents. It was either hang with them or be the last kid picked up at after-school again at 9 p.m. I remembered the times when my grandfather met with his dealer for an ounce of weed.

My grandfather was a huge stoner. His dealer would pull up on a red scooter with a fat blue book bag. An exchange here and there, then my grandfather had an ounce. He would wrap some green sprinkles into Stella tobacco wraps, then order chicken in ostrich sauce from this Chinese joint down the block from the apartment building where my grandparents lived. I always ordered chicken and broccoli without broccoli. My grandmother always ordered pork fried rice and a large egg-drop wonton soup in a cylindrical plastic case that she always shared with me, and those noodles that we’d dip in orange duck sauce. As we approached their apartment building, everyone greeted my grandfather and got caught up in at least three conversations with folks sitting out front or leaving.

When he arrived at the front door, you could hear Diamond and Jack clawing at the metal door and barking. We opened the door, and Diamond, a German shepherd, jumped on my grandfather, standing as tall as him. Jack, a jack terrier named so because of his breed, would bark louder than

Diamond with his little untrimmed nails scratching at our calves–it always sucked when I wore shorts. After the commotion, Diamond would patter towards the living room past a wooden gate that my grandfather installed to keep her specifically out of the living room.

Before we ate, he would step onto the concrete slab of a balcony with a Stella. After five minutes or so, he would come back and slump into his worn computer chair he called “his throne” for his apartment, “his kingdom.” He would ask me, again, how my day was. I said “good” like the first time, but he would persist until I gave him the real answer. I’m your grandfather AND your godfather; tell me, little D-Man. I was already an old man by the time I was in high school; it was and still is like pulling teeth to get me talking about anything except with him. Finishing his chicken, my grandfather exclaimed that you have all the family you’ll need right here. He pounded my shoulder, and I jokingly uttered ouch. I still believe what he said. After dinner, he asked me to join him outside on the balcony.

“What’s wrong my godson?” he asked, pulling another Stella out of his patch pocket.

“It’s Mom; I don’t know why she keeps saying it,” I said.

“…”

“Yeah, she said it the last time she picked me up from your crib when a group of people was walking across the street,” I pointed toward the intersection. “She just said it, and I had to be the one to say, ‘Hey, I’m part Puerto Rican too. You shouldn’t say that.’ It’s been bugging me lately. Especially now that I’m here, it’s just reminded me of it.”

He stood there and took a drag leaning on the balcony, never averting his gaze on me. It grew quiet for the waves and gentle peach sky to speak for themselves.

“Diégo, I’ve met a lot of people while living here and met a lot of interesting characters in my day. But I’ll tell ya, there is nothing better than a smile from a stranger when it’s facing you and you know it’s facing you. Just think about stuff like that and what you look forward to because I can’t guarantee everything’s going to be okay. So appreciate the small things…”

My grandmother was a storyteller; it was a new thing about my family every day. One day it was how my great-great grandfather jumped from a boat into New York Bay; another day, it was why he was an outcast in his family with the big dream of coming to America and that’s why he left. That day, it was how we used to own rolling vineyards in Piacenza and would make our own wine. I always asked questions where our family came from and found out about new relatives that I knew I was never going to meet. She told me that I have cousins in Piazenza, and on the outskirts of the city, among the same quiet hills, there’s a town named after our surname Buzzetti. Buzzetti was and is a name that feels foreign, yet I’m told they’re family. I always asked, and still wonder, how they would react if they met me. I guess I’ll never know and I’ve left it at that— something to talk about.

Mom always somehow showed up when we finished dinner like clockwork. My grandfather would walk me down the stairs, sometimes with his jittery German shepherd and aggressive jack terrier with a black spot on his side. We lived in Staten Island, and there was always traffic on the Verrazano, so getting home was a stretch. I always ate two dinners when I spent the day with my grandparents. One with my grandparents. One at home. Dinner at home was always homemade with fresh ingredients that Mom prided herself on.

Our boxers, Lola and Ciara, would almost always trip me, traversing across, through, and around my legs, scratching their unclipped nails on the fake wooden floor, nearly falling from the excitement on their white paws.

It was chicken parm. The bubbling rigatoni was almost done in a molten pot, with the marinara settling under a steamed lid across the greasy oven top. I grabbed the cold parm from the fridge and drinks, silverware, and plates. Our boxers almost tripped me again, but I made it, dropping the plate stack onto the clothed table. Mom came out with the still-steaming aluminum tray and a colander of dripping rigatoni on top that nearly broke through the thin sheet. My father lifted himself off the couch and sat at the head of the six-chair table. I sat beside him. We talked small while serving ourselves, mostly about our day and how it went. I always said “good” to finish the conversation because it usually wasn’t a good day after school. After two spoonfuls of rigatoni and chunky marinara sauce, I grabbed the spatula and took two chicken cutlets topped with sizzling bronzed mozzarella cheese. I wiped the spatula clean with my fingertips and ate the small bits with the most flavor dripping with oil.

I grabbed the green container of parm and shook it. I shook the parm again, breaking all its parts and multitudes. After a few shakes, I looked at the transparent bottom for cold chunks that could easily break apart every day, all day, to be shaken and broken again.

As we finished serving ourselves, Mom took a forkful of rigatoni and sauce along with one chicken cutlet plopping them onto her plate. We usually used paper plates, but that became no different from paying another bill, so we stuck with the chipped monochrome plates of laurel wreaths. It was therapeutic for Mom to wash dishes rather than throw them away and never use them again–therapy for a few more bucks.

I cut the first piece, the crispy corner, and with the fork, I prodded three pieces of rigatoni, disturbing the sauce’s parmesan snowcap. Lola’s short hair brisked against my shin as she and Ciara lay down on their crossed white paws. Mom would innocuously feed them rigatoni as they peered their heads past the table and then looked at me sideways, sometimes overhead, with bulbed eyes. They then enjoyed the rigatoni with their family, and when they were done eating, they waited to be served again.

After dinner, everyone dispersed, even Lola and Ciara. My dad would get back onto his old red couch, watch some camping videos and take a nap. I went up to my room and played video games while Mom lit some green spell candles in the kitchen and prayed.

I wasn’t close with Mom, but she would attempt conversation with me, but I would just give her the “good” response. Like any mom, she opened the door without knocking. I had my what-thehell-mom moment, and she sat on the corner of my bed. She gave me a glum look. I turned off the TV. She opened her arms, waiting.

“I’m sorry for everything,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

She told me I was Italian and gave me the golden horn.