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  • Broken Streets of My City
  • Ruth Behar (bio)

My city has broken streetsand no one to fix them.

There is a street I embraced, a lover.

FallingI caressed the pavementwith my flesh.

Afterward I lost courage.I wanted to walk in my city with my eyeslooking at those who look at me.But now I am afraid.I watch where I step.

My city has broken streets.I have fallen.Been hurt.For months I sangan old lullaby to myselfso I could fall asleep,the one my motherused to sing to me— This pretty little girlwho was born in the daytimeshe wants to be taken to the candy store.

I write with sore fingers, my wrist stiff.

I wanted to walk in my city with my eyes closed.Like in a dream.Like in a trance.The way I do when I dance the tango.I have only danced the tango once in La Habana. [End Page 186]

He treated me like an old woman.I haven't danced again.

The treesburst through the pavement.Roots crackingopen the streetsas if they were eggshells.

Little cliffs everywhere.Step up, step down.Look where you're going.Watch for loose rocks.

I need someone to hold my handto walk in the streets of my city.

How ripped apart I felt.Torn tissues.Torn muscles.Torn ligaments.

I am older now.I don't recover easily.In pain I slept, in pain,my arm resting on a pillow.

My city has broken streets.The earth wantsto take them back.

I saw the sea take backthe streets along the Malecónweaving up to Linea and G.

Streets that once belonged to the sea.

The sea takes backwhat belonged to her.That is the way of the sea.The sea remembers [End Page 187]

all her stolen shores.That is the way of the sea.

As the waves rosetall and magnificentI sat with three womenwho bowed their headsand sang, "Agua, Yemayá, agua."

And the earth is taking back her streets.Trees and roots breaking freefrom straitjackets of concrete.

I come back.An old child.Now they call me señora.I still come backafter so many years.An old little girl.Una niña vieja.

My mother and father don't wantme to come back.They don't want tohold my hands,stand at either side of meso I won't fall.

I walk all by myself.And look what happened—I fell!I fell!I walked by myself and I fell.Flat on my arm.My writing arm.My right arm.

Oh how it hurts when

I write!Look at these arms—skin freckled and sagging. [End Page 188]

Look at my hands—veins thick, fingers stubby.

I thought I still looked good.I thought I was the same womanwho first returned nineteen years ago.I was almost young then.

I still use the picture from those dayswhen they ask me for a pictureto advertise one of my lectures.

My hair was thick and curly.Now it's starting to turn gray.I have to get back to Michiganso Patty can dye the roots.I have more gray than I realized.Here in Cuba I don't trust anyonewith my hair, that is the truth, forgive me.Usually I go to the salon every six weeks.

Linea is the same as Calle 11.And Calzada is Calle 5.Why did it take me so long to know that?I walked the streets of my cityfor years and yearsnever knowing that.I was always lost.

Now I know which way to walktoward the sea,away from the sea.After nineteen years I know.

But now I fall.No one to hold my left hand.Or my right hand.No one.

I want my mother and my father to walk with me.I know they will reproach me, [End Page 189]

scold me for bringing them here again—"You can't even walk on these streets!"

I have fallen on these streets...

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