Signing in Puerto Rican: A Hearing Son and His Deaf Family

10. Despierta Boricua

168 10 Despierta Boricua WHEN I BEGAN WORKING at ASPIRA I quickly realized that there was a heavy political air among the employees, from clericals to professionals. Just about everyone was Puerto Rican, and therefore just about everyone had an opinion about the state of affairs on the island and in the U.S. Puerto Rican community. It was an exhilarating time and place. Like me, Digna Sánchez and José Navarro were educational counselors. I was amazed by and envious of their knowledge of Puerto Rican history and culture, as well as of their mastery of both Spanish and English. They easily switched from one to the other, in mid-sentence, without a semblance of the tortured “Spanglish” that I struggled with. Both were raised in the U.S.—José in Philadelphia, Digna in New York City—and their families strongly encouraged maintenance of their Puerto Rican heritage. Digna, like Mom, was short with wavy brown hair, but unlike her was a livewire and had strong, passionate views on everything. She translated Puerto Rican poetry into English and had excelled at school. I had never known anyone, let alone a Puerto Rican, who had studied Chinese. For Digna, a product of the Lower East Side, adjacent to Chinatown, it must have seemed a natural course of study. José was even more animated than Digna. He was taller than me by a head and had a wiry frame, just minimally sufficient to carry his slight, sinewy body. He ate plenty but his body never showed it. He believed my broad nose was a residual indicator of an African root; and I was one of many who believed he must have descended directly from the indigenous Indians (Tainos) of Puerto Rico. His coloring, straight black hair, long nose and flaring nostrils could mean nothing else. José’s cubicle was next to mine and we often discussed our counseling “cases,” comparing notes and ideas on how to help our “clients.” Digna and José, like me, were the first of their generation to go to college , and both came from working-class backgrounds. I learned they were followers of the Movimiento Pro Independencia (MPI; Movement for Independence in English), one of the most active and militant of the radical groups in Puerto Rico. The MPI, they said, was planning to expand their reach with an organizing initiative among Puerto Ricans in the U.S. Not long after meeting Digna and José, Philip Rivera joined the ASPIRA staff. I dubbed Philip the “Tallest Puerto Rican in Captivity.” His six-and-a-quarter-foot body towered over everyone. You could almost pile two Dignas on top of each other and still not surpass Philip’s auburn, wavy hair. Incredibly, I discovered that Philip had lived around the Block. He was five years older than me, so he didn’t remember me. But he remembered my family because his father owned a candy store on 178th Street, just around the corner from my grandmother Ita’s on Amsterdam Avenue. When he was a teenager, he used to set aside a folded Daily News for my aunts and uncles, who he remembered signing in the store. And, of course, he remembered the Chins. Philip had just graduated from Pace College, after a four year stint in the Navy, and was recruited as another counselor. Like all of us at ASPIRA, Philip was a political animal. Before long, a group of us who were based in ASPIRA, such as José, Philip, and me, but also other friends and political acquaintances, decided Despierta Boricua 169 170 Despierta Boricua to form our own “collective.” This was in the manner of the times, for Puerto Rican collectives were blossoming all over the city in colleges, community groups, and workplaces. Many were inspired by the successes of groups like the Young Lords and the Puerto Rican Student Union (PRSU), and by groups in Puerto Rico such as MPI and the Puerto Rican Independence Party (PIP; Partido Independentista Puertorriqueño in Spanish). Most were either nationalist or socialist, or some melding of the two. There were never more than ten or fifteen active members in these groupings, though a small group of committed, creative people could get an awful lot done. We called our own collective Puerto Ricans for Self-Determination (PRSD). The first issue of our newsletter El Atrevido (“The Bold One”) announced our policy: “To struggle for the Independence...