CULTURE SHOCK

by Marie Delgado Travis

I was born and raised  in New York City in the late 40’s – the proverbial Latin from Manhattan.   My window in the Alfred E. Smith Housing projects overlooked the Brooklyn  Bridge. Upwardly mobile, thanks to my father’s job as the foreman of a plastics  factory, we soon moved to a “better” housing project in the Northeast  Bronx.  There, the view wasn't nearly as dramatic. Windows overlooked the  outdoor subway station at Gun Hill Road, but mostly, other  windows.

In these densely populated, ethnically mixed (mostly Anglo  at the time) urban settings, one might go so far as to lend a neighbor a  cup of sugar--in the event of a dire emergency.  We certainly greeted each  other in the elevator with a hearty “Well, is it hot / cold enough for you?”  appropriate to the season.  But for the most part, we were taught “Mind  Your Own Business!” in the interest of community harmony.

I had  always heard that my paternal Grandmother lived in a very different  setting.  She lived on a farm in Carolina, Puerto Rico, not far from El  Yunque Rain Forest. Not quite six years of age, my only conception of “the  country” came from the illustrations in “Dick and Jane” readers and black and  white cartoons.  So I wasn’t really sure what to expect the summer that my  father decided to pack me and my mother up to visit Abuelita, as almost all  Puerto Rican grandmothers are called.  I had only been there once, at age  one and a half, so the island hadn't left much of an impression.

It  took eight hours to make what is now a three to three and a half hour trip from  New York City to San Juan on the four-propeller Pan Am planes of the era.   Immediately upon arrival, I was greeted by an enthusiastic committee  of mosquitoes.  I slapped the space between my bobby socks and the  ruffle of my

dress, whining, “Ouch, aren't they biting you, too?”  But my  father explained that the mosquitoes were picking specifically on me, because  they knew “fresh blood” when they saw it.

We loaded into my uncle’s old Packard automobile and made our slow,  bumpy way to Abuelita’s house. There were a few detours due to bad roads and  another delay while the men changed a flat tire (the car had buckled under the cumulative weight of my nuclear family, our matched luggage, and the  assorted aunts and cousins who had gone to the airport, along with the  mosquitoes, to welcome us. 

Just before nightfall, we pulled  up to my grandmother’s by-now-famous and exotic finca.  I don't know  whether I was expecting a well-ordered Pennsylvania Dutch community, an opulent  hacienda or the quiet pastoral setting of a Hans Christian Anderson  fairytale.  But I was distressed, almost to tears, to discover that it  wasn't like anything I imagined. There were no thatched roofed  chalets, white picket fences or red barns.  The land was hilly and  overgrown with weeds. Goats and hens roamed the yard; polished stones and duck  feathers were scattered everywhere. An ominously-rickety-looking wooden building  was the main house.  Another smaller structure in the back, served as the  outhouse. 

All of this was appalling enough.  But I came totally unglued when I  learned that animals, particularly big ones like cows, don't even use latrines.  And entering the stable for the first time was a sensory experience I never  contemplated watching National Velvet.

I did, however, find  something in the Puerto Rico of the time that far exceeded my lofty  expectations.  It was the open hospitality of Abuelita and the persons  whose homes we visited – our relatives, whether blood ties were close or  distant, but also my parents’ friends and even strangers.  

Our anfitriones, or hosts, welcomed us warmly, wanting to know  everything about life al otro lado del charco (“on the other side of the  puddle”), referring to the U.S. mainland).  They insisted on sharing  freshly-brewed coffee and whatever little food they had with us. They didn't act  as if they were poor, although it was fairly obvious from their well-worn  clothing and modest surroundings. 

One evening during our  stay, we accompanied my Uncle and as many cousins as we could cram into the car  to the southern city of Ponce.  At that time, it was a bumpy four hour  drive over a harrowing mountain road.  The steep road, in fact, was  nicknamed La Piquiña (“The Tickle”) because of the nervous sensation it created  in drivers and passenger alike.  The perimeter of the road was  well-decorated with white crosses, commemorating the many victims of head-on  collisions and cars fallen into the precipice.

We spent so much  time sightseeing, visiting and chatting in Ponce that it was soon dusk.   That meant we would be driving back to Abuelita’s house in the middle of the  night.  One of our hostesses, a recent widow to whom we had gone to pay  respects, would not hear of our taking off at that hour.  Momentarily  putting aside her grief, she insisted that we all stay at her house overnight.

Hers was a neat, clean, two-bedroom home. But she  immediately set about organizing the separation of mattresses from box springs  and cushions from sofas, until there was enough sleeping space for all of her  unexpected guests. I didn't particularly appreciate being sandwiched in between  two of my older girl cousins.  We were all rather on the chubby side. After  some initial jostling, we took a cue from canned sardines and slept peacefully  enough, heads up, heads down.  Without the benefit of netting, the  mosquitoes bit every now and then.  I was grateful, however, not to have to  make the terrorizing trip over

La Piquiña in the darkness.

The next  day, our hostess continued to devote herself generously to our needs.  She  wouldn’t hear of our leaving until we had a hearty breakfast, which like the  biblical manna or loaves and fishes, appeared more by miracle than by design.  When we left, we were no longer just acquaintances, we were extended family.  And it was a good thing she had us stay. As soon as we  stuffed ourselves back into the car, another of the tires went flat and had to  be changed.  Had it “blown” during our trip over the mountains, it would  have been a ticklish ride indeed.

In the fifty summers that have  followed, Puerto Rico has been crisscrossed by modern highways.  The trip  from Carolina to Ponce now takes about an hour and a half over smooth, well-lit  highway.  The island has evolved into a thriving metropolis, the  acknowledged “Showcase of the Caribbean.”  Even the mosquitoes have become  more sophisticated—or perhaps they just don't consider me “fresh blood”  anymore.  But I hope that deep within--embedded somewhere in their DNA--the  people still remember the old ways and maintain a touch of that gracious,  selfless charm.

That summer long ago, I was shocked to learn that  roads aren't “naturally” paved and that pastures don't mow themselves, so they  sometimes look rather scruffy. Still, it was the quiet dignity and gentle  kindness of the campesinos, the farmers and their families, which as a big city  girl, I found most surprising.

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MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS  is an award-winning writer.  She writes poetry and prose in English and  Spanish. Visit her web site at www.mariedelgadotravis.com.