a waiter in Harvard Square and that he lives in Allston, where all the college students live in squalor amid the bars and thrift stores near Boston University.
“I came here two years ago to find better work and to go to school. I’m saving money to go to one of the community colleges,” he said in his broken English, which I found endearing. I am biased. I have a slight Spanish accent when I speak, so I find accents comforting, familiar. “I want to be a translator and help other Brazilians find their way here. I know what they go through when they come to this country,” he said between bites of drippy pizza.
I was touched by his ambitious career goals but was more impressed by his sincerity in wanting to help others. Ay, Mr. Brazil! As he continued talking about his job and his large family in Sao Paulo, where he has three sisters and a brother, a built older man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and wrinkles around his eyes suddenly appeared at our side.
“It’s time to come home, Marcello. Now!” he ordered him.
“But…I…was just dancing. I have a new friend,” Marcello explained nervously.
“Marcello, now!” the older man barked. I suspect the man was in his mid-forties. He then began speaking in Portuguese. Because of its similarity to Spanish, I was able to make out some key words. My translation: The man was telling him that he would not put up with a cheating boyfriend. Boyfriend? I thought Marcello was single. Why else would he be at a bar dancing with me? Comemierda! I should have known better. I didn’t ask if he had a boyfriend. Mami was probably watching me from the afterlife, nodding her head in disapproval with her clenched hands on her waist.
The older man then forcefully grabbed him by the arm. Marcello looked at me with pleading apologetic eyes.
“I’m sorry, Carlos. You’re a very nice person. I must go,” he said.
I sat there wordlessly watching this man drag my potential new friend or boyfriend away. I should have stayed with Tommy. Feeling deflated, I finished my pizza and took a taxi back to my condo, alone. I remember the wet-slicked streets as the taxi drove through Harvard Square, which reminds me of the same cobblestone streets found in the Harry Potter movies. The whole ride home, I thought of Marcello. Ay, Marcello! I was really hoping for something, at least a hot make-out session, but it never happened. Sometimes, I just want someone in my bed to hold and caress me throughout the night, the way Daniel did in Miami before we broke up. Loneliness envelopes me when I get home from work, the gym, or from meeting up with Tommy, but I am trying to be strong and live on my own in this new city to make myself and Mami proud. As I get ready for work, I can’t help but think that my dream about Mami was related to this episode from Saturday night. In her own way, Mami was sending me a message: “Don’t feel so bad about this guy. You are better than that. I believe in you, hijo. You must believe in yourself.” The dream somehow comforted me about the whole situation.
A few hours later, I leave the academic village of Cambridge for the urban and gritty city life of Dorchester. I traverse these two different worlds on a daily basis. I stand in front of my fourth-period class, trying to teach my ninth graders the literary power of Ernest Hemingway. This week, we are discussing The Old Man and the Sea. It’s one of my favorite Hemingway books because it is based on a Cuban fisherman looking for his great big catch. There are so many overlapping themes in the book, and I hope my students will find a connection to them in their own lives. Most of these students come from broken homes in Dorchester and Roxbury (Boston’s version of Miami’s Wynwood and Liberty City, according to Tommy). By reading Hemingway and other literary classics, I’m hoping they find some meaning to their lives so they can excel.
“Now class, settle down. Did everyone read the first chapter for homework, just as I asked you to on Friday?” A room full of eyes look right back at me. This is fishy, just like the tale.
“Oh c’mon now, who read the chapter?” About eight hands rise up. That means half the class didn’t do the assignment. Ay, dios!
I have to keep the class on schedule, according to my lesson plans. They have state exams coming up at the beginning of November. I need to get them excited about literature, but they’re more interested in downloading iTunes.
“Class, this is a short and beautiful story, of an aged Cuban fisherman as he goes head to head, or head to fin with a giant marlin. This is a story of fear, hope, death, and life. Imagine spending several days trying to reel a giant fish in,” I tell the class. Some of the students seem more interested now that I have given them more details.
“It’s man vs. nature. If any of you have grandfathers, imagine him sitting in a small boat trying to catch the prize of a lifetime and refusing to give up because he wants to win and win big.”
“Have you ever been to Cuba?” asks Carol, one of my brighter students.
“I am from Cuba. I was born in Havana, but I don’t remember much. This book is one of my favorites because it helps me understand my homeland and how it looked in the 1950s through Hemingway’s eyes. He was considered an honorary Cuban because he often wrote from his home there. If you think about it, Hemingway is a Hispanic writer because he lived there and wrote about Hispanic characters.”
The class seems intrigued so I continue trying to blend the book with my own personal experiences. I used to do this at Braddock High and it seemed to work because of the large number of Latino students there.
I pull out a map from behind the chalkboard and point to Cuba. I then explain how Hemingway lived in Key West and Cuba because he was inspired by their tropical beauty and the passionate, everyday, hardworking people found there.
“Have you been to Key West?” asks Katie, a raven-haired student who is extremely courteous but doesn’t complete her assignments.
“When I was younger, I would take road trips down there with my family. It’s a charming little city. Hemingway’s house is now a museum and home to cats with ten toes, if you can believe that.” All eyes are trained on me. Now that’s how I like a classroom to behave. As I talk, I lace the conversation with talk of Hemingway and the book, to engage them. And with that, I announce, “For those of you who didn’t, ahem, read the first twenty pages, I am going to give you about half an hour to do that right now. So get started. And for those of you who did the assignment, I want you to write down five things that you liked or didn’t like about what you read. Be ready to discuss this.”
Everyone begins their work and I take advantage of the time to step outside for a cigarette break. I ask Juanita, my fellow tenth grade English teacher next door, to keep an eye on the kids if they get too loud.
“No problem, Carlos. They won’t make a peep knowing I’m next door. Go on and do your nicotine dance. I got you covered,” Juanita says. She’s in a perpetual good mood because she retires at the end of the year, after thirty years at Dorchester High. I can only imagine that kind of longevity for myself in the public school system. I’ve only been a teacher for six years.
As I walk away, I hear Juanita’s tell-it-like-it-is voice booming from the hallway.
“Now you better not say a word. I may be next door, but I have super bionic hearing so you better not…” her voice trails off.
With Juanita’s blessing, I retreat outside and light up. I dial Tommy to see how his weekend went. I haven’t talked to him since our night at the bar.
“Tommy Perez, The Boston Daily, how may I help you?” he answers his work phone in his serious reporter tone.
“Loco, what are you doing?”
“Oh, hey, Carlos. What’s up?” His tone softens. “It’s 11 a.m. Are you on a break at school? How are your students today?”
“They’re good now that I got them to read The Old Man and the Sea. Were you okay Saturday night? You left looking pretty distracted or something.” I pace back and forth behind the school. My cigarette smoke dissipates into the air.
“Yeah, things are good. You’re not going to believe who I bumped into at Barnes & Noble yesterday.”
“Mike