I was in an elevator with several others, coming down from the penthouse floor of an ordinary building on 32nd Street. My companions for the ride spoke in Spanish, lovely currents of flowing sound like:
1. The secret beaches of Aguadilla
2. The shuffling and chatter of the smiling patrons at Rolon's Tavern in Jersey City
3. A game of dominoes in the garage of 852 Devon Street in Kearny Though I only recognized a very few random words, I knew from their accents, from their rhythms, from the music of their speech, that these people were Puertorriquenos.
They were Puerto Ricans, like my family. I am absolutely certain.
Though they were strangers, and though I couldn't understand them, I felt extraordinarily comfortable in that small elevator with them. Honestly, I could have been in my grandmother's kitchen. In fact, what I felt there was something a bit beyond comfort. I felt that I belonged with them. I wanted to join their conversation. But how?
I stood there in the corner of that elevator, listening without understanding, thinking of how I'd grown up with the sound of a foreign language all around me, and wondering what influence, if any, that had had, not only on my writing, but on my love for music.
2. The shuffling and chatter of the smiling patrons at Rolon's Tavern in Jersey City
3. A game of dominoes in the garage of 852 Devon Street in Kearny Though I only recognized a very few random words, I knew from their accents, from their rhythms, from the music of their speech, that these people were Puertorriquenos.
