The Maynard
Spring 2018

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Rhythm

/frijoles negros/
Tengo una cara de arroz y frijoles negros—a face of rice and black beans. It means looking Cuban as Cubanly possible. It means I am a staple, a compliment to any order. It means affordable, sensical, from the people. That is, until I move to upstate New York. With frijoles negros in my hand and mi mamá on the phone, he could see my resemblance to the ethnic section. “Go back to your country; we speak English here,” he said. I went from common and comforting to foreign and dangerous. Frijoles negros are not safe here.

/aguacate/
An avocado is the poor man’s steak in Hialeah. It’s what you picked from your backyard tree. It’s what you bought in bulk for a couple bucks from el viejito on the corner of la dieciséis y la cuarentynueve. Its smooth flesh perfect for eating in slices or mashing into rice. Filled with nutrients that are good for la cara, mija, y el corazón—cómetelo y deja de jugar con tu comida. But now, avocado toast is $11. White folks make everything expensive, even poverty.

/guarapo/
Pipo stands on the newly bricked plaza at Varadero beach apartments in North Miami Beach, chatting with Miccosukee men as they thatch the intricate tiki hut for our little Cuban exile community. Pipo’s white short shorts and thin button up shirt keep him cool in the Miami heat. His sailor’s hat and moccasins are tells that he comes from another place. In his shirt pocket a pack of Marlboros and in his hands a sugarcane. He chats and laughs with the others, but every now and then chews on the sugarcane. I am still mesmerized by his technique: strip, chew, suck, spit, strip, chew, suck, spit. Guarapo wakes the rhythm of ancestry inside me.