Playing by the tracks

My cousin and I, he being a couple of years older than me, were going for a stroll to play and explore. I was maybe four or five years old, not yet in school. I was very picua, my mom would say, which meant I was a show-off, like a peacock. I had on blue cotton shorts, a yellow tee-shirt, and when I walked, I would put in a little extra effort to get my hips to swing from side to side. I would stand with my left hip slightly higher than the right, and my right hand placed on the right side of my waist.

“Flory no coja para la via o te lleva una pela.” My mom warned me not to go play by the tracks or I’d get a beating. She was a young mother. I wasn’t the oldest though. She had my brother, Rafy, when she was seventeen, and me when she was almost twenty. Like many young-single mothers I’ve known, she was strict. I looked at her to acknowledge her warning.

“Miguel, tu tambien, cuidau con lo que van aser.” My aunt also warned my cousin to be careful with what we were going to do.
We quickly forgot about the threat of a beating, and we took our stroll toward the train tracks. We knew why they were concerned, and we were familiar with the stories about why we needed to stay away. The word was that fugitives and convicts would hide by the train tracks. It was an isolated place, and there was tall grass, therefore making it a suitable hideout.

Miguel and I searched for sugar cane on the ground. The train that transported sugar cane from the plant would sometimes throw some if kids were visible. I was very careful with my search. One day I ran toward the train as the men threw over the sugar cane, unaware of what awaited me ahead. As I reached for this grand prize of a stick, with such a sweet juice, waiting to satisfy the sweet tooth of a young little girl, a swarm of bees attacked me and stung my ear. I screamed. My mother was around and she raced toward me to save me. I remember the instant pain of the stings. I felt my ear throb. It was the size of a mango when I saw it in the mirror.

We continued our stroll toward the back of the island. There were small mountains of sand and we climbed a few and slid back down. We played hide and seek and raced. It was the best playground, and it was all ours. I felt like we were the only ones around ,and I remember the breeze caressing my body and giving me chills. It was a feeling of contentment. No worries. The sun was shining bright and we were baking in it. The combination of the breeze and the sun left me delirious.

Miguel and I went exploring further and came to what I think was a lagoon. We lived on the southeast side of the island and were very close to the ocean. There were crawfish crawling all over the place. We were barefoot and were trying not to step on the crawfish. The sand was wet, almost muddy, and there were dried up branches and twigs laying about. It was even more isolated than the dunes and I looked out toward the water and saw a mist. I considered going into the water, but fear of the unknown only allowed me go dip my toes in the water. I imagined that someone would jump out of a bush and grab me and take me away never to be found. Then I imagined that my cousin would run home for help and the whole barrio, that is neighborhood, would find the kidnapper and beat him to death with sticks and rocks. In those days, people took care of each other, no need for the police. If you committed a crime, your worst fear should be to get caught by the locals. They were the jury and you had no rights.

It was a wonderful day and we could not have imagined what was waiting for us back home. At least I don’t think my cousin did. We lost track of time.

“Mira, sinverguenza, a donde ha estado.” Shameless? Where have I been? My mother yelled and hugged me at the same time. She thought I had gotten lost or kidnapped or some horrible accident had occurred. Only in my imagination, I thought, but no way would I tell her that.

My poor cousin, for being older, got the worst beating I ever witnessed anyone get. My aunt had a leather belt and beat him so hard that you saw layers of skin flying across the room.

“Tu sabes mejor que eso. Si algo le hubiera pasado a Flory.” He knew better than that, my aunt yelled as she swung the belt across his back. He was older so he was responsible for me.

I remember looking at his face. He just stood there staring at me. His eyes were begging me to bear the pain along with him. Every time my aunt swung the belt, I cringed. Bendito. Poor thing I thought. It still breaks my heart to think about it.

I never saw Miguel again after that, but I can never forget his eyes looking at me as he was getting his beating. It was as though he was trying to leave his body and enter mine so that he wouldn’t feel the pain. I stood and watched like a frightened little baby, hugging my mom’s leg. My eyes never left his stare. Maybe I thought that somehow I was absorbing some of his pain.

He went to live with his father and apparently had a better life. I wonder what became of him. I know that his father eventually ended up in New York.

I think about my uncles who ended up in New York and how their lives ended up after moving to New York. They either used drugs or committed crimes. I pray that my cousin was smarter than that and that he is a happy and successful man. I think about that day, the innocence of two children enjoying their childhood only to have it end with a view into physical abuse. Needless to say, but I never dared go back to the train tracks and explore on my own or with anyone else.