static_abyss (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
static_abyss) wrote2018-12-05 05:17 pm
static_abyss) wrote2018-12-05 05:17 pm
LJ Idol Week 8: Manny
Weekdays were made for work, for school, and for helping his mother around the house. Weekdays meant Manny wore slacks and button down shirts, because one button out of place meant Manny would get called into his supervisor's office, even though everyone else at work wore jeans and t-shirts. Weekdays meant he was Manuel, pronounced man-you-el, because one slip of his accent and he would go from Manuel, voted employee of the month three months in a row, to Manny, the Mexican from the Bronx.
It was a precarious edge Manny walked on, letting enough of who he was shine through, so that no one forgot where he came from, but polishing the rest into a neat White middle class shine. Even in his science classes, he had to raise his hand and answer questions, because if he was quiet for too long, everyone, including the professor, would forget he was Mexican. And worse, if he stayed silent, everyone would think he was White. So the weekdays were always a choice between having his name pronounced incorrectly, or smiling away the sting caused by the surprise behind the words, "Wait, you're Mexican? No way."
Weekdays meant the cute new girl, behind the bakery counter down on Morrison Ave, smiled at him and asked, "¿Eres mexicano?"
"Si," Manny said, because he was in the bakery by Morrison.
"You don't look it," she said. "I can tell from your accent, but you don't look Mexican."
Except, Manny's mother had crossed the border three times in her life for her family, and his father had left everything he had to raise his kid here. So, not only was Manny Mexican, he was damn proud of it, too. And he resented the fact that the color of his skin, and the cut of his shirt, and the cufflinks didn't automatically scream Mexican. He wanted to tell the girl behind the counter that she shouldn't fall into the White people traps, that she should take a good long look, and memorize his face before she forgot what a Mexican looked like.
Instead, Manuel picked up his espresso, thanked her, and walked out.
So the weekdays went.
Sundays were church days. At exactly 11:45am, Manny walked down Stratford Avenue to Santa Isabel de Clemencia, past the dirty street between West Road and Watson Street. He wore jeans on Sundays, with another button down shirt, his brown hair combed back and held in place with pommade. Sundays meant the last button on Manny's shirt was undone and he wore black sneakers. But most important about Sundays was that when Manny walked down Stratford Avenue on a Sunday, he always ran into Luis on the steps of 1134.
"Hey, yo, Manny" Luis would call. "Tell God I said sorry for what went down on Friday."
Manuel would smile easy and say, "Who or what, Luis?" and that would be that, until Friday came.
The thing about Friday nights was that even though Manny didn't have classes on Fridays, he was always tired. He'd come home from work, exhausted from hearing MIT Duncan talk about climate change, as though he understood the true nuances. As though the hundreds of thousands of dollars MIT Duncan's dad had dropped on his education gave Duncan authority over what was true, or not, about climate change. As though Manny wanted to talk White people talk when he'd been doing it for the whole week.
"Manuel here's Mexican," Duncan said every Friday. "He always has great ideas. It's why he's been on our employee of the month wall so often."
Except that being Mexican had nothing to do with it. It was that he and Lucretia, the only other person of color in finance, did excellent work. They produced twice as much, for twice as long as any other person in their department, and they never complained. That was the key: to never let MIT Duncan know how much work they were actually doing.
"Always glad to be a team player," Manuel always said.
"Always glad to do our part," Lucretia would add.
Even when their part involved waking up an extra hour earlier each day, Lucretia to get her hair flat ironed just right, and Manuel to get all the wrinkles out of his shirts. Their jobs started at 6am every morning, from the conscious choice to smother their accents, to the clothing they wore, to the way they walked, they worked late into the afternoons on the weekdays to become team players.
Which was why, by Friday evenings, Manuel was done. He'd skip home for a bit and go straight to 1134 Stratford Ave, where Luis was always smoking pot.
Luis and Manuel had gone to school together since pre-k at C.S. 22, up until Manuel got into the specialized high schools and Luis ended up at his zone school. They use to race each other in the tarred backyard of their middle school, one always chasing the other and never quite catching up.
Luis, with his mussed up dark brown hair and his charming smiles, dependable always, called out to Manny on Fridays and said, "Come here, Mr. Gringo. Sit."
Manuel sat on the bottom of the concrete steps leading into 1134 Stratford Ave, with the hem of his slacks riding up to show his black socks. He undid the cufflinks of his button down, rolled up the sleeves until they were above his elbows. Then, he stretched his legs out in front of him, leaned his elbows back onto the steps behind him, and exhaled.
"There he is," Luis said. "Manuel." Pronounced Manuel.
Manny sighed, content to just sit there with Luis blowing acrid smoke into the air. Both of them waiting until Manny had let go of the last of his posturing, until he was slouching into the steps of the fenced in apartment complex behind him. Until Manny's I don't know's became I dunno's, and the hard concrete steps made him get up. Until Luis took a final drag of his joint before rolling it between his fingers and pocketing it for later.
"Let's go, güero," Luis said, nodding to the entrance to 1134 Stratford Avenue.
Manny always looked first, made sure that no tia was out late seeing what they weren't supposed to. Then, he called his mom to let her know he would be home by 9pm. He let her tell him to be careful, always answered with a "Si, ma, como usted diga." Never told her that he didn't have classes on Fridays. Never said that instead, Manny spent his Friday evenings with Luis, breathing in the scent of cheap pot between kisses.
Sundays were church days, but they were also the reason why Manny got nicknamed el reloj, by the guys from middle school. When Manny walked by 1134 Stratford Ave on Sundays, it was because it was 11:45am. Eleven forty-five meant Javier had to leave to get to work at Walgreens on time. Eleven forty-five meant Pedro had to go meet his mom at the corner of Santa Isabel. Eleven forty-five on Sundays meant that Manuel had two minutes to talk to Luis. It meant that when Santi called them "pervs," Luis gave him the finger, and Manny laughed and told him to go fuck himself.
Sundays were God days, sitting in polished pews, among hundreds of sinners and singing along to the church hymns. Manny asked for forgiveness on Sundays, from the priest, from God, from Jesus. He stood when mass started, sat when he had to, and lost himself to the overlapping sounds of unfolding and folding knee rests, the constant buzzing of side conversations.
Sundays were God days, then back home to spend time with his mother and father, before night came and Manny went to bed to start his weekdays.
The weekdays were the weekdays.
More of Duncan from MIT throwing his arms around Manuel and saying, "Manuel does such great work. It's effortless."
Then, it would be Friday again, and Manny would be on the steps of 1134 Statford, with the sky above him pitch black against the orange streetlights. His elbows resting against the steps behind him, hair mussed, and the acrid smell of cheap pot washing over him like soothing aromatherapy. He would lean into the silence around him, just out of reach of the quiet rumble of the passing cars, along Watson Street. He'd sit there, laid back and free, with one eye out for the cops that walked down Stratford when they got bored of hogging space at the Dunkin' Donuts. It was almost too easy, and Manny would wonder if that's what happened to Luis.
If the reason Luis spent his days at a minimum wage job, and his afternoons on these steps, was because it was easier. Better to sit than to fail, than to become one of the statistics, one more college failure, one more Mexican gangbanger. Maybe no one had told Luis that he could do better, could be more without abandoning who he was, if he played it right, if he orchestrated his life in a way that kept the White out of the Brown, and the Brown out of the White, just enough. Arrange things just so, wear clothes a specific way, talk and walk like them, and it was almost effortless.
Maybe no one had told Luis. Maybe Luis had just relaxed into smoking pot and working ten-hour shifts, into shouting back a greeting at Don Jose from the grocery store, who had known them since they were kids, and knew they would never go into his store to steal. Luis had fit into jeans and t-shirts all his life, because he had never tried suits, because by the time he had a chance to, he was already too comfortable where he was. Maybe that was why they were on two separate paths, because Manny was light enough to be confused for White, because doors opened when Manny opened his mouth at the right time.
But, maybe Luis had chosen the better path, the one with the friendly smiles from the people in their neighborhood, with the sincere, "Hola Luis, ¿como estas?" The path where Luis wasn't a traitor.
They were both Mexican American, but Manny was the gringo, and no amount of church on Sundays would change that, no matter how flawless his Mexican slang, or how many altars he put together en dia de los muertos. That was the price he'd agreed to pay, the one Luis didn't want to pay.
So, some Fridays would go this way, until Manny ran out of thoughts. Until everything had settled within him, and his clothes felt like clothes and not like chains.
"Hey, you all right?" Luis would ask eventually.
Manny would turn, easy smile on his face. "Yeah," he'd say. "I'm good."
It was a precarious edge Manny walked on, letting enough of who he was shine through, so that no one forgot where he came from, but polishing the rest into a neat White middle class shine. Even in his science classes, he had to raise his hand and answer questions, because if he was quiet for too long, everyone, including the professor, would forget he was Mexican. And worse, if he stayed silent, everyone would think he was White. So the weekdays were always a choice between having his name pronounced incorrectly, or smiling away the sting caused by the surprise behind the words, "Wait, you're Mexican? No way."
Weekdays meant the cute new girl, behind the bakery counter down on Morrison Ave, smiled at him and asked, "¿Eres mexicano?"
"Si," Manny said, because he was in the bakery by Morrison.
"You don't look it," she said. "I can tell from your accent, but you don't look Mexican."
Except, Manny's mother had crossed the border three times in her life for her family, and his father had left everything he had to raise his kid here. So, not only was Manny Mexican, he was damn proud of it, too. And he resented the fact that the color of his skin, and the cut of his shirt, and the cufflinks didn't automatically scream Mexican. He wanted to tell the girl behind the counter that she shouldn't fall into the White people traps, that she should take a good long look, and memorize his face before she forgot what a Mexican looked like.
Instead, Manuel picked up his espresso, thanked her, and walked out.
So the weekdays went.
Sundays were church days. At exactly 11:45am, Manny walked down Stratford Avenue to Santa Isabel de Clemencia, past the dirty street between West Road and Watson Street. He wore jeans on Sundays, with another button down shirt, his brown hair combed back and held in place with pommade. Sundays meant the last button on Manny's shirt was undone and he wore black sneakers. But most important about Sundays was that when Manny walked down Stratford Avenue on a Sunday, he always ran into Luis on the steps of 1134.
"Hey, yo, Manny" Luis would call. "Tell God I said sorry for what went down on Friday."
Manuel would smile easy and say, "Who or what, Luis?" and that would be that, until Friday came.
The thing about Friday nights was that even though Manny didn't have classes on Fridays, he was always tired. He'd come home from work, exhausted from hearing MIT Duncan talk about climate change, as though he understood the true nuances. As though the hundreds of thousands of dollars MIT Duncan's dad had dropped on his education gave Duncan authority over what was true, or not, about climate change. As though Manny wanted to talk White people talk when he'd been doing it for the whole week.
"Manuel here's Mexican," Duncan said every Friday. "He always has great ideas. It's why he's been on our employee of the month wall so often."
Except that being Mexican had nothing to do with it. It was that he and Lucretia, the only other person of color in finance, did excellent work. They produced twice as much, for twice as long as any other person in their department, and they never complained. That was the key: to never let MIT Duncan know how much work they were actually doing.
"Always glad to be a team player," Manuel always said.
"Always glad to do our part," Lucretia would add.
Even when their part involved waking up an extra hour earlier each day, Lucretia to get her hair flat ironed just right, and Manuel to get all the wrinkles out of his shirts. Their jobs started at 6am every morning, from the conscious choice to smother their accents, to the clothing they wore, to the way they walked, they worked late into the afternoons on the weekdays to become team players.
Which was why, by Friday evenings, Manuel was done. He'd skip home for a bit and go straight to 1134 Stratford Ave, where Luis was always smoking pot.
Luis and Manuel had gone to school together since pre-k at C.S. 22, up until Manuel got into the specialized high schools and Luis ended up at his zone school. They use to race each other in the tarred backyard of their middle school, one always chasing the other and never quite catching up.
Luis, with his mussed up dark brown hair and his charming smiles, dependable always, called out to Manny on Fridays and said, "Come here, Mr. Gringo. Sit."
Manuel sat on the bottom of the concrete steps leading into 1134 Stratford Ave, with the hem of his slacks riding up to show his black socks. He undid the cufflinks of his button down, rolled up the sleeves until they were above his elbows. Then, he stretched his legs out in front of him, leaned his elbows back onto the steps behind him, and exhaled.
"There he is," Luis said. "Manuel." Pronounced Manuel.
Manny sighed, content to just sit there with Luis blowing acrid smoke into the air. Both of them waiting until Manny had let go of the last of his posturing, until he was slouching into the steps of the fenced in apartment complex behind him. Until Manny's I don't know's became I dunno's, and the hard concrete steps made him get up. Until Luis took a final drag of his joint before rolling it between his fingers and pocketing it for later.
"Let's go, güero," Luis said, nodding to the entrance to 1134 Stratford Avenue.
Manny always looked first, made sure that no tia was out late seeing what they weren't supposed to. Then, he called his mom to let her know he would be home by 9pm. He let her tell him to be careful, always answered with a "Si, ma, como usted diga." Never told her that he didn't have classes on Fridays. Never said that instead, Manny spent his Friday evenings with Luis, breathing in the scent of cheap pot between kisses.
Sundays were church days, but they were also the reason why Manny got nicknamed el reloj, by the guys from middle school. When Manny walked by 1134 Stratford Ave on Sundays, it was because it was 11:45am. Eleven forty-five meant Javier had to leave to get to work at Walgreens on time. Eleven forty-five meant Pedro had to go meet his mom at the corner of Santa Isabel. Eleven forty-five on Sundays meant that Manuel had two minutes to talk to Luis. It meant that when Santi called them "pervs," Luis gave him the finger, and Manny laughed and told him to go fuck himself.
Sundays were God days, sitting in polished pews, among hundreds of sinners and singing along to the church hymns. Manny asked for forgiveness on Sundays, from the priest, from God, from Jesus. He stood when mass started, sat when he had to, and lost himself to the overlapping sounds of unfolding and folding knee rests, the constant buzzing of side conversations.
Sundays were God days, then back home to spend time with his mother and father, before night came and Manny went to bed to start his weekdays.
The weekdays were the weekdays.
More of Duncan from MIT throwing his arms around Manuel and saying, "Manuel does such great work. It's effortless."
Then, it would be Friday again, and Manny would be on the steps of 1134 Statford, with the sky above him pitch black against the orange streetlights. His elbows resting against the steps behind him, hair mussed, and the acrid smell of cheap pot washing over him like soothing aromatherapy. He would lean into the silence around him, just out of reach of the quiet rumble of the passing cars, along Watson Street. He'd sit there, laid back and free, with one eye out for the cops that walked down Stratford when they got bored of hogging space at the Dunkin' Donuts. It was almost too easy, and Manny would wonder if that's what happened to Luis.
If the reason Luis spent his days at a minimum wage job, and his afternoons on these steps, was because it was easier. Better to sit than to fail, than to become one of the statistics, one more college failure, one more Mexican gangbanger. Maybe no one had told Luis that he could do better, could be more without abandoning who he was, if he played it right, if he orchestrated his life in a way that kept the White out of the Brown, and the Brown out of the White, just enough. Arrange things just so, wear clothes a specific way, talk and walk like them, and it was almost effortless.
Maybe no one had told Luis. Maybe Luis had just relaxed into smoking pot and working ten-hour shifts, into shouting back a greeting at Don Jose from the grocery store, who had known them since they were kids, and knew they would never go into his store to steal. Luis had fit into jeans and t-shirts all his life, because he had never tried suits, because by the time he had a chance to, he was already too comfortable where he was. Maybe that was why they were on two separate paths, because Manny was light enough to be confused for White, because doors opened when Manny opened his mouth at the right time.
But, maybe Luis had chosen the better path, the one with the friendly smiles from the people in their neighborhood, with the sincere, "Hola Luis, ¿como estas?" The path where Luis wasn't a traitor.
They were both Mexican American, but Manny was the gringo, and no amount of church on Sundays would change that, no matter how flawless his Mexican slang, or how many altars he put together en dia de los muertos. That was the price he'd agreed to pay, the one Luis didn't want to pay.
So, some Fridays would go this way, until Manny ran out of thoughts. Until everything had settled within him, and his clothes felt like clothes and not like chains.
"Hey, you all right?" Luis would ask eventually.
Manny would turn, easy smile on his face. "Yeah," he'd say. "I'm good."