Just three days earlier, Jose and his best friend Luis were playing dominoes at Club Juan Pablo Duarte, discussing the typical Dominican topics of politics, making money, and the meaning of life, when the issue of US and Dominican citizenship came to the fore. In all Dominican gatherings the pitch of the discussion increased when talk turned to politics, and that night was no exception. In spite of being best friends and originating from the same town in the DR, Jose and Luis were political enemies, therefore their arguments were especially loud. Not that they were the I’m-going-to-kill-you kind of enemies, but their difference of opinion regarding the two political parties, the PLD and PRD, was legendary.
When he was twelve years old, Jose had come to the US illegally from the DR with his mother. Luis was second generation, born here from a Dominican couple whose skin color was a reminder of the omnipresence of Haitians on the island of Hispaniola, the shared landmass comprising the two countries. Their discussion three days ago concerned the change in the Dominican constitution revoking citizenship for descendants of Haitians living in La Republica, retroactively to 1929. Almost two hundred thousand people found themselves stateless overnight as a result of the ruling by the constitutional court in September of 2013. Even though Luis was born in the United States he had always maintained pride in his native country, and no one flew more Dominican flags from his or her car during the annual Dominican festival at Roger Williams Park.
“How could they do this, co?o? Don’t they know that the DR is a black country? Todos somos negros,” Luis argued. He rubbed the top of his forearm with so much vigor that it seemed like he wanted to rub off his skin. “Everyone has a little bit of this.”
“Speak for yourself, cocolo,” Jose replied. “My family are descendants from Galicia in Spain, and we can trace our arrival on the island to the second trip by el Almirante Cristóbal Colón, and to the founding of Santo Domingo, the first city in the New World.”
“Mierda,” said Luis, raising his middle finger in disgust as he prepared to overturn the table, which was customary during discussions of the constitution. “You have pelo malo just like me and your lips are most definitely African. You just won’t admit to your own race.”
This was true. Jose Cadalzo was white. He had blue eyes and the bridge of his nose was like the bow of the Titanic. But his lips were not typical for gallegos and he had never yet met a comb that would slide through his hair, or a breeze strong enough to disrupt his hairdo. He never knew his father, but his mother, Do?a Carmen Maria Cadalzo Frias, was the spitting image of la Virgen de la Altagracia, the venerated Madonna of the Dominican Republic whose porcelain skin and Roman nose were the ultimate expression of beauty and love. But Jose’s incongruent features did not dissuade him from his guttural certainty that he was white, and as a white person he felt threatened by the increasing numbers of Haitians crossing the border, having babies, and changing the complexion of the Dominican people.
“They are different,” Jose said matter-of-factly. “They’re not like us and never will be. They’re just good for hard labor and they like it that way. You don’t know this because you were born here, you’re American.”
Those were fighting words for Luis, the number one Dominican in Providence.
The dominoes started to fly, and cries of racism and ignorance filled the room. Pedro Jose, the president of the club, came down from his office to see what the ruckus was all about, and found himself in the middle of a fistfight, with both men landing punches on him. More than one chair passed by his head as he dodged from side to side.
“Paren esto, CARAJO!” Pedro Jose screamed as he slammed his Louisville Slugger on the only table still standing. “You better take this outside, otherwise I’m going to crack both your heads open.”
Pedro Jose was a small man with a small-man complex, but his baseball bat had broken up plenty of fights and more than a few skulls. Both fighters knew better, and just like the response to the bell in a prizefight, they stopped. But this particular argument changed something in their relationship. Luis was angry at the world because the motherland he so cherished had rejected him. Jose was angry because in the depth of his soul there was always a doubt as to his father’s race, especially since any mention of him during family gatherings was met with the same universal sign of silence reserved for churches and libraries: index finger to the lips.
*
As Mozart’s “Requiem” played through the speakers on the banks of the urban river, the first round of stoking the fires ended. The skipper guided the vessel to the pile of wood near the end of the river, just before the hurricane barrier, to reload it with fresh red cedar. The full moon illuminated the pile, which appeared redder than usual, and the sweet smell of the cedar carried a slight tinge of decomposing matter.
“Dead mice,” the skipper announced as the logs were loaded onto the cargo area.
Some of the volunteers waved at the air as if shooing flies. When the cute blonde from Brown University picked up a broken piece of cedar, something dangled from one of its shards.
“Check this out!” she called with the enthusiasm of someone winning the lottery. “I think it’s a necklace.”