Curate, connect, and discover
In the darkened corner of a spicy club, two people. Green skirts and navy tees. He ought to be focusing on his band members, the drums and claves and maracas and musicians with the music in their soul, pumping out a rhythm that sparks those high-up lights meant for Navidad. The noise will wake the neighbors’ kids, whose mother works long hours in a bustling sweatshop, the noise and voices holding no joy like the sunshine of the meringue band. She works hard for the children she has raised, and to keep them away from the fascination of her home in La Vibora.
The lights are bright and warm: not blinding, calm like a happy day. He can just avoid the spotlights shining on him and his friends, who practice long and play longer, drink and have fun and remember what their mothers taught them. The women on the block, the one’s too young to be raising a child or a husband, scoff and assume they will flirt. Uncertainty.
It is loud and hot and sexy, but no one feels threatened. It’s just fun, and those who know each other know. Xenophobia, like in the rest of the neighborhood, where all are foreigners in La Ciudad de Nueva York.
In the darkened corner of a spicy club, two people. He leans in, singing along to her. His cowbell sharp and sassy like the slips and flicks of her fingertips. She pays him no mind, her curls and lips and hips smiling for no one but herself. Dark chocolate shards and caramel brooks. Bubbly and laughing, taunting him. Caution, but intelligent humor.
Quick feet, flashing eyes. Wink, smirk, arched brow, blissful eyelids.
She is dancing fast beside him, her movements all her own. He will not contain her, and she will not indulge. The hard-working Mexican, her eyes bright as the muddy mangoes her father brings home to her, telling her the stories and memories of his childhood with the family’s orchards, lush before fire took them, and his family starting new and happy until fire took her, and left him with a daughter who is slipping away to a better future, that girl who is slender in a green dress, her long curls churning, her feet outpacing his self-esteem. Friendly, platonically, and he doesn’t take the blow.
Her voice clear, singing along to the rhythms, she won’t give him any satisfaction of hearing her voice compliment his cultures’ words, the sunshine of a music that others mistake for merengue, when Puerto Ricans have a culture all their own, and stereotypes are easy, especially for a young man who wanted more as a descendant of slavery, who felt trapped in a place like that, whose differences keep her wondering. Wondering like the histories of his skin that differs from the music that is like sunshine. Subtle in the darkened corner of a spicy club.
Sleeveless green like los flores, navy tee shining behind eyes like estrellas. Loving wisdom hidden by twinkling humor, shining down on simple happiness.
Xenophobia, racism, hostility, friendzone? Feminism, she dances.