The Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico Read Online Free PDF Page B

anthem. We always started music class with both. The daily songs were written in white chalk on the green board: La Borinqueña, The Star-Spangled Banner, Class Choice . Señora Alonzo strummed the opening melody on her mandolin.
    “ ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ Uno, dos, tres .”
    We began to sing, hesitating at each line, trying to follow her sweet sound.
    Ohhh sé con yoo sí bi de donsair leelite. We sang together. A few of the girls giggled, stumbling through the words.
    “Bueno!” Señora Alonzo said at the end. “We’ll practice this again. Okay. What else do we want to sing today? The last song is a class choice.”
    “Let’s twiss again!” Mikal yelled.
    “Besame la Bemba,” Fredo shouted next to me.
    “Will you love me tomorrow!”
    “It’s Now o’ Never!” said Sonia two rows over.
    “Ay! Elvis Presley! How many like Elvis? I like Elvis.” Señora Alonzo’s eyes sparkled. We all raised our handsand made “oo-oo” sounds. I didn’t feel one way or another about Elvis, but I did love Señora Alonzo. If she liked Elvis, then I liked Elvis. I raised my arm like a needle to the sky.
    “Perfecto!” She smiled wide, and giggles rippled over the classroom. “It’s Now or Never.” She strummed the mandolin.
    “Ready, class? Uno, dos, tres!’ She sang. I joined my voice to hers, my sound drowning in the group. I liked the way it felt. The rhythm was familiar and yet not. That’s how a lot of music from the States felt. Something deep down in the chords made you want to move, to dance, but in a different way than our jíbaros songs. The songs from the States made me want to run, to jump, to spin until all the colors of the room blurred together. And at the same time they scared me so bad that I had to stop singing and hold my breath until the feeling passed. I did so then, and noticed that Fredo wasn’t singing either.
    Señora Alonzo strummed the last of the chorus, “My love won’t wait.” She looked in our direction and set the mandolin beside her chair. “Verdita. Fredo. Why don’t you sing with the class? Por qué?”
    Fredo stared straight, his eyes bulging wide and unafraid. He looked the way Papi did when I talked back to him about my name and when he found me at the jíbaros bar. “My papá says that’s a gringo song. I’m not allowed to sing gringo songs.” I couldn’t hold back my gasp, and I covered my own mouth for Fredo’s.
    “Fredo Rodriguez!” Señora Alonzo’s eyes squinted into slits and her singsong voice turned low and rough, like she’d swallowed gravel. “That is an Americano song. Elvis es un Americano , and so am I.”
    In our house, gringo was a curse word. Papi would take the belt to me for sure if I ever used it. He said that Puerto Rico’s people were all colors of the rainbow. So even if the green didn’t like the yellow, one color couldn’t disrespect the other or pretty soon the whole rainbow would fall from the sky in broken colors. I assumed we were green and the Americanos were yellow.
    But Fredo didn’t stop there: “I’m not allowed to sing Americano songs, and anyone who sings those are gringos too.” His voice was clear and defiant, but he looked down, his eyes drawing lines on the wooden desktop.
    “You’re allowed to speak Inglés . Why aren’t you allowed to sing?” Señora Alonzo stood with her hands on her hips, her face flushed pink.
    “Papá said,” Fredo replied, his voice now quiet and small.
    Señora Alonzo breathed loud. The air came out of her nose like wind and we were all silent, listening and holding our own breaths.
    “Estudiantes , take out your Dick and Jane books. La música se termina . Time for Inglés reading. Perhaps, Fredo, your papá will not object to you learning how to read English.”
    I opened the top of my desk and hid behind the lid. “Fredo!” I hissed below the shuffle of books and papersand desk lids closing. “She’ll tell your papá and he’ll whip you for sure!”
    “No, he won’t.