With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Julio, Oh, Julio
“Hola, Emoni. How are you? About time you called your father.”
I know I’ve caught Julio at his shop. I can hear razors buzzing and the background noise of grown men murmuring. I can picture him, head cocked to the side so he can press his phone to his ear with his shoulder, his long locs in a ponytail down his back as he creates a perfect right angle out of a customer’s hairline.
“I’m good, Julio. How are you?”
Buzz, buzz, buzz.“You know I’m always good. Aquí, busy, busy. Your grandmother tells me you are taking a cooking class in school. And you are going to Spain. That true?”
’Buela. She harasses me into calling my father but has already given him a full update. “Only if I can afford it.”
“Mm-hmm. And why Spain? They wanted you to learn how to cook some real food, they should have brought you here.”
My father is big fan of the island. And he is not a big fan of Europe. He has a lot of ideas about the way they treated Latin America and the Caribbean when they were in power and believes they (and the United States) are the sole reason why so many of those countries are struggling now. And in case I forget how he feels, he never hesitates to launch into one of his history lessons. “You know that just because they were un poder colonial doesn’t mean they are the center of the world, right, Emoni? What have I always told you? Be proud of who you are so you don’t have to imitate or bow down to your oppressor.”
Oh man. Julio’s clippers have turned off, which lets me know if I don’t jump in right now I’ll be on the phone for an hour hearing a rant on how we are taught to idolize international superpowers. “Julio, I don’t think we are going to Spain because they were once a colonial power. I think it’s because my instructor really loves Spanish cuisine.”
“Pftt. Everything they know how to make over there, they learned over here.”
Probably not everything. I’m sure there has been an exchange of cuisine back and forth, especially with spices, but I doubt every dish was made in Puerto Rico first. Most of my father’s beliefs are based on hard facts that every now and then are seasoned with hyperbole.
He must tell I’m not going to answer him because after a moment he changes the subject. “How’s my little love doing?”
I describe Babygirl’s daycare, and the new words she’s learning. He summarizes the biography on Roberto Clemente he read recently. By the time he tells me he needs to get off the phone, I’m sure he’s cut two heads, and has started on a third. But still, when we hang up, neither one of us says I love you. Neither one of us says I miss you. Neither one of says just come live here, with me. He doesn’t say, I’m sorry for leaving. And I don’t say, I’m so angry you left.