pascuala
Image by Ray Spears
We were the new kids on the block. Most of our neighbors had lived in the building for decades by the time we arrived. Many had raised their children there. Others welcomed grand babies, and, some, grand fur babies. We were surrounded by migrant stories, swarmed by history. As newbies, it was safe to assume that we’d be the last ones on call (if at all) should any neighborly emergencies arise, or so I thought. That was until 3B rang the door bell.
Just two doors down from our apartment resided one of the longest residents of the building, a Panamanian woman named Pascuala. She was a statuesque woman, about 5’9 in height, with a distinguishable pitch. Her voice carried weight, firing off in booming volume and ending in a slight whine. Though loud and seemingly intimidating there was always tenderness in her tone. It could not be dismissed nor mistaken.
From the moment we arrived she made herself known. Welcoming and assuring us that her door was open should we ever need anything. Naturally a skeptic, I thought surely this was just another empty gesture. Yet in customary Hispanic form, I reciprocated. Si, igual!
“...picking away at the thin line between the gentrified and the gentrifier.”
Our apartment was a 700-square-foot space with a dedicated entry way, newly installed kitchen, updated tiling, and a fresh coat of paint — the kind of fixings that merited the loose use of the term “luxury” in its listing. Quite frankly, the renovations were more like lipstick on a pig but for our first home together we couldn’t imagine better. Settling into the space, we acquainted ourselves with the apartment’s creeks, grooves, and abnormally thin walls. Sounds echoed around the building’s naturally u-shaped structure. You could hear the front door open from our third floor walkup, distinguish the jingling of keys from our door and that of any neighbors. If there was ever a knock on the door it was easy to predict who stood on the other side of it.
One night, while enjoying a movie at home, there was an unexpected knock. The time then was 10:30pm. Perplexed, I tip toed over to the entryway and peered through the peephole. It was Pascuala. Happily surprised, I opened the door and greeted her. Immediately, she apologized for the late visit and passed me a jar. “Abremelo, por favor”, she said. POP! Soon after we bid Ms.P adieu.
That night I jotted her name in a running note of stories waiting to be written. I struggled to wipe the smirk off my face after the brief moment. It was humbling. Why would she knock on our door? She certainly had no lack in available hands. There were 6 other families on that floor at her disposal, people who had cared for her in the most intimate seasons of her life compared to the handful of 5-minute encounters we’d shared. Yet, she chose to knock on our door.
“when it comes to basic human matters the “in-between” has no bearing...”
Was it a result of my superficial reciprocity? Did she find comfort in us as new people? Maybe I was overthinking this one but there was something to it. Most of the elderly would’ve dismissed us, reduced our youth to arrogance and assumed our lifestyle to be too contemporary to understand the basic concepts of neighborly engagement. Our newness made us green. I couldn’t tell you what it was that drew her, and still can’t. All I knew in that moment was that she chose us and I’m glad she did.
Her decision that night sent waves through my spirit. It challenged a deeply subconscious and preconceived separation between us (the new generation) and them, picking away at the thin line between the gentrified and the gentrifier. That night, even if for a brief moment, a tension I’d carried with me for decades ceased to exist. Quite frankly, it didn't matter. That moment taught me a little something about skepticism — its paranoia & pessimism. It taught me that when it comes to basic human matters the “in-between” has no bearing because it doesn’t take being more American, Dominican or anything for that matter to open a damn jar.
