That’s why I’d always tell Señor Medina to pick me an avocado that mujere, Liliane, would pick up. He ran the bodega with his wife who was simply the make-believe eyebrow woman to me. She plucked out all her eyebrows and assiduously drew her new daring black ones on her face like every hour and a half. Her name was Soledad, but I just call her “ojos.” She liked that, bet that crotch even tingled some thinkin’ I was swayed by her looks. Anyway, I could just see Liliane, pissed as hell, askin’ for this avocado that she knew I coulda gotten myself, but I convinced her I didn’t ask her for much, not like a real Latina, I mean. And I knew the Medinas wouldn’t speak English to her cause it was beyond their version of the world that mi negra linda wasn’t a morena at all, but a regular niggah. And I could see Liliane embarrassed when the gringo blacks listened to her speak Spanish and subtly disown her. I figured she needed that every once in a while. Y, if she’s not gonna give me any babies, the least she could do is bring me an avocado, sí?

Gotta keep her on her toes, ya know, a bit off balance, outta focus. It’s not like we lived in some sorta black-and-white frame. Well, that’d be pretty difficult considering the way Liliane looked at things. She saw the most pristine forms, dazzling color in anythin’. She felt the texture of stuff: rice, skin, water, the ringlets of black naps on my chest. I couldn’t have forced her vision to be any less, but I tried til it was no more use. We didn’t really go out ’cept round the neighborhood. How many social clubs with little red lights, a ghetto box, a pool table, and Budweiser beer can you go to? How many Nuyorican poets can ya listen to shout about the righteousness of the FALN and a free Puerto Rico?