There were at least eight of us around the flame tree. I can only remember William and Albert, who lived right below the apartment where I spent half my life. They were born in New York, but moved to Puerto Rico when they were young. William, the older one, spoke English and would correct me whenever I butchered the names of our idols. Like the time he read in one of my notebooks the nickname of my favorite wrestler:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDude, Estoncol Tibosty<\/em>?\u201d he asked, scratching his nose to stifle a laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah,\u201d I replied defensively. \u201cHe\u2019s the bald guy with the vest who\u2019s in a feud with Undertaker\u2026 the one who drinks beers when he wins..\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNooo, hahaha. Look.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n William grabbed a blue magic marker from on top of the dresser. He wrote the correct name down the length of my forearm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n * * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n I learned about William and Albert almost by accident. They lived below me, and since we were about the same age, it was only a matter of time before we met. Often, I\u2019d play with pharmacy-bought green toy soldiers on my apartment balcony. One day, I thought I spotted a poster of Mankind in the room on the floor below. I pressed my face as close as I could to the lower part of the balcony railings to make sure my eyes weren\u2019t deceiving me. I wasn\u2019t excited about the wrestler himself\u2014he wore a ridiculous outfit: a leather mask, a black tie over a white button-up shirt, and a sock on his right hand\u2014but because I had found a neighbor who was also a wrestling fan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I spent several afternoons on the balcony, making exaggerated noises and getting bored with my toys. A week later, I saw a head floating near the windows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey!\u201d I called urgently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s up, dude?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d I added, trying to calm him down a bit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAlbert…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHmm\u2026 is that your poster?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He nodded and disappeared. A couple of seconds later, he returned with something in both hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCheck this out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n A skinny arm covered in mosquito bites poked through the window. He opened his fist, and I barely made out a red Hot Wheels car that fell into the void, flipping as it went down. The metallic sound was almost imperceptible when it hit the pavement. His laughter, in contrast, rang clearly in my ears. A certain sense of helplessness overwhelmed me. I had always been a sad child. I cried if my mom left me in the car while she paid for gas. I cried when, while in a liquor store, I dropped a malt drink and my mom yelled at me in front of everyone, \u201c\u00bfT\u00fa tienes las manos llenas de mierda?\u201d I cried if I fought at school, even if I was winning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But there was no time for contemplation with Albert. He immediately said, \u201cYour turn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I wasn\u2019t allowed to spit off the balcony or throw trash. But there was the person I\u2019d been looking for since I saw that poster, the promise of a friend, the first challenge of our friendship. I grabbed a forgettable Hot Wheels car and returned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Albert was waiting, his smile slowly fading. The rest of his face held a mischievous look that, in truth, would never leave him. I stretched my hand between the balcony bars and dropped the toy. Eight floors of free fall. This time, we didn\u2019t hear the toy hit the pavement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd the other car? Isn\u2019t it going down too?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo. This one\u2019s for you,\u201d he said, throwing it back at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n * * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n I met William in preschool at the same housing complex. On the first day of class, he arrived holding his mom\u2019s hand. Albert was behind her and approached me, announcing, \u201cYou live on the eighth floor, right? Hey, Will, this is the kid from upstairs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n William came over and said, \u201cGive me five.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I extended my arm, and he slammed his hand against mine with force. A tingle ran through my fingers, but I didn\u2019t complain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We became friends instantly. Buddies. Pals. We hung out together at school, even getting into silly arguments about whether Jordan was the best or who we\u2019d want to play house with. We even liked the same girl: a pale girl with almost translucent pink nails named Nicole, who once complimented my socks:<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThose are nice, but they\u2019re old because they\u2019ve got the Green Ranger on them, and now the one that matters is the White Ranger.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n William pushed her on the shoulder and corrected her, \u201cBitch, the Green Ranger is the same as the White Ranger. You don\u2019t know anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nicole looked embarrassed but didn\u2019t argue. I think we both liked her for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We were inseparable. We saw each other every day, talking either from my balcony or from their window, the one with the Mankind poster. Albert was younger, so he didn\u2019t come to school with us yet, but he controlled the conversations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd you\u2019re never allowed to come out? Let\u2019s go to the basketball court!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stayed quiet because I didn\u2019t have an answer. I knew I wouldn\u2019t be allowed. My mom often pointed out that we lived in a rough place where a shootout could break out at the slightest provocation. She usually made her judgments, then followed them with concrete anecdotes: \u201cJust last week, they shot two people at the gate to the avenue! One got sixteen gunshots, and the other twelve.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n * * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sure enough, Mom didn\u2019t let me go out that day. Or the next. From her room, she could see the basketball court and the swings, but eight floors felt insurmountable to let her son roam the world alone. However, she did let them come to our house. I was also allowed to hang out in the hallway and spend the whole afternoon with them. If not, we\u2019d compete on NBA Live or bring out the Fisher Price hoop my mom had given me for my last birthday. We all liked basketball, but I have to admit, they were better than me. Sometimes I managed to score a few points, but it was never enough against the acrobatic layups and mid-range shots with which the brothers would close the game.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Despite everything, there was no resentment over the losses. I was too young to hold grudges or have my pride hurt. Either that, or I was already adopting a losing attitude at a very young age. Even though Will\u2014our affectionate nickname for him\u2014didn\u2019t celebrate his victories, Albert always showed off: he\u2019d yell in your face if he made a spectacular basket, complain if he felt too much contact on a play, and, on many occasions, pull down his pants to shake his hips and make his dick bounce against his thighs. Will and I laughed at his antics, even when Albert threatened to pee on him if he lost\u2026 As soon as Will made the game-winning basket, his brother would strip off all his clothes\u2014tank top, sneakers, pants, underwear, and socks\u2014and chase him down the hall, trying to hit him with his stream. He ran clumsily, holding his crotch, while Will giggled and repeated, \u201cDude, stooop.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It didn\u2019t surprise anyone that Albert could be much tougher and crueler. In third grade, he fought a sixth-grader for giving him a dirty look. Will told me his brother had confronted the guy, cursed at him, and before the other kid knew what was happening, Albert was on top of him. Albert ended up with a black eye, yes, but the sixth-grader got the worst of it: a broken nose and the shame of having been beaten up by a little punk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n * * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n I think we were happy. The housing project was a training ground for us. That\u2019s where we found our best friends and who we thought were our first enemies. That\u2019s where I learned to keep my arms up for protection and be aware of my own shadow. I also learned to be quick with words as a defense mechanism when someone picked on me. We learned how to court women, love them, and hate them with a sick passion. Albert and Will toughened up quickly. It took me longer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n * * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n It must have been summer. I’m not so sure anymore. Over time, childhood years blur into a false block of happiness, of idealization. It must have been summer, without a doubt. Sweat glued our shirts to our bodies. There were about eight of us under the imperfect shade of the flame tree. I only remember the brothers, my neighbors for years. Will and I must have been ten, and Albert around nine. I repeat this because I\u2019ve forgotten the details when, in reality, I wanted to forget the events. I repeat because even though the humiliations are now echoes of the past, persistent ruins always remain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We had finished a game, and although we kept track of the points, no one took the result too seriously. We sought refuge from the sun under the flame tree, talking about easy girls, easy targets, easy and fragile things like me. The conversation took place at the spot where the older guys from the neighborhood would light up the quiet nights with their joints or shout \u201caguaaa\u201d when the police showed up. Suddenly, Albert began pointing out the plays that, in his opinion, secured his team\u2019s victory. That time, I was on the losing team with Will; losing was more bearable on his side than on his brother\u2019s. In any case, it had been a close game, a good game, but, in the end, a game won by Albert. Will tried to bring him down a notch by pointing out some turnovers his brother made, which, contrary to Albert\u2019s belief, were mistakes caused by the recklessness and intensity with which he charged into the paint, fully intent on drawing a foul. Albert kept saying, \u201cno, no, no,\u201d poorly defending his argument but raising his voice. Someone from my team suggested we buy ice pops from the lady on the second floor who sold them for a quarter and \u201cnot from the bitch on the sixth floor who sells the cheap ones.\u201d We happily agreed, with childish glee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On our way back to the building, we saw Nicole and her friends by the swings. They recognized us, whispered among themselves, and began to laugh. I recognized them from a distance too, and I nudged Will to tell him. He raised his eyebrows and searched for her with his eyes. Albert overheard us and seized the moment:<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLook at this one! He gets all puffed up when he sees that chick,\u201d he shouted, pointing in her direction. Then he added, \u201cAre you guys dating?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShut up\u2026 We’re not anything,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, right, ’cause you\u2019re into dudes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Everyone laughed. Albert walked ahead of the group, moving backward so he could watch my face and the others\u2019 laughter. I stayed silent, praying he wouldn\u2019t continue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCome on, be honest\u2026\u201d he insisted. \u201cDo you like Nicole or are you a faggot?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re the faggot,\u201d I blurted out immediately with an unsure voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Albert stopped. Before I even noticed the change in his expression, a quick, dark fist, covered in mosquito bites, like the same hand that had once invited me to play with toy cars, hit me in the face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I couldn\u2019t hold back my tears as I realized my lip was busted. I didn\u2019t even think about hitting back. My vision was blurry, and I tried to hide my shame, but it was impossible. I ran my tongue over the wound, and my mouth filled with a taste that made me long even more for a lemon ice pop. My lip was split, heat was escaping through every pore, and I was crying from the pain\u2014embarrassed and confused. It was better not to look toward the swings, to convince myself that Nicole hadn\u2019t noticed. No one in the group was laughing. No one condemned what had just happened. Not even Will, who I thought was my best friend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mom, who had been watching from the window, came down and scolded all of us. She scolded them for not stepping in and me for crying instead of defending myself. All I remember are their sour faces, the pressure in my ears that kept me from hearing well, and that damn flame tree, as red as my blood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Efe Rosario (Carolina, Puerto Rico) holds a Ph.D. in Latin American Literature from Cornell University. His work has received multiple accolades, including the National Literature Award from the Institute of Puerto Rican Culture (2023) for Mermar<\/em> and the Juan Ram\u00f3n Jim\u00e9nez International Poetry Award of Coral Gables (2020) for Tambi\u00e9n mueren los lugares donde fuimos felices<\/em>. Rosario is also the author of El tiempo ha sido terrible con nosotros<\/em> (Ediciones Alayubia, 2020) and Ver\u00e1s llamas como flores<\/em> (T\u00e1cna Editorial, 2024). Currently, he is a professor of Global Hispanophone Studies at Spelman College in Atlanta, Georgia.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" There were at least eight of us around the flame tree. I can only remember William and Albert, who lived right below the apartment…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":2502,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[108,104],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2501"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2501"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2501\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2502"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2501"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2501"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2501"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n