Diálogo

Volume 8 Number 1 Article 17

2004

The Negro is Paid to Dance

Matilde E. López

Karin Killian

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Recommended Citation López, Matilde E. and Killian, Karin (2004) "The Negro is Paid to Dance," Diálogo: Vol. 8 : No. 1 , Article 17. Available at: https://via.library.depaul.edu/dialogo/vol8/iss1/17

This Rincón Creativo is brought to you for free and open access by the Center for Latino Research at Via Sapientiae. It has been accepted for inclusion in Diálogo by an authorized editor of Via Sapientiae. For more information, please contact [email protected]. The Negro is Paid to Dance

Cover Page Footnote This article is from an earlier iteration of Diálogo which had the subtitle "A Bilingual Journal." The publication is now titled "Diálogo: An Interdisciplinary Studies Journal."

This rincón creativo is available in Diálogo: https://via.library.depaul.edu/dialogo/vol8/iss1/17 Art by Fernando Llort. isThePaid Negro to Dance Image from stationary, provided by Claudia Morales Haro

A Short Story by Matilde Elena Lopez Translated by Karin Killian Lima, Peru

This is the history of a sad man, or better put, the history of a The only thing I remember about my father is a strong tail sad Negro who is now sadder still. I feel in my heart as though Jamaican who spoke only English. "British, British. Panama is I have been painted with pitch. I am drowning in a cesspool. I of no importance to me," he used to say. have been drowning since I was born. But to me, yes, it is important. Because it is my land. And the One time I read -- or was it something I heard my mother say things that happen here pain me much. More than anything when I was young? -- Maybe it was she who read it to me. the things that happen in Chorillo, Marnon, Calidonia and San Regardless, it was something by Chestertonl: "The tiger may Miguel. The colored neighborhoods. The black muscles of the free himself from his cage, but never from his spotted skin." Canal Zone. I did not know what discrimination was until I had to go work at the Canal. It was then that they told me that we My mother cried a lot. Perhaps this is why I was born sad. One are race of hapless beings in this world of dollars. But I was day she told me: "Everyone carries her drama within." I telling you why Christmas scares me. It's all because of one guessed what her's was. But we don't talk about that. Christmas Eve, many years ago, when I was a sad young boy (because I was once a young boy, whether you believe it or "My poor son," was all she said to me as I fell asleep. not) and my mother helped me to trim a little pine branch. We were very poor, but I had been able to obtain many things, "M y little Erne, Erne, Oh! My Little Eme, Oh Eme!. Sleep tig h t because I am both skillful and clever. That's just how I am. My my beautiful black baby. My little Eme, Eme, Oh! My little mother, poor woman, she was abandoned by my father and Eme, Oh Eme!" She then sang to me as I slept on. then went to live with another. He was a drunken carpenter, infamous. I helped her when I could. But he hated me. These were the only tender works I have known. I don't know why but each year when Christmas comes around I have a "Bad little Negro," was what he always called me. Ay! I could premonition: something bad is going to happen to me. bear it when he insulted me. But not when he hit my mother.

Something bad, you ask? It was the day before Christmas, and I had arrived content to light the lights on the little Christmas tree. My drunken Oh yes, all that has happened to me has been disastrous. But stepfather was discussing me with my mother. I always think that this will be something worse. I am one superstitious Negro. It comes from the oldest atavisms of my "This boy is bad. Bad!" He said. " I am going to kill him. " people. . . and the fear too. I come from the jungle, this I My mother cried, didn't dare enter. I just stood there, know. But I don't know where all the sadness within me comes watching. But then I saw how he hit her, and how she fell to from. Perhaps from my mother. the floor. And then how he kicked her again still. I was blinded by my rage. That is all. I threw myself on top of him. "Run. Quick!" My m other scream ed at m e. m e one day. A nd I took her in my arm s and kissed her deeply.

That w as the happiest day of my life.

"O h. So you w ant him to run quick, huh?" He scream ed back.

And he took a ham m er that w as close by and threw it at m e, But said happiness could not last long. As I w orked nights in aim ing for my head. I only rem em ber that I saw m any lights. Happy Land, my w om an often had to stay alone. A gringo

A nd then everything w ent red and I fainted. They say that I started com ing around. He w as a soldier from the zone; of the bled a lot. A nd now you know w hy Christm as scares m e. Later type w ho arrives, sets up cam p and then goes out to look for you will say that us N egroes are superstitious and have m any an am usem ent to keep them busy until they return to their c o m p l e x e s . country. He liked my w om an.

N ot long after that my m other died. "You are one hot little m am a," he said one day, entering the

house w hile I slept, tired.

"Go to hell, you dem on black boy," my stepfather told m e.

A nd I w ent to the city. I w anted to look for w hat w ork there My w om an m oved her hips w hen she w alked, and liked to w as. I w as only tw elve years old. provoke. She put a colorful scarf on her head. It gave him

pleasure to see her.

I d o n 't know if I have told you th at I w as born in a little village, and that that w as w here m y m other died. To go to the Capital A nd here begins, m y friends, the true history. W hen a w om an then was, well, an adventure. I did a little of everything. I says to a m an: "I feel like I've know n you forever. I love you cleaned cars. I sold things in the m arket. I dream ed of leaving s o m u c h . " on a big ship, of sailing around the w orld. I w anted to w ork as cargo labor, because I am strong! I did get aboard once, but Though everyone repeats these w ords, one still think th at it's they threw m e off the job. In the capital I w andered about the the truth and w alks in the clouds. No, don't think that I am bars, because at m idnight the drunks no longer w ant the going to begin to cry because my w om an left m e, because she sandw iches, and I w as able to get som ething to eat. w ent w ith the gringo that gave her a house w ith a law n. No,

ladies and gentlem en. I don't care th at she left! T here are m ore

Later I w ent to the Canal Zone, to w ork as a porter on the than enough w om en in Panam a. I only ache because of my son. w harf. This is the only thing us black m en are good for. A nd it He w ould have the sam e luck as I did in the hands of that w as then that I got to know her: the bad one. It seem ed then gringo. I ache because he could not leave. W hat w as I going to like everything w as m ade clear to m e suddenly, that my life do w ith him ? Little by little the w om an w as forgetting m e. w as going to change. They put us in a house. A nd I w as able to get furniture on credit. She w aited for m e after w ork, and w ith Now, tell m e if I don't have an excuse. It w as C hristm as. I had her I learned to laugh. I even cam e to be happy. A nd I learned to w ork all night at H appy Land. That night there w ere m ore a sense of hum or. Though som ething som etim es crossed m e drunk sailors than ever. It w as ten O'clock. My num ber w as like a shadow . M ade m e serious. The laughter undid m e. scheduled for after m idnight. A friend arrived, quite agitated.

He didn't know how to tell m e.

"W hy do you laugh like that?" She said to m e. "It looks like your crying inside." "W hat new s do you bring?" I chided him .

W e had everything then. W e w ere content. A nd I took her out "B rother it's bad. . . your son." to dance at the carnivals . . Us N egroes have rhythm in our blood. And I w as a dem on dancing. A gringo saw m e dancing "W hat? W hat happened to my son?" in a cantina at the edge of the Canal Zone.

"He's there. Dead. They say the gringo killed him. The guy

"M y G od!" said the gringo. "H ow you m ove. W ould you like w ho lives w ith your girl." to dance in H appy Land?"

"W hat are you saying? It can't be. W here is he? Are you

My luck had changed. They hired me there on the d r u n k ? " recom m endation of just the one gringo. They gave m e a w hite shirt and a black bow tie. A nd a straw hat like M aurice Chevalier's, "No, m an, he's dead." w ho I often im itated, and a cane. I danced and I laughed:

"And w hat about her? But. . W hy did the gringo go kill the

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!" It was long and sardonic outburst of b o y ? " laughter. A nd my teeth reverberated like the keys of a piano, W e raced out of there, quick as could be. In the street w e like the keys of a piano th at cried on the inside. heard the clam or of the crow d. It drove m e m ad.

"Laugh nigger. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. D ance nigger dance!" "Lottery! W in the big one! Play tonight!"

"W hat a w ild nigger! He dances and exalts w ith the instinct of "They've killed a N egro kid in El Lim ite. " his sensual blood. W hat a Nigger, w hat a N igger!" scream ed "Okay. . Okay. K eep it cool. M ake W ay People." the already drunk gringos.

"H ere com es Santa Claus!" You could hear the shouting of the

A nd I w as paid to dance and am use the people. I didn't have little kids surrounding him . to carry enorm ous sacks on my shoulders anym ore. My luck had im proved indeed. "B rother!" my friend, w ho w as still follow ing m e, shouted.

"W ait for m e!" A nd he tried to catch up w ith m e. "You know w e're going to have a baby?" my w om an said to But I didn't hear a thing other than that sam e refrain But nobody knew anything. ham m ering in my brain. Joseph, Joseph. You G ringo bastard!"

They say th at a gringo killed a little nigger boy. "W hy w ould a m an go and kill a child?"

Yes, my friends Yes. That gringo. The gringo w ho stole my w om an from me. ..." "Lynch him . Lynch him . H ang him up."

In the bars, full of drunks, the zam bos w ere fiery and "G ringo son of a bitch." l e c h e r o u s . "I say w e lynch him . Lynch Him! In the US they lynch the

Sodom ! Sodom !" I shouted. n i g g e r s . "

Prostitutes, Prostitutes!" I'm not sure if that w as thought or "O kay! Okay! M ove aside. Police!" scream ed. It w ould have been the sam e. "W hat's going on here? W hat happened?"

"M ay you burn in hell for all eternity." "The gringo killed the kid. He threw him against the w all and

"All w om en are prostitutes!" I w as how ling on the inside. broke his skull."

"You all do not understand w hat has happened to m e. " "N o! No! It w asn't him . M y son, he fell from the refrigerator."

The m usic resonated discordantly. Rock and Roll, Calypso, "No, this gringo is evil. H ang him from the w ire. He kicked

M e r e c u m b e . him . He said th at the kid looked like the nigger." "Just now , Sir, I m ean today."

Back to Back," Sang a wom an. And the sensual rhythm distorted everything. O ut of the distances there cam e a harsh "I don't know w hat you m ean." w ail, out of tune, "Bless m e, black angels. G od H elp M e." "Speak clearly w om an"

Please do excuse th e confusion of this tale. All of m y m em ories are crow ding in. . . M y son. . my son. . M y little boy w ith the "Okay, Okay. The boy cut off a branch of pine for the glittering eyes like pacunes. The w hite of his eyes like th e keys Christm as tree, from that big tree there. The gringo got m ad of a piano. A nd the w hite of his teeth, so w hite. Oh, and his because he ruined the tree. And he pushed him against the useless hair, his shaved head. . . I ran like a crazy m an. And w a l l . " near the house w here my w om an lived w ith the gringo I heard the scream s. "Okay, Okay. You will need to com e to the station and m ake a statem ent"

"Ay! Ay! Ay. M y son's dead. Ay! Ay! Ay! He fell from there, from the top of the refrigerator. The poor thing." "You dirty slut. It w ould have better if you'd never been b o r n .

"Liar! Liar! The gringo killed him . H er m an did it." You cheap nigger w hore. You are the low est level bitch.

"Ay! Ay! Little Eme, he fell from there. No! He didn't do it.

N o t h i m . " "Oh! Oh! Oh my god. Cried a Jam aican w ho had just com e upon the throng of neighbors.

"You lie. Spaw n of the Devil. . You lie bitch!" shouted the n e i g h b o r s . "This cannot be resolved like this!"

I could not get through. The whole world was shouting "They will prove the gringo innocent. You will see. "

indignantly. I w as just a choir of one sorrow ful nigger. The street w as teem ing w ith people. "N o. They will catch him . He ought to have gone to The Zone."

'W hat happened here? Let m e see. "The governor of the Zone should hand him over."

W hat's going on? W hat's the problem here?" The law of Panam a will fail!"

G et him ! G et him ! G et him back! Calm dow n people. The governm ent will reclaim the Canal Z o n e . "

"They killed th e boy." "Yes, because the crim e w as com m itted here. W hen one of us

"N o. He fell from the refrigerator. does som ething there they judge us."

"It's im possible to fall from th e refrigerator." I shouted as they I did not w ait any longer. I ran to the Canal Zone. Lost, yet started to close in on m e, threateningly. totally in control. I w as disheartened but indignant. You all could not understand how I felt. I could not even understand

"Tell m e the truth, you little bitch." it. I didn't understand at all. I returned and hid in a bar. A friend cam e and found m e there, and dragged m e, alm ost by

"It w as the gringo, the gringo did it." I w atched him anxiously. force, to H appy Land, w here they w ere w aiting for my show . I w as drunk. I dressed for the act and w ent out w ith the w hite And, actually, I w as quite relieved. This is the w hole story, suit, the straw hat# the baton and the little black bow tie. Ladies and G entlem en of the Jury. My law yer says that I can save m yself. T hat you, good Sirs, can declare m e innocent. But

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" it doesn't m atter to m e any m ore w hat happens. That night, w hen I killed the gringo I killed m y w hole past: th e m isery, m y

"Sm ile, nigger!" bad nigger's luck, my bastard stepfather, and the gringo w ho disgraced m e. I was at peace. W e are at peace, ladies and

"D ance, nigger! D ance now !" g e n t l e m e n .

"Look at how that colored boy m oves, how he dances. He's W hat does it m atter if a N egro spends th e rest of his life in jail? like a possessed nigger." Karin Killian, w ith a BA in International Studies from DePaul

"Look. It seem s like the nigger is crying." University, is currently serving as a Peace Corps V olunteer in Peru. She m et Dra. M atilde Elena Lopez w hile in El Salvador as

"Laugh, nigger. Laugh you little black C haplin." part of a D ePaul Foreign Study trip in 1997. She has rem ained in touch w ith Dra. Lopez and is at w ork on the com plete translation

"N ow im itate Chevalier." of "C artas a G roza." C ontact her at karinkiH ian@ yahoo.com

"D ance! Dance! Go! Go! G o!" M atilde Elena Lopez: A B rief B iography By Karin Killian

"N o. It's true. H e's being niggardly. He sm iles but it looks like

he's crying." "Todo m i vida se juega en el ano de 1 9 4 4 Dra. M atilde Elena Lopez, a longtim e professor at the N aitonal U niversity of El

"The nigger is drunk!" Salvador and one of El Salvador's m ost renow ned w om en of letters, explained recently, "D e aquí nacieron los cam inos; las

"G et him off the stage! G et him out!" decisiones, la lucha."

Ladies and G entlem en, There w ere just so m any dreadful Born in San Salvador in 1922, Lopez w as a young w om an things racing through my mind. I rem em bered that other w hen she participated in the student m ovem ent wich

Christm as w hen my stepfather hit m e over the head and I w as resulted the term ination of the regime of General

left for dead. I could not escape the fear that Christm as Eve M axim iliano H ernández M artínez in April of 1944. Her

alw ays brings. I knew that som ething bad w as going to happen participation in this m ovm ent w as anything but spontaneous.

to m e I rem em bered my m other crying on the floor. A nd all of As the only fem ale m em ber of the prom inant literary group

these things w here jum bled in my head, my poor head. I w as know n as "The G eneration of 1944," Lopez helped plan the

there, dancing, drunk sm iling and crying. A nd my outbursts of protests w hich eventually led to a coup d'etat, and this event

laughter w ere just endless sobs m eant to entertain he gringos. becam e the inspiration for a long and distinguished life of

W hile one gringo, at the other side of the zone, w as seeking activism and literary excellance.

refuge after. . . M y god! It w asn't possible! A nd I ran out of

there scream ing. A nd, naturally, they fired m e. W ith m ore than 20 titles to her nam e, Lopez has a w ise and distinguished literary voice w hich resonates w ith a clear and

"This nigger is crazy" said the ow ner of H appy Land. echoing intelligence rarely parralelled in any language. Lopez is not only a fine poet and story teller, but also a m asterful

"H e drank a lot. He's a drunk." social critic, and an energetic and accom plished educator. Her cultural labor has ben recognized both in El Salvador and

"That's too bad because the nigger sure does dance w ell." abroad. M any social and cultural oranixations have bestow ed distinctions and prizes upon her. A m ong these prizes stand out

"Too bad, that poor nigger." m ore than 10 first prizes in diverse classes w hich have been aw arded during literary contests in Ecuador, G uatem ala and El

The end of the story, you already know. The gringo was Salvador. And in 1973 Colom bia U niversity aw arded her the

detained in the Zone, that is true, but quickly, in som ething of H arper and Row Prize for Best Latin A m erican short story.

a skirm ish, he w as lost. They didn't anything to him . They said

th at he ran way. H ow is it possible to escape a gringo jail? He D ra. Lopez is still w riting. A nd she prom ises th at th e best is yet

w as w alking around in disguise w hile everyone forgot. And to com e. T hough her w idely varied literary carreer has included

they fixed everything for him to escape. I follow ed the clues, short stories, poem s and plays, she is still aim ing for th e elusive

and I w ent to my friends for help. They told m e that they had novel. "W riters cannot retire," Lopez says. "I w as born w ith a

seen him near the A m erican Embassy, in his traveling uniform . vocation, w ithout a doubt," she says. And there is no doubt

He appeared to be very tranquil, ridiculing everything. The law. indeed, that she will continue to pursue her vociation w ith a

The pain that he had caused m e. My im m ense tragedy. passionate ferver for m any years still to com e.

In a m om ent th at sym bolized all of m y disgrace, I pursued him .

I w ent after him . . . despite of all the om ens and com plexes.

W hat a m an I am . Just like the gringo! Now there is nothing

th at m atters to m e. Yes, ladies and gentlem en, I killed him . A nd

then I w ent to m y room , in Chorillo, to w ait. The blow s echoed.

"You stay detained," they told m e.