The Accidental Native by J.L. Torres Page B

culture?”
    I stared at them like I didn’t know them.
    â€œI can’t believe both of you. Where does this come from and where’s it going?”
    â€œWe’re not opposed to you marrying her, Rennie. God forbid, we would never.”
    â€œBut,” my father interjected, “let’s not be blinded to the differences and what they might mean.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œWill she be willing to raise our grandchildren to know their Puerto Rican heritage?”
    â€œGrandchildren?”
    â€œRennie,” my father again piped up, “ours is an oppressed, colonized people losing its culture and history. We can’t marry and blend and forget our roots. Where will we end up?”
    My mother started crying, to my amazement. “Oh my God,” she said. “What if they turn out to be asimilaos, ashamed of their Puerto Rican grandparents?”
    â€œThen they’ll be just like their father.”
    I snatched my jacket and keys and went for the door.
    â€œYou’re not an asimilao!” My father blocked the door, wagging a finger at me. “We have both taught you about our history, our language,
your
roots. This is a Puerto Rican home, and we’re proud of who we are, and we’ve taught you to be just as proud.” The fierce look scared me—I had never seen it on my father.
    I nodded and looked down. All I could say was “bendición.” “Dios te bendiga,” they both responded, tired and despondent.

Ten
----
    The older professors, the seasoned veterans with thirty years or more, tell me how little faculty members know about each other, even in a college where a tour of the campus takes less than fifteen minutes. How few friends they make in the course of an academic career. They become obsessed with work, with the petty, departmental dramas that lead to breaks from colleagues. The jaded college professor looks out of windows, isolated in the ivory tower of his or her own making. Too tired to extend a hand, too busy to notice or care about their struggling brethren, to chat with anyone other than a fellow committee member out of obligation and necessity.
    I was a bit disappointed at their attitude, but I’d been there only a couple of months and that’s how I felt sometimes. I knew few people other than those in my department, and even then, only a handful that I spoke to.
    â€œCirculate, network,” Julia would tell me. “You don’t go out enough.” A new worry for her: that I was becoming a recluse.
    But the college was not conducive to socializing. Many professors taught and went home—all we needed to complete the factory feeling of the place was a punch clock. When news came about someone from another department who had cancer, it was like news from another front, or some foreign country.
    â€œMigdalia Rosalbán,” Micco said, “over in Business—breast.”
    Micco threw himself into his office chair. He was bothered in that half-agitated, frustrated way. Knowing Micco, he was not so much worried about poor Migdalia, but about being the next cancer victim.
    â€œDon’t drink the water,” he said. I looked at him, surprised.
    â€œI mean it,” he added.
    I recalled what Stiegler had told me, and I asked if that had any bearing on what he was saying.
    â€œBuried ammunitions—toxic shit—before the Army left,” he said.
    â€œBuried? Like right here on campus?”
    â€œWe might be sitting on top of it.” Both eyebrows arched.
    â€œWhy would they do that?”
    â€œWhat normal person understands the minds of fucking militarists?” he said with a smirk.
    With that, he gathered his classroom materials and scooted out the office, leaving me bewildered and a bit worried. He popped his head back in.
    â€œAre we still on for lunch?”
    I stared at him and nodded, remembering that Micco had agreed to drive me around to car dealerships. I had