Memories of Good Friday

 

Memories of Good Friday

 

-Borinquén, a name for pleasant thought

As a memory of a deep love

 

- Doña Lucia, leave the rice and calamari ready. We'll be back around one. If you are hungry, eat up front.

 

We walked from home, passing in front of the school, to the bus stop on 7th Street. It was on the corner of the residence, surrounded by oak trees. There was shade there to protect us from the sun while we waited for the bus. That Friday, my mother, sisters, and the neighbor next door with her children dressed in their best mourning clothes. As far as I can remember, my father or the father of my neighbors never accompanied us. After fifteen to twenty minutes, we heard the distinctive sound of the bus turning the corner of 18th and 7th Streets. It was almost empty, so as soon as we reached the turnstile, we ran to the kitchen, the back of the bus, to sit together. Mom and Doña Virginia took the front left seat. The bus continued along 14th Street, crossing Avenida de Diego and entering the west side of the street. Along the way, we commented on what we were passing by.

 

"That house has a lot of flowerpots; they haven't painted it in years."

"That two-story house is where I went to kindergarten. The teacher was an old lady who used to beat me with her ruler if I did not learn the Phonetic Primer.

"Those guys look like they won the lottery. Look, they have a new car, and they are building a big balcony on the house."

 

The bus left the housing development and continued along the slaughterhouse road. There, a slum rose up, flooding every time it rained heavily. During Hurricane Santa Clara in 1956, they had to take shelter in the school across our street. We looked curiously at the alleys that extended into the mangroves and the rows of houses built on either side. Some of them were made of wood, others were made of blocks still not plastered. We turned onto Highway 2, now called Kennedy Avenue, and continued through mangroves and car dealerships until we noticed the typical smells of the crematorium. Because it was a day off, the fire was not too intense. Fortunately, since on several occasions, one choked on the smoke as one drove past, especially if there were traffic jams. After the crematorium, we crossed over the monumental new Constitution Bridge. Some of us were afraid the bus was going to fall into the water, fearing the Monster from the Black Lagoon or the Giant Octopus from the popular movies might emerge. We stepped onto solid pavement again when we arrived in Santurce. From bus stop eighteen, we continued to Ponce de León, the heart of the city with its numerous movie theaters, the New York Department Store, the Giralda, Fuentes Fluviales, the Bar Association, and some Spanish-style condominiums. It was a wide avenue that was always crowded, especially on Saturdays when we went shopping, and on occasional Sundays when we went to the movies.

 

After crossing the Dos Hermanos Bridge, we landed at the Escambrón River and continued along the Muñoz Rivera River toward Puerta de Tierra. The view became more formal as we took in San Agustín, the National Guard, and the Capitol. Down below was the Peña Pará beach where Dad taught me to swim. We soon reached the old city and stopped in Christopher Columbus Square. In the square, we saw the statue that gave rise to the popular saying "when Columbus lowers his finger," a response to those who expect the impossible. We began our visit.

 

Remember, today is Good Friday, so keep your voice down or they will scold you.

 

With our sad faces, we walked toward Santa Ana. The crowd was lining up to get in. We had to be careful since the church floor is lower than the sidewalk. Could it have sunk? At Santa Ana, we said our first prayer of the day and went to see the statues of saints while our mothers finished their prayers. This church is enclosed; apart from the door, there is no other visible space for air to enter. I felt suffocated inside. We continued to the Chapel of Santo Cristo, where we insisted our mothers retell us the legend that gave rise to it. Next to the silver altar, we could see several old tokens of gratitude for miraculous cures of illnesses.

 

"Hail Mary, how much money must they have spent making that altar in silver, considering all the needs there are in the world."

 

This was Doña Virginia, who wore a large gold medallion of the Sacred Heart, would say every time we visited the chapel.

 

Leaving the chapel, we reached Fortaleza Street and walked fearfully in front of the Santa Catalina Palace, where the armed guard was always present, eyeing everyone who headed to the Chapel of the Nursing Home with suspicious eyes. In the nursing home chapel, the Blessed Sacrament was always in display in it majestic flower arrangements. The chapel was well lit; apart from the central door, it has large side entrances. In the hallway between the chapel and the nursing home, you can enjoy a panoramic view of the entire Bay of San Juan. It is contradictory to have such good eyesight when you are near dead.

 

We continued. Now we walked a good distance up Cristo Street until we reached the cathedral.

 

"Look at that lady, she's ridiculous, she looks like a sack of potatoes." We burst out laughing when we saw a penitent in a habit.

"Be more respectful, it's Good Friday."

 

The lady wore a St. Joseph's habit for a promise. It was more common at that time than it is today. I remember that years later my mother wore one as a promise of something, for Dad's mental health.

 

The cathedral, although crowded with pilgrims, was not crowded. After the prayers, we visited all the altars, br the altar of Saint Pius attracting the most curiosity because it was said that his fingernails grew. We also noticed the tomb of Ponce de León tucked into a wall, which I later learned is denoted as a niche. As we went down the steps of the cathedral, we could see the Puerta de San Juan, through which passengers once arrived in the city and go straight to the church to give thanks or a “Te Deum” for arriving safely after weeks of travel.

 

"Mom, buy us a piragua; it's hot, and I'm tired."

"Wait until we get to San José."

"But there aren't many people here; after that, the ice runs out, like last year."

 

Mom gave in to the request, and Doña Virginia, with a disgruntled expression, commented:

"You guys are always eating that junk because you don't want a sandwich to feed you."

 

Without further ado, we got our way, and they had to buy us all piraguas.

 

Sitting on the benches in the square in front of the cathedral, we enjoyed our piraguas ( ice cones) while watching other families pass by on their way to the different churches.

 

 

We continued toward the Church of San José. The small square in front of the church, where the statue of Ponce de León stands, was fill with street vendors selling soft drinks, piraguas, roasted peanuts, plantains, medals, rosaries, holy cards, prayer books, missals, and scapulars. The church entrance was through the south side door. The main entrance faced the street, but most people came from the small square. San José, although it did not feature miracle-working saints, had a majestic silver altar. At that time, the white interior decoration, with designs like the cathedral ceiling, dated to the 19th century and was neoclassical. Years later, it would was restored to its original state at the beginning of colonial times, eliminating the fascinating decorations that had so impressed us. Beneath one of the chapels was a cemetery, a catacomb, which was a source of curiosity and ghost stories for weeks to come. We descended a dark staircase to a room without ventilation, lit by few candles. We noticed plaques on the walls and floor indicating the name of the deceased, the years of birth and death. A word we did not know the meaning of, but it must have been sacred since it was on almost every tomb: "R.I.P." It was important to be careful where we stepped, because, as Doña Virginia had told us, if we stepped on the deceased, he would come out at night.

 

The sun was already beating down, as it was almost eleven o'clock, so we quickened our pace. We had to be back by noon for lunch and the activities at our community church, la Guadalupe. We quickly entered and left the chapel of the Nursery School, where, according to what we were told, my dad studied as a child. While Mom and Doña Virginia lined up to see the Blessed Sacrament, we took the opportunity to drink water from the fountain and wander around the aisles, peering into the classrooms.

 

Our final stop was at the Church of San Francisco, next to the small plaza with the railing, where even on such a sacred day there were domino players. This time, like previous years, a woman was in the plaza with a little girl in a wheelchair begging. It was a disease that caused her head to grow enormously. It scared us, although we sometimes joked about it. Since I was extremely thin and had a big head for my body, they mocked me, saying I would become like that. The San Francisco Church was uncomfortable, with its steep stairs and tightly packed pews. Besides, because it was the last one, we visited, we were dying of boredom and hunger. There, we always received a scolding or two for our impatience.

 

After the tour, we returned to Plaza Colón to board the bus back. While we waited, they bought us bananas chips to stave off our hunger while we got home.

 

We arrived home at noon. On the way, I arranged with Edwin and my sisters to go to Seven Words at two. At home, lunch was ready by now, and we all sat down at the table. For that special day, most of the food was cooked the day before. There was black rice with squid, diablo-style red beans, Viscaino cod, lettuce and tomato salad, boiled sweet potatoes and bananas, and pickled fish. Once we finished lunch, we helped Mom and Grandma Lucía to clear the table. Next door, Doña Virginia's radio blared classical religious music and choral singing from the government station. We rested for a while while we prepared to continue with the day's ceremonies.

 

My sisters argued over who wanted to iron the dresses. Since it was Good Friday, any kind of work that might offend the Lord was prohibited. Sweeping was like sweeping Jesus; mapping was like wiping a dirty rag over the face of the Crucified One; ironing was like passing a hot iron over the Savior's wounds. El Imparcial newspaper reported on someone who went to harvest yautias, when he cut them, the bleeding image of the Son of God appeared. Therefore, it was impossible to iron.

 

At two o'clock we headed out to the church. We walked down 7th Street, crossing the train tracks, certain that we would not be frightened by its whistle, given the day it was. The streets were silent; everyone was observing the day as if a close relative had died. When we reached the end of 2nd Street, we noticed that the entire area crowded. The Mass was moved to the back patio, where bingo games usually were held, to accommodate the crowd. We stood in the back so that if we wanted to drink water or buy a soda, we would not be disturbing other parishioners. The parish priest, Don Juan Aguilo, dressed in an austere black chasuble, officiated the ceremony. In his homily, he condemned those who killed Christ on the cross and continued to kill him with their sins, predicting eternal punishments and apocalyptic catastrophes for those who did not repent. Our parish priest will always be remembered as a pioneer in communication techniques. He initiated the custom, later adopted by other parishes, of recording the sermon at the 7:00 a.m. Mass. At subsequent Masses, which were still in Latin, the recording was play from the beginning and continued until the offertory. On some occasions, the Masses were so short that the recording continued even as we left the church.

 

Around three in the afternoon, as every year, at the hour of Christ's death, the sky became cloudy, and it began to rain. That year, the procession of the Holy Burial was change to that of Solitude, so everyone was warned that the activity would begin at 7:30 PM. The penitents would arrive earlier to organize.

 

We left the church directly for the movie theater. They were showing the latest Spanish or Mexican version of “Life and the Passion of Jesus Christ”. My sisters, who had met up with neighbors and their friends, went separately because they did not want to babysit. We continued walking down Roosevelt Street and crossed at the intersection with De Diego Street. The theater was half full, so it was easy to grab a seat away from my sisters. We ran into Ana and Silvia, who live in the same street as us, and we sat together. The short films about the upcoming weeks' movies began. Contrary to the solemnity of the day, they showed scenes of rock bands, gang fights, and erotic love scenes. The shorts were an oasis amidst the strict religiosity. Amid them, we gave free rein to our mischief, exaggerating with exclamations over the occasional half-naked leg, scandalous kisses and hugs, and fist-pumping. Once the film began, a deathly silence prevails, punctuated by shouts of condemnation of those who mistreated the Lord, especially the arrest and whipping. There was no shortage of jokers in the audience who mocked the overacting and the unusual nature of some scenes. With the end of the film and the resurrection of our Savior, the atmosphere lessened, leaving us with a sense of relief.

 

In the afternoon, we repeated the escabeche, this time with bread. That night, I had to be there early because the Boy Scout troop was going to participate as penitents in the procession. I quickly dressed and continued alone toward the church, where other troop members were already waiting for me by the back door. Our attire consisted of white tunics and a peaked mask, which I later learned was the same as the one used by the Klu Klus Clan. They provided us with a candle with a translucent frame, each of its four sides bearing an image of the Passion. Around eight o'clock, the procession began. At the front were the penitents with our candles, followed by the respective brotherhoods. The Knights of Columbus carried the coffin with Christ, the Mary’s Daughters represented the women accompanying them, Roman soldiers represented the image of La Soledad, and finally, the parish priest and the altar servers carried the Holy Cross. The procession stretched along Roosevelt Avenue from La Guadalupe to the intersection with Matadero Road. Crowds of people thronged on either side to watch. When we were returning to Ligadora, even as the procession from the church had not even finished leaving. That year, it was one of the most spectacular processions; it was even covered in the newspapers.

 

Around 11:00 p.m., my sisters found me in the crowd, and we returned home, bringing the day's commemorations to a close.

 

April 22, 2011

Toa Baja, Puerto Rico