Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment

I’m walking around this art museum dedicated to nuestra gente wondering what it means. To claim a culture as one’s own. To belong. These are not the same thing, are they? No se, pero I do know that when the museum employees talk to me I hear the coquí sing, and it’s all I can do not to beg them por favor continúa. Tiene la sangre, me dicen, y lo creo. Their Spanish lilt of bacalao and salt. They might as well be singing, “sana sana, nena” porque all I can smell is mi abuelita: garlic and distinctly latina perfume. All I can do is wiggle my hips a la bomba. All I can do is leando: de las bregas, los revolucionarios… y que fuerte son nuestra gente. I looked in the gift shop for baby clothes. Or anything que dice “Wepa” porque yo necesito más wepa these days. Necesito más de la raza. De mi gente. I sit in the gallery surrounded, soaking it in, and wonder. About belonging. Un empleado cantando in another gallery to light my heart. His bouyant lilt wafting through the rooms to remind me of el amor de vida that is solamente de la isla verde. Y como mi corazón lo necesita.