Spanish Harlem

Eliana Rivera

Spanish Harlem, where you hear loud-ass music, pumps open for little kids. People screaming each other’s names out the window, Eliana, hola, ¿cómo estás?

Turn the corner and see the “thugs” catcalling young girls that wear those tiny summer shorts.

Old men playing cards or dominoes, listening to Frank Ruiz with a Corona in their hand and a cigarette in their mouth.

See the kids pouring out the house with one size 4 sandal and the other a size 10, running for that Mr. Softee truck.

A bunch of old women in the front talking shit in Spanish about the girls that wear their shorts too short with their crop tops too tight. Ella es demasiado joven para eso, no dejaría que mi hija usara eso o en mis días nunca usé eso. We know it’s a lie We all know they dressed like that in their twenties.

Some lady walking by, on speakerphone, Talking about how her baby daddy doesn’t help her with her kids and doesn’t pay child support. Interesting and annoying at the same time.

The nosy people sticking their head out the window or climbing out onto the window to hear an argument or a fight. The fire escape either full of plants or a big Puerto Rican flag. Wind’s blowing both.

People dancing in the middle to Marc Anthony. Romeo Santos at the corner store. If you cool with the guy or he knows your parents, he’ll give credit. Hear the icy man screaming, “Coco, mango, cherry, rainbow!” Kids running to him if they had a dollar in their pocket.

Spanish Harlem.