Johnny’s in America

Johnny looks up at the stars

Johnny combs his hair

And Johnny wants pussy and cars

Johnny’s in America

Johnny’s in America

I’m afraid of Americans

I’m afraid of the world

I’m afraid I can’t help it

I’m afraid I can’t

I’m afraid of Americans

I’m afraid of the world

David Bowie, I’m afraid of Americans

In early February 1995, after being exempted from military service, I traveled with my parents to my aunt’s home in Atlanta. Violeta, my father’s older sister, had recently lost her husband to lung cancer. A few months earlier we had decided that I would take an intensive English course at Mercer University, which was very close to my aunt’s neighborhood, and when we learned of uncle Raúl’s death my parents joined the trip to accompany my aunt in her mourning. 

The winter and spring months of that year were my first exposure to real cold, which my allergic rhinitis did not take well, and to a relative who was not willing to do everything for me. I went from “only child” to “shared nephew”—a title I shared with my aunt’s grandchildren—and had to assume a slightly adult life. I emphasize on “slightly.” The transition and the learning were as gentle as this first phase of adulthood was light. I learned what cold weather really is, a cold that burns and hurts the inside of your nose and chest, that numbs your hands and passes through your clothes, not our gentle savannah cold; I learned what the tail of a hurricane feels like, with strong winds and bursts of water whipping in all directions for hours on end; I learned to operate two types of lawnmowers and to haggle second-hand tickets at the entrance of a concert; I kissed a Polish girl with beautiful gray blue eyes and I learned that, even in the last decade of the twentieth century, as a Hispanic, I should never enter an establishment flying a confederate flag. In Mercer’s library I found Ubu Roi by Alfred Jarry and the Chants of Maldoror by the Count of Lautreamont for the first time. To say that I understood most of it would be a lot for English Reading 3.

Raúl Peña, my aunt’s recently deceased husband, was a handsome and amusing Cuban-American whose family had emigrated to Queens decades before Castro chased Batista out of the island and Cuba stopped being both casino and brothel overnight. Not that things actually improved, especially now that the island's days seem to be numbered. Raúl spoke English, his native language, with a New York accent. His Spanish, learned at home, oozed of Cuban expressions (coooño… ahí viene la guagua…) with a slight English accent. He had a knack for entertaining children, which, I suppose, was the reason he owned toy stores for a long time. When I was little we played cowboys and indians, I would shot with my imaginary pistol and he seemed to have this gift for knocking down, at astounding speeds, the objects I targeted. In our routines toothbrushes, toothbrush glasses, alarm clocks and ties would fly up and about. Almost everything was made of plastic or fabric, nothing ever broke. Raúl never had children but raised Elizabeth Frugone as his own, she was the daughter of my aunt Violeta and her previous husband. Elizabeth died of melanoma a couple of days before I was born.

Violeta and Raúl were a model couple. Both were good-looking, they were good hosts and they liked to entertain their friends at home. While living with her in Atlanta, my aunt told me that Raúl, Elizabeth and herself had moved to California in the late sixties. The purpose of the trip had been to show my uncle’s casting portfolio to some film studios with the intention of starting a career in Hollywood. The dream didn’t last long. Apparently one of his agents tried to get fresh with him and suggested that with a face like his a simple sexual favor could take his portfolio straight to a renowned studio’s chief executive; he’d become the new Desi Arnaz in no time. Like a good Cuban, my uncle was a convinced Reaganite and flatly refused the offer. This issue turned out to be pretty much endemic to Hollywood and has recently reemerged in the sexual abuse cases of Harvey Weinstein and Kevin Spacey. Even if my uncle’s acting career did not pan out, the family lived near Los Angeles for almost a decade. Their photo albums of that time had that surreal quality that results from the combination of Hawaiian shirts, Tiki asthetics, and Disneyland.

As the weather improved in Atlanta and my allergy to the winter cold gave way to another, thankfully less aggressive, caused by pollen, my shared nephew chores began to move from the inside to the outside of the house. After a brief training by Gerardo, a Mexican worker who helped my aunt with the garden, I started mowing the lawn on my own and carrying wheelbarrows full of organic waste to the compost bin. Late in the summer, during my week off at Mercer, my aunt decided it was time to clean the garage. We dedicated four days to a task that, apparently, had been postponed for years, probably since she and Raúl had moved to Atlanta. We took out dozens of bags and garbage boxes, which had to be dragged up the long slope of the driveway. I never said anything to my aunt but among the refuse I found a small stack of Playboy magazines that had surely belonged to my uncle, they dated from the sixties and seventies and were in very good shape. By the hormonal standards of a teenager, I had struck gold. Of course, I “saved” them from a sad ending in the city incinerator, or a landfill. A quarter of a century later I still have them, although I am afraid to say that having been exhibited as an editorial treasure, a token from another era, the sun has done its work and they are no longer in such good condition.