The unknown boardwalk that holds the story of my life. 

   I grew up on a small island outside of Puerto Rico; Vieques, or ‘‘Biekes, the true name of the island given by the Tainos, the first to settle in this place and call it home. When I was a young child, my biological father was not in my life for the most part, but in his way, he left a legacy in my heart. I remember he would always take me to the beach, specifically “El Malecón” in Vieques, PR, a boardwalk used to transport sugarcane via train, submarines, and the major source of income for most families of local Viequenses. We would have the beach all to ourselves most of the time, he would teach me about living with nature, the stories of our people (Taíno descendants), and how he could hold his breath long enough to get lobsters by hand. By the time I was old enough to understand the world around me, I never realized I was the product of a long, bloody, and hostile takeover; From 1939 until 2003, the US military stole our land, made us lose our identity, closed and contaminated our soil, our water, our spirit, and our souls. “El malecón” was the only place they never touched, after some convincing and understanding, it was our sacred place away from the chaos, the war between natives and “gringos. It gave us a standing ovation every morning when the sun came up to kiss our skin with the warmth of a new day; At night, the sky and sea would combine and give the Milky Way galaxy the entire stage to shine brightly and clearly. It became the only place where everyone was equal, all looking for a cold drink to settle the heatstroke of the hot Puerto Rican summers while forgetting all their troubles. War, hunger, inequality, division, and race were not topics of conversation. The oppressor and the oppressed could share their pains of being puppets to the Grand Master’s mind, dressed in an Uncle Sam costume, could not find out anyone’s true identity when the night took over in “El Malecon”, when the artificial lights would turn on along with loud salsa music playing every corner, we are all the same soul longing to find a home. 

“El Malecón” was and will forever hold a special place in my heart; It watched me grow, held my ancestors’ blood from battle, and carried my dead among the waves and open seas. My Sunday afternoons consisted of walking along the long white sand, the warm salty water and the beating yellow ball on the back of my neck, I stole shells from the shores, I have taken bounties from the great Lord Poseidon and fed my family multiple times, my heart met her death one starry night in the Malecón and I thought I wouldn’t be able to survive and see another day… but here I am, standing again between the sea and the land, the burning sensation of sand under my bare feet, the salty smell of my once home, it strangely welcomes me. I feel the sense of longing for the island I once knew, I sense a fear from not recognizing how the waves crash anymore, the land and the sea don’t speak to me like the used to…the air feels strange, a smell of old gunpowder, iron and sweat covers the mile long path of clear blue waters. The lobsters don’t come to shore anymore, they are hiding. Am I hiding, too? Am I just waiting for the universe to show me the path to find my way back home? Do I have a home? I can feel the breeze grace my cheeks as I stare at the empty boats waiting for their people to drive them into the middle of the “Mar Caribe.” I stare at the night sky, which never fails to amaze me. I thank this place, tho it is small and many will never see it, they never will hear about ‘El Malecón’, my island and my people’s stories, yet this is my home, I am home, it will forever be my home, it doesn’t matter how many fighter jets fill my skies, doesn’t matter how many people leave, until the last seashell is gone from the shores, until I am buried amongst my own.