Morir sonando,Jose Rodriguez'12

by jose rodriguez'12

I met Mario during the blizzard that paralyzed New York. A bath of snow came down on the city; the flakes covered the whole landscape. Each flake held what we called the "newcomer disease," the crisis in confidence that could break down and reshape identities. When the snow fell, we Dominicans were especially at risk-this weather was foreign and unaccommodating. City-dwellers lack the option of skiing, and making a snowman was beyond our age. We thought we were too "cool" for those things anyway.

Mario befriended me through a mutual friend, Maicol Moreno. Mario had just arrived; he had never seen the flakes. The day of the blizzard, Maicol and I made our usual stop at Pablo's Grocery Store, bringing Mario along. Maicol and I grabbed two Powerades, anticipating our inevitable thirst during the upcoming basketball game. Mario, went for a morir sonando (a mixture of milk and orange juice), which, literally translates to: to die while dreaming." Mario went ahead of us,asking Pablo if he could buy on credit, a typical practice in the Dominican Republic.

Pablo responded warmly, "Mi hijo aqui no se vende

asi."

Maicol whispered,"Did Pablo actually just call Mario son?"

Yes," I responded. The sign over the counter read,

irksrt

Today we don't sell on credit, perhaps tomorrow. "Maicol," I pointed to the sign,"it's in English. Mario did not understand it."

We paid for Mario and left the store, making a path through the six inches of accumulated snow that waited outside. While we walked, Mario drank his morir sohando. The weather was so cold that it cut our skin, but Mario walked in defiance of the wind, his jacket unbuttoned, as if he were superior to the cold. Our shoveling job was going to be a challenge, so we decided to pass through a friend's house to borrow three shovels.

The basketball court was submerged in soft white snow. It seemed that clearing it would be a simple task. We divided the court into three sections. Maicol

and I gave Mario the easiest section. As Mario began to shovel, he cleared the top layer without much trouble. Maicol and I had troublesome sections filled with

rough ice and we observed in envy how painless Mario's task was.

Mario drank his morir sohando, the precious liquid that reminded him of home and gave him strength. As Mario drank the last drop, his section of the court revealed a layer of hard ice. Mario dug at it for an hour. With each minute came a change of expression, a change of posture, and a change in the way he held the shovel. At first, Mario had held the shovel with strength, firmness, and determination. As the time and struggle progressed, he held it with weakness, his authority challenged by the ice. Finally, Mario dropped the shovel.The ice was consuming his hands with frost bite. He slumped, head down, hands in his pockets. These were all symptoms of the "newcomer disease," and we witnessed Mario's surrender to it.

We did not play the game. Maicol and I had cleared our side, but Mario had given up, infected by the disease that was brought by the snow. It challenged his drive, corrupted his will, and contained his strength. We all walked home differently after our experiences on the basketball court that day. Maicol stepped with confidence on the ground; I walked with disappointment, unhappy with the day's events. But Mario sauntered, thug-like, down the street. It was the effect of the disease: he had to compensate for his earlier failure, frustration, and embarrassment.

Dominicans move to our neighborhood with confidence, character, and values; but the disease can

change them. Some survive, others are immune, but some surrender to it entirely. It erases their will, their drive. It fills them with embarrassment and frustration.

It turns them into a stereotype of machismo. That day, the disease had become visible in Mario the moment

that he had zipped up his coat.