Death of the Coquí

The Spanish Conquistadors claim to have come to the Americas for many things. Sometimes they say for trade and commerce, for gold, sometimes to learn, sometimes to bring “salvation”. My family believed it was because these outsiders hated their own world. When there was no where else to spread their hate and violence, that is when they came to our island.

My father, my yaya, kept us away from the guamikena, or the foreign people. He said they were dangerous, and not to be trusted. He always said that people who are kind and good hearted do not have to leave their homes to be happy and find satisfaction in life. The longer they stayed, the more that came, the more dangerous they became, the more our lives became like theirs back home. I did not like it.

My mother and father, or itiba and yaya, never let us learn their language. Yaya once heard me using their words, when I was a boy; I will never forget the hate in his eyes, not for me, but for them and what they brought. His eyes spoke of hate. It wasn’t until I was much older when I realized it was more fear than hate. I never spoke their language after that day.

When I was a young boy, the guamikena wore their fine clothes with big smiles, but as I grew older they wore more and more metal clothes, and metal weapons. Nothing we had was as strong as their metal clothes.

We were farmers: we grew our food, we made our own clothes, we made our home from the wood and stone of the land. We had simple lives, easy lives.

None of this mattered the day they stole my family.

Despite their strangeness, the threat they posed on our way of life didn’t become apparent until the day they tore my family apart.

They came early in the day, before the moon left the sky. The men took my itiba away, she screamed more than I had ever heard her scream. I heard the pain, I heard her tears, I heard her fear. Then they took me and yaya somewhere else. We were on the beach watching our friends wearing metal rings around their necks and chains on their hands and feet. I saw what was happening, first a metal neck ring, then get in a line, then be brought to a man behind a table, then wait for someone to scribble something down and point to a ship. There were two ships they kept putting people on. I did not know where those ships were going and I did not want to learn where they would go.

We had a moment, only a short moment to escape. My yaya told me to prepare to run and never look back. The guards were busy trying to separate us in the different ships, then they all started facing the same dicection. We all looked over to the sound of many people walking together. I looked over and saw a group of women coming. I could see the evil smile that grew on the guards’ faces. The men tried to fight back but the guamikena’s metal clothes were too strong, their swords were too sharp. Suddenly, yaya pulled me the other way and said, “Bia (Run)”. He said it with a fear I had never heard before. I have never tried to run so fast in my life. I could see some guamikena behind us trying to catch up. I could hear someone running behind us. My father kept yelling, “Bia! Bia! Mayani tsaya! (Run! Run! Don’t look back! Don’t stop!)”.

When we started he was next to me, then I did not see him, but I knew he was behind me. Then I heard him a little far away. Then his voice was very far away… I knew he was no longer with me.

I ran faster than any guamikena. I ran until my heart hurt, until I could no longer breathe, until I had no strength in my legs, I ran knowing that if I did stop, I would wear the chains.

When I finally stopped, I noticed I was going in the direction of my home. I had to stop myself from going in and trying to find my itiba. I ran past my home and kept pushing myself to go further and further away. I went into the forest, as deep as I could go. Finally, my body told me to stop.

I pushed my head into the plants and grass and dirt and tried to hide my screams, my cries, I could not understand what was happening. I felt ill, I felt as though I would vomit.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I was so weak but jumped as far as I could before anyone would grab me. I turned around and threw a weak fist, but thankfully it was only my friend.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” he said.

“They.. they took… they took my family” I struggled to get the words out of me, I had never felt such pain, such fear. I had no control of my own body, it was fearful of everything and everyone.

“They took mine too. They are taking everyone. We need to keep running.”

I felt pain in my feet, I had run on dirt, on rocks, on wood, on bugs, on everything. My feet needed rest, but I knew I could not stay here. I began walking, and my friend came with me.

I have thought about that day many times. We eventually found safety in a far away village. We told them what happened. We were not the first to come with a similar story. One day the guamikena stopped taking us away. My friend eventually learned their language. He learned their customs, wore their clothes, and adopted their way of life.

I did not.

I held onto what my yaya taught me. Whether right or wrong.

Many of us had similar stories of close encounters with the guamikena. That day was not the first and it was certainly not the last.

I kept running. There came a time when my feet were ugly, broken, and hurt so much I could not stand on them. I would arrive at a village, stay a few days, and then the restlessness would push me to keep going.

At last, I found a place to live, and work. I made my itiba’s food and kept my yaya’s language. I kept their memory alive. But the more I tried, it felt as though the more someone was trying to stop me. The guamikena would end up in the same village as me, but they were no longer taking people. Instead, they were taking our way of life.

When I met the woman who would be my wife, she shared a similar story. Neither of us ever want to imagine what happened to our families. We never spoke about it. All that mattered was that we were safe.

When I married my wife I spoke my yaya’s language everyday, but my children never learned to speak Arawakan. When my son was young, he could copy some of my words but the only word he ever truly learned was yaya. My wife did not want our children speaking the tongue of our fathers and mothers for fear of being taken away. I did not understand how little he understood me until one day I asked him to bring me water. He only looked at me. Confused. Then he began speaking the guamikena’s words. I brought water and he said, “Agua”. He giggled.

Less people spoke it the older I grew. One day as I walked around my community with no one to speak with, I tried to find my friends. All of my generation were gone. Not from capture, but from old age. As I walked around the village, I realized that no one spoke our language, no one wore our clothes, no one followed our old ways.

I was the guamikena.

I did not speak their language, I did not wear their clothes, I did not eat their food, or followed their customs. I could not speak to anyone, and no one could speak to me.

When my wife died, I knew there was no one else I could speak with. She, who I loved and cared for most, had learned the guamikena language.

Now I sit in my home, surrounded by those I know but do not understand. Sometimes my son will say to me “yaya, aqui esta tu cena.” Then he points to food. I know it is for me.

One day my family was playing a game brought by the invaders, it reminded me of a game I used to play as a boy. We called it Batú. There is a ball you cannot touch with your hands. I did not understand the rules of the game, but I knew my grandson had to run. I cheered him on as he ran, “Bia! Bia!” I said it again, “Bia! Bia!”.

I heard my father’s voice as I yelled, “Bia! Bia!”

Then, for some reason, I could not stop.... Bia! Bia! Mayani tsaya!” I started repeating it, my smile was gone, and all I could think about was hearing my father’s voice, I screamed louder and harder. My grandson stopped but I kept screaming, “Bia! Bia! Mayani tsaya!” I kept screaming until I could no longer speak. I kept screaming until it hurt. Even then I could not stop, I cried until my son’s daughter came to care for me.

I am an old man now. Most days, I stay in bed.

I wonder if anyone else still speaks Arawakan. I think about it everyday. I have not heard my language, eaten my food, or seen my culture for many years. But my family is safe. Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat and hear my father still yelling, “Bia!”