The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano by Sonia Manzano Page A

feelings were causing inside of me.
    The arrests and the rally finally convinced our rubber-lipped pastor to at least grant the Young Lords a meeting after the service. When I got to the church, the tension was thick. It felt like a crazy person tightening a guitar string tighter and tighter, not stopping when he or she should have. Daring the string to snap, pop, put somebody’s eye out.
    It had taken arrests, broken arms, and a rally to get them to agree to a meeting. Certainly something good was going to come of this. It had to.
    At the church I sat by Abuela. If she could sense the battle going on in my heart, she said nothing. There were thirty Young Lords, about a hundred people who were on the side of the Young Lords, and eighty or so regular parishioners. Toward the end of the service, a Young Lord got up and said, “We did not come to ask for money; we only ask for the use of space in this church.” At least eighty people got up and left immediately, muttering.
    â€œÂ¡Ave María purísima!” said one parishioner, clearly fed up with everything. “Hail Mary to the purest!”
    â€œÂ¡Déjense de eso!” cried another. “Forget this nonsense.”
    â€œNo sean ridículos,” said a third. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    And my heart dropped. My mother had looked so empty, and lost, and tired from making the pasteles , and we had never been so far apart, and for what? I put my head in my hands and almost started to cry, when Abuela said gently:
    â€œLook.”
    I looked up and my heart soared up as quickly as it had dropped. Though many had left, at least a hundred and twenty people had stayed. When the Young Lord realized everyone he was speaking to was already on his side, he left for the meeting with the pastor.
    â€œGood,” Abuela whispered to me. “Time for some action.”
    We sat. Every second that passed was like a turn of the guitar screw. Everybody talked in fervent hushed tones that created a buzzing sound. Migdalia came over to us.
    â€œWhat do you think?” she said, her eyes darting around nervously. “Do you think the Young Lords will get their way?” she asked, sitting down.
    â€œI hope so,” I said. “What’s the big deal?” I added weakly. “All they want is space to run a day care. You’d think they wanted to use the church for something illegal.”
    â€œI know, dig it, that’s what I was thinking, too. It’s not like they are trying to take over the world,” she said, rolling her eyes.
    Angel came to us. “Hey, how come everybody’s still here?”
    â€œWe’re waiting to see how the meeting turns out,” I said.
    â€œWhat meeting?”
    That made us all laugh, breaking the tension a little bit.
    â€œAngel, I’ll tell you later, okay?” I said.
    Our laughing relaxed the little kids in the church. They giggled and started to run around.
    â€œCareful, you kids. You don’t want to trip and break your faces, do you?” It was Wilfredo. He was wearing a beret. He had become a Young Lord in training.
    We sat and waited.
    â€œDon’t worry,” said Abuela. “The spirit of Pedro Albizu Campos is with us.”
    At the sound of his name, people around us perked up and started talking all at once.
    â€œAlbizu Campos! Seguro que sí. ”
    â€œUn gran hombre.”
    â€œA great Nationalist!”
    â€œHe used to say, ‘The motherland is valor and sacrifice,’” said Abuela. And then she gathered all her strength and said it in Spanish: “La patria es valor y sacrificio.”
    Abuela should’ve been an actress , I thought.
    â€œDidn’t he go to Harvard?” somebody asked.
    â€œOf course. Where else do you learn about freedom all over the world and all those things?” said Abuela.
    Everybody laughed.
    She continued. “People were protesting just like we are now when they were shot at by