James Daniel Nelson

Alcapurrito

My mother held my sweaty little seven-year-old hand extra tight so I couldn’t wriggle free. I desperately wanted to join the “bad” kids in their unruly game of tag, weaving up, down, and around the aisles and pews of the church. I watched as my friends, dressed in their Sunday clip-on ties and bright, flowery dresses, whooped and hollered until adults waded into the fray. After a few twisted ears, the games came to a halt, but the giggling and arm-punching continued.
Most of the adults shuffled up the center aisle, fans fluttering and Bibles in hand. They clustered around the red double doors of the exit, which opened onto 112th Street. It was not much cooler outside. The noon sun made the air heavy. Men quickly loosened their ties and opened the top few buttons of their shirts. Women just had to suffer.
Mom stood on tippy-toes and craned her neck, trying to look over the heads of the crowd.  At 5’2” and wearing flat shoes, she was wishful thinking 
The church was more crowded than usual; there were visitors from Iglesia Macedonia. where Mom had first accepted Christ. She’d worshipped there before switching to La Quinta Iglesia de Dios Pentecostal shortly after I was born.  
Her eyes were bright, wide, and sparkling. The smooth skin of her face took ten years off of her. She reminded me of pictures I’d seen of young women waiting excitedly for their husbands and boyfriends to disembark from ships that brought them home from that war.  
She suddenly began to wave wildly. I saw nothing but bellies, but I could tell she’d spotted whoever she'd been looking for. Soon, a tall man in a nondescript grey suit parted the crowd like an ice-breaker. There was a smile under his mustache, a mouthful of white teeth between full cheeks. With a little shout, Mom pulled me. I had a chance to cast the briefest of glances back at my friends, who’d resumed their game of tag. I half-heartedly resisted Mom’s pull for just a second.  Any harder, and I risked the withering Mom face, which wouldn’t be good for anyone. 
The man drew Mom into a big embrace, into which she all but disappeared. He stood about a foot over her, her head resting just under his chin. Then they parted, but he held her at arm’s length.
“Hermana Boria!” His voice boomed above the din of the crowd behind him. “I’m so glad I got to see you! " he said in Spanish. His big face matched his big frame, topped with close-cropped hair that was nicely going grey. He was the only man I could see who hadn’t loosened his tie. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. 
“Oh,” Mom answered, beaming. “Praise God that you came by today! Did you enjoy the service?”
He nodded, “I felt the Spirit move this morning. The sermon was powerful. Pastor Ortiz is a great man of God. I’m glad you found a home in his church.”
“Oh yes, I love it here, " she replied.
They continued in Spanish, and I didn’t understand much. Despite my heritage and upbringing, my Spanish was - and remains - horrible.
Finally, he looked down at me as I fidgeted. Mom held me in place by the shoulders in front of her, as if offering me up for inspection, which, I guess, was exactly what she was doing.
He looked down at me, and his brow furrowed, his lips pursed.  
In heavily accented English, he said, “And is this little Alcapurrito?” I turned to look up, questioningly, at my mother, but she was still smiling. She laughed and held me out so he could get a better look at me. He bent down so his eyes were just over mine and held a finger under my chin so I would meet his gaze,
“And are you being a good boy?” He asked gravely “Listening to your mother?”
“Yes,” I squeaked, and Mom squeezed my shoulder hard
“Yes, sir.” I quickly corrected.
“Good.” He said. “Listen to your mama. Remember, God is watching you and me too. If you’re bad, I come back and bite your nose.” He gave my nose a little tweak
“Yes, sir,” I replied, a little relieved but still nervous. I knew God was watching me. Mom said so every night when she put me to bed. No one ever said anything about nose-biting.
He stood up, and they continued their conversation. I took that as my cue to slip away, and this time, Mom let me go. I didn’t immediately join my friends and their games, though. I didn’t move more than a few feet away, and I watched them talk. I was a little confused; I was accustomed to nicknames -  I was commonly known as Blackie to most of my friends because I was the only dark-skinned kid in church. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t stop them, not without fighting, and I was decidedly not a fighter. 
Some of the people who struggled with English tended to mispronounce my name. It was Eugene back then, Eugene Boria. But for some of them, it was “Lugene.” Even my mom had a hard time pronouncing my name She called me “Jew-gin,” so she decided to go with “Nene.” It was easier to say and less embarrassing.  
“Alcapurrito” was a new one for me.  
As I had been taught, I held my tongue and waited until they hugged again. Before he rejoined the throng, he looked down and said, “Don’t forget; we're watching you.” He ruffled my short, nappy head and disappeared into the crowd. 
Mom knelt to tuck my shirt into my pants. “We walk home today,” she said, and we plunged into the crowd.

***

We walked down Lexington Avenue, with the sun casting our shadows right beneath us, thankful for the occasional breeze. As we walked, she told me about the man in the grey suit in slow Spanish so I’d understand.
“That man,” she said, “was Hermano Gutierres, my old pastor at Macedonia. I used to go there before you were born. God, it feels like such a long time ago. 
“Anyway, that’s where I learned to make pastelillos and those little donuts you like, but my favorite thing to make was alcapurias.  They were everybody’s favorite. When I made them, people used to line up to get one.
“But the kitchen was tiny, much smaller than La Quibta’s. There was no room to cook and no place at all to keep you. So, my little table had a shelf in the bottom, and that's where I used to keep you in your little basket. One day, Pastor Gutierrez came into the kitchen and saw you there. He said something like, ‘Mira! Alcapurrito!” And soon, everybody was calling you that until we moved to La Quinta.”
I was horrified, relieved that the name hadn’t followed me and that none of the other kids heard Pastor Gutierrez call me that. Blackie was bad enough, I thought. Alcapurrito would send me over the edge.

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No one ever called me Alcapurrito. I was blackie until I was old enough to stand up for myself, and even then, I was Blackie behind my back. In time, I became somewhat respected as one of the church musicians, inured to the hurtful nickname.  But it occurs to me that I started my religious life as that baby under a table in the kitchen of La Macedonia. Blackie notwithstanding, I was once Alcapurrito, born destined to worship God and peeking out from under a kitchen table, wondering what the hell was going on.