The Long Train Ride Down from Cardinal Spellman to East Harlem

I recall the day of my first visit as vividly as if it occured yesterday. I was going to the Young Lord’s office in East Harlem.  Four decades later and I still remember the address: 1678 Madison Avenue, between 111th and 112th Street. I knew the neighborhood and I knew that block too. My aunt and uncle had moved years before to the new housing projects, Lehman Village Houses, on 108th Street and Madison. My six cousins and I would roam those streets, running through La Marqueta on Park Avenue, swinging down Madison, past the street vendors and the junkies on the corner.

But this was a special day. It was Friday December 12, 1969. I had promised Daoud I would be there after school to join his organization about which I knew very little. Yet it felt right, I felt good about this decision. I had spent two nights thinking about it and wondering what it would be like to be a Young Lord, to be a Puerto Rican warrior just like the Taino Indians Daoud spoke about at Spellman.

I left Cardinal Spellman High School, heading down the hill, on that bitter cold day towards the Baychester Avenue subway station. That short walk turned into an eternity as I  was consumed in thoughts. I entered the  train. My mind raced through different scenes about how I would be received.

Would they accept a 16 year old? I had forgotten to ask Daoud if the Young Lords had age limits.

Do I go home and change into my street threads or do I go directly to their office looking like Clark Kent in my Catholic school dress clothes? I chose not to go home lest I get caught by my mother. She would be returning from the factory at the same time the my train would be pulling into 103rd Street and Lexington Avenue. She would stop me for sure. And I dared not lie to her again.

I slumped into a two seat bench at the end of the subway car, a place I always chose in case I had to fight my way out, easier to exit through to the doors or  escape between the subway cars.  But today, the ride took on a different significance. For today I would be joining a Puerto Rican group for the first time in my life. I was filled with excitement, fear, and trepidation as I thought about what to expect.

I imagined a group of battle-hardened men dressed just as Daoud: combat boots, purple berets and green field jackets. I saw them milling around outside the office looking at me strangely as I approached from across the avenue. In my fantasy, the men would stand in front of the door blocking my entrance. They would stare at me with the menacing eyes of street toughs, giving me the glances and looks that I knew all too well from my own escapades as a14 year old gang member with the Devil’s Angels. In this scene, I would stand, stare back hard allowing the silence to create a moment of tension broken by just one word, “Daoud”. I would utter his name with the confidence and courage of someone who had already stared death in the face. If these were true warriors , inheritors of the Taino legacy Daoud talked about in his speech, they would recognize the warrior in me and let me through the door.

Or would they?