Richie Narvaez

Learn How to Dance the Salsa!

Let’s start with the basics. Listen, sweetheart, I was born with three left feet—let me put it that way. If I can learn to do the salsa, so can you.  

First, the lead (usually the man—you know how it is), he steps forward with his left foot, and the follower, his partner, you step back with your right. You both keep, like, a light hold on each other—think about it like holding a baby, you know, not grabby grabby like one of those mamabichos with mucho manos, sabes?

Salsa is all about rhythm, you feel me? Keep that in mind, and the music is gonna guide you. Be patient and you’ll learn.

I first started—oh my god, has it been so long? It was that night, the night with La Suegra and what happened with Mami’s boyfriend. Oh my god, that was a bad night. 

I mean bad night not just ’cause this doctor—this salsero of a doctor, believe it or not, oh my god, what happened to him!

And not just ’cause Mami, God have her in heaven, never really got over that night. 

And not just ’cause what happened to La Suegra, God have her in heaven. 

And not even ’cause what happened to me ’cause what I seen in front of my own eyes. Believe me, I ain’t trying to get an ¡Ay bendito!

Okay, again. When I go forward, you go back. It’s simple. Go back! 

Now you got it!

No, that was a bad night for the family. Matter of fact, for everyone in the building. For the entire block, to be honest. 

That night was like a song you can’t get out of your mind, you feel me? It plays and plays—Pom pom pa! Pom pom pom pom! Pom pom pa!—even today, you know, like forty freakin’ years later. Now you’re getting it!

* * *

Okay, before you get all fancy, you gotta find that beat. The count is one-two-three, pause, five-six-seven, pause. I’m the man, so I’m leading, so I say what steps come next. Not literally say, you know? I don’t want to be calling out, “Left! Right! Side-step! Spin!” God, imagine all the men on the dance floor yelling. Oh my god!

Hah! That night I got started dancing, Mami was yelling. Every five minutes it was “Pa’, poneme El Gran Combo.” “Pa’, pone el disco con Johnny Pacheco.” 

This is, like, Christmas Eve ’77, ’78, something like that. I don’t like to give my age. It’s not that I care what you think, no worries. I just don’t like to think about it. 

Oh man, Mami loved her music, but around Christmas time it was salsa 24/7. And it was my job to play DJ. Ten-year-old me. She had trained me to change the records, put the needle down just the right way. “Don’t escratch mis discos, mi amor! No lo escratch it!” And that night I wasn’t allowed to move five feet from the record player.

We had just moved to the Clemente projects, which was brand spanking new then. Brand spanking!

I bet you didn’t know that eight thousand Hasidic Jews had went to City Hall to stop us Puerto Ricans from moving there. Eight thousand! Why? Exactly! I guess they didn’t want us living close to them, like we was some kind of poison. Ow!

Anyway, yeah, when you’re the follower, don’t try to anticipate, like you just did. You gotta trust me. I’m the man. I’m your partner. And, if you step on my toes, it might throw me off. But we just laugh it off, right? Happens all the time. Okay, so—

So, unlike our tiny, tiny place on Berry Street, these projects was nice, yo—I’m talking about back then, not now—the heat was good, the water came out clear, and outside the window we could see the Statue of Liberty. Beautiful!

Yeah, there was a room for each of us, Mami and my sister Josie and my brother Miguel and me. Well, I had to share with Miguel, but he was gonna be leaving soon. Josie, too, but that’s another story. This was our primero Christmas in Clemente, and I was as happy as I got back then, like, Saturday morning cartoon happy. “If we can count on you, Scooby-Doo . . .”

I remember that day, the radiator clinking, clanking, going ssss ssss ssss like Satan had snuck hisself in there. Sssssatan! Hahaha! But that was like a note under that melody, tu sabes? The melody, that came from every goddamn record we had in the house. 

* * *

So now you gotta move side to side. Like that, yeah. The lead, that’s me, steps to the left with the left foot, right with the right, and left again, sabes? You don’t think. That’s the man’s job. You just mirror me, understand? 

Now, back to that day: you gotta understand, Christmas is THE MOST PUERTO RICAN TIME OF THE YEAR. The fact this shit went down on Christmas Eve was the worst thing that could happen. Listen to me when I tell you we were not the type of Puerto Ricans who had cops at the house every night. Not like them titeres over on Sur Tres. The cops and the movies and the newspapers all made out like Puerto Ricans was drug addicts, gang members, or FALN. Yeah, Papi died by violence, not by gangs but by a bullet in Viet Nam. We as a family, we was moving on up. Junior was in the Air Force, Miguel was a year away from finishing high school before going on to the Navy. And I was doing well in fifth grade. My teachers used to love me. And my sister, Josie, well, Josie was being Josie, but she wasn’t no criminal, not then nor ever.

Mami held down three jobs to fill our bellies with arroz y pollo y leche y cereal and pay the rent. One of her jobs was at the clinic on Broadway. Which was where she met the fucking salsero doctor.

I had gone into Mami’s room and saw that she was going through this giant maleta she kept by the bed, where she had all this junk she had that she didn’t use or people gave her, you know. Whenever someone came over by surprise, Mami would dig in there and bring out something and wrap it, so that whoever came would feel like they got remembered. People would always appreciate it, you know. I saw that she was wrapping this little perfume set, so I said, “Who’s coming?”

“La Suegra.”

“But why?” I asked.

“’Cause she called me and I invited her. Why you gotta ask why?”

“She never comes for Christmas. And I bet she won’t bring us any presents.”

My mother made her pshhh sound.

I said, “No hay cama pa’ tanta gente.”

My mother made her pshhh sound again and said, “Hay todo. Hay cama. Hay comida. Estamos echando pa’lante? Right on? Right on!”

Mami asked me where my sister was ’cause she needed help with her makeup and Josie was the best. 

I told her that Josie didn’t come back yet.

Mami said, “Pa’, listen when I tell you: when you have kids, don’t have no daughters. They ain’t worth the trouble.”

Oh, you have two daughters? God bless them.

* * *

Now you gotta add a little flair. Here’s where it gets fun. Try a right-hand turn: step forward with your left, pivot, bring your right shoulder back, turn. Ladies, you step back with your right, then pivot to follow your partner’s lead. Keep it smooth. 

Salsa is all about showing off without looking like you’re trying.

Mira, La Suegra was one of Mami’s oldest friends from PR. Her name means “mother in law,” but she wasn’t my mother’s mother-in-law. I knew that then. She wasn’t anyone’s mother-in-law from what I knew. I didn’t learn the truth of everything later. A lot later. 

She visited maybe two, three times a year. She and Mami would talk and drink coffee in the kitchen for hours. This lady always wore black dresses, and this lacy black shawl. Don’t ask me why. To me she always lookeded like the lady on my mother’s soap, you know, the Maja soap that came in the black and red paper, from Spain Spain.

So I’m there switching records and I hear this very light knock on the door. I wouldn’t heard nothing if I hadn’t been switching records. 

I opened the door and there she was. “So handsome,” La Suegra said to me, touching my face. “Your mami here?”

Of course, Mami was there. It was Christmas Eve. Where she gonna be—the freaking Island of Misfit Toys, you know what I mean?

But I said, “She’s getting ready.”

La Suegra glided into the apartment like she was on some magic carpet. Our Christmas tree was lit up and twinkling, and she said, “Que bella” and went straight to the kitchen. I followed ’cause the way I was brought up I was taught you had to take care of your guests.

She said, “Nene, bring me some water.”

So I got her a glass of water.

She said, “Nene, bring me a potato chip.”

So I went to the living room and made her a little paper plate of potato chips. When I brought it to her, she said, “No, just one,” and she slid one, just one, out of the pile. “You have the rest, nene. Y toma.”

And she went into her purse and pulled out a strawberry candy.

I should tell you that La Suegra and I, we had, like, an incident before that, when I was seven. She had asked me to sit on her lap and I was like, sure, whatever. Pero like she kept stroking my face and stroking my face and saying what a pretty baby I was, and I said, “I’m not no baby. Let me go. Let me go.” So I avoided her for a couple years. This was the same year she started bringing strawberry candies, and I was a sucker for those strawberry candies. A quién le amarga un dulce, right?

Anyway, so then Mami came into the kitchen, her hair in rollers, and she kissed and hugged La Suegra, and put on the percolator to make some coffee. And they start chatting like chickens, pok pok pok.

Now, I make her seem like a strange lady but I likeded her ’cause of how Mami acted when she was around. Mami loved reminiscing about the old days, back in Guanica. It made her happy, you know, thinking about back in the day.

But that day, when they was talking, I kept hearing “Josie this,” “Josie that.” My Spanish wasn’t so good, so I missed a lot, but I did catch “degracia’o”—that means “disgrace”—and “debería”—“should,” you know. I was just sitting there listening. They didn’t pay me no mind. Mami knew I wasn’t waiting in that hot room to eavesdrop.

You see, if you know a Puerto Rican household on Christmas Eve, you know that a giant piece of pork has been in the oven since four in the morning, and that by this time—say, ten in the morning—the smell of pernil was filling every room. Its flavor was everywhere. I mean, you coulda probably licked the walls and tasted pernil.

At this point Mami would usually be constantly checking on the pernil, sticking a fork in its side and taking out a little bite to try. She would take one for herself, and if I was a good boy, she would hold out a chunk of it, juicy and hot from the oven, and say, “Pruébalo.”  

But I just sat there, a Starving Marvin. 

From her tiny purse, La Suegra pulled out a small gift for my mother. She said it was for Merry Christmas. It was a small, not wrapped: a little plastic key holder that you nail next to the door. We had one already! I mean, I knew I wasn't gonna be getting any Big Jim action figure or Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots set from her. But when you’re a kid you want every present to be for you.

* * *

Let’s try that again. You know, this dance is more than just the steps. It’s history. It’s Puerto Rican soul. Salsa came out of Afro-Cuban rhythm and jazz, and it was truly born in New York City’s Latin clubs back in the day. It’s spicy, yes, but bittersweet too, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, it lookeded like Mami was going to be talking too much to test the pernil, so I wandered back to the living room to flip the record. Hour or so later, people started to show up. Mami had invited people from down the hall. She had invited people from church and her work. Most important, she had invited Titi Magda, who lived in Brownsville, and her daughter, my cousin Rita, who always came with her best friend Sophy. They were hippies and they lived in the Village in the City. Those girls had brought a bottle of Vat 69, and they opened it as soon as they got there. They’re mixing drinks and right away, Rita asked me, “Where’s Miguel?”

“Working till midnight.”

“And your sister?”

I shrugged. “Not here.”

Rita and Sophy took turns teasing me about my clothes. Rita said, “It’s so funny to see you with your pants on, negro. When you were little, you always hated to have your pants on but now you’re practically a big man.”

Sophy askeded me, “So what are you interested in?”

I told her I like drawing and that someday I wanted to be a drawer. 

She said, “Like an artist? A painter?” 

I said, “I guess. Maybe.”

But I ended up as a DJ, so go figure, right? Kid’s dreams!

Anyways, Cousin Rita was always sweet to me, and I kind of had a crush on her roommate, who always smelled like vanilla, so when the next song came on and Sophy came up to me again, smelling like vanilla and Vat 69 and something else I later realized was weed, and she asked me to dance again, she said, “Come on, Hector,” and I said, “Yeah. Okay.”

She took my hands, put one of her shoulder and another on her hip. “I’m gonna lead,” she told me. “That means you follow the way I move, okay?”

I didn’t know exactly what she meant. But I was more hoping she couldn’t feel the palms of my hands sweating.

“Just listen for the beat now.”

Pom pom pa! Pom pom pom pom! Pom pom pa!

“Quick quick slow, Hector. That’s it. That’s it.”

“You got it. You got it.

“He’s a regular salsero. Miralo.”

I was about to put on the second side when the doorbell rang. 

Guess who it was? It was freaking Santa Claus!

* * *

You got lost there for a minute, right? That happens. If you ever lose where you are, just take a basic step. Like taking a deep breath you’re really aggravated. I step forward with my left foot; you, step back with the right. Asi! Smile! Smile as you go through it, even if you’re sweating through your shirt como un aguacero.

So, like I was saying, the doctor had showed up dressed up as freaking Kris Kringle. I know! I know! Can you believe it? He had the whole nine yards, the hat, the big, baggy red suit, the beard. But he had on loafers. Good for him it wasn’t snowing outside. But, really, who did he think he was impressing?

I could smell him before the doorbell rang, even over the smell of the pernil. Brother, he used to wear so much cologne you knew when he walkeded in the building ten floors down. This man had to stay away from open flames, you know what I mean? I don’t wear that brand of cologne to this day ’cause of that. To this day.

Mami’s nose worked as good as mine and she came out the kitchen and flew to the door like it was the frikkin’ Publishers Clearing House with a giant check.

Santa—Severiano was his actual name—he had two big Macy’s bags filled with presents. Right away my mother was like, “Macy’s! You didn’t have to!” 

You know, Macy’s was the good store back then, so she was impressed. Like I said, Mami had got this job at a medical clinic, and this guy was one of the new doctors. He asked Mami out right away, and they started going out almost every weekend. Let’s be honest, she also loved the fact that he was a doctor. We had just moved to the new place, but I’m sure she had her eyes on the prize, a house in the suburbs, you know what I mean. American Dream.

Mami took the Macy’s bags—and my eyes were locked on them, waiting to see, “So what did this motherfucker buy me to try to get me to like him?”—and she was headed for the tree, but Big Santa grabs her by the arm and pulls her to the center of the room to dance. “Baby, it’s our song.”

“Our song!” my mother said, giggling like she was fourteen.

I don’t know what was worse—this guy calling my mother “Baby” or her giggling like a little girl. 

I can’t remember what song it was. I think I had on Asalto Navideño Vol. II. I honestly don’t remember much about that night.

That doctor swung Mami around and back. Even with his big Santa gut, I could tell he was smooth. And when he stepped, he put his feet down hard and you could feel it vibrate the floor. 

POM POM PA! POM POM POM POM! POM POM PA!

I gotta tell you, this was the most amazing thing I had experienced up in my life to that point. And I had already been playing with myself every night. But this was different. I was hyp-no-tized. The way he moved. His complete domination of the room. I was hooked. 

He had these movies, these spins. I mean, he practically took up the whole damn living room floor swinging her around and then doing his only little kicks on the backstep. He almost knocked the goddamned tree down! 

Sophy was trying to get me to dance, too, but I just wanted to watch. I sat there on the crunchy plastic covering the couch and it was like Christmas morning already. 

At some point, I heard the door open and someone crack up laughing then yelling, “Feliz fucking Navidades!”

Yeah, so, my sister Josie was home.

* * *

Oh, the clothes! You gotta dress the part. Traditionally, salsa dancers wear something light and breathable. See what I have on? A crisp shirts, nice dress pants. You don’t gotta worry. Just wear something nice and flowy twirls with you, you feel me? But honestly, wear whatever you can move in. A good pair of dance shoes is worth the investment—trust me, your feet will thank you. These cost me two hundred dollars. Nice, right?

Oh, so when Josie came home that night, she was with her friend, Katie. Mami did not like her friend, said she was a bad influence.

“How dare you come into my house all high!” Mami screamed.

“I ain’t high!” Jose said, sounding pretty high!

Mami said, “Don’t you freaking lie to me! I can smell it on you!”

Another Saturday night at the Lugo house. Josie and her friend were hanging off each other, and they seemed half-asleep. I remember seeing Rita giving Sophy a look.

Speaking of smell, oh my god, at that moment, I started to smell something coming from the kitchen—the pernil was burning!

Mami smelled it too and she ran like the Flash to the kitchen. I was right behind her. 

“Your carajo sister!” she said.

She pulled it out of the oven, and there came with steam that smelled like heaven. The pork was a beautiful red-brown. When pernil is done right, it glows from the inside, and this was like that, with just un chipitito de char on the top. 

“Carajo Josie,” Mami said. “Traerme aluminio.”

I got it for her, and she ripped off a sheet and draped it over the pork. Then she got a fork and stabbed it in the side and twisted and pulled out a hot and juicy piece of pernil for me.

“Pruébalo,” she said. 

Ah! The moment that I had been waiting for! I tell you my eyes rolled back in my head like Linda Blair. I was happy, for those few seconds, I was happy.

Mami wiped my face with a napkin, rough like rubbing out a mancha the way she always did, and told me to keep my eyes and nose open. 

So I sat at the kitchen table to keep watch, and I turned and realized La Suegra had been there this whole time by herself.

I asked La Suegra if she wanted soda or another potato chip. She said, “No gracias.” 

I felt bad about leaving her there alone, but I kept thinking about the music, and my feet was getting itchy.

Then, thank god, I heard Mami from the living room: “Hector! Poneme Fania!”

I rushed back to the living room and did my job as the DJ. Sophy and Rita were talking with Josie and her friend. Titi Magda was looking half-asleep on the couch, and the neighbors were laughing about something.

Mami and the doctor were still going at it in the living room. POM POM PA! The doctor has his hat and beard off now, his face covered with sweat.

He gave her a big twirl and when he did this kick there was the bottle of my cousin’s Vat 69 on the edge of the table y fuácate, it crashed on the floor. 

Mami screamed, “¡La mopa, rapido!”

I ran back to the kitchen to get the mop, but it was behind La Suegra, so I had to say, “Excuse me.” She got up, I got the mop, and when I went to the living room, I could feel her following behind me. I guess she thought it was time to join the party.

I helped Mami fregar the mess, and then I went to put the mop back. When I turned around, I see La Suegra, coming back into the kitchen, but this time her face lookeded like she had seen a ghost.

* * *

Listen, listen, let’s do the cross-body. Aha. I’m gonna step forward with my left foot, then pivot to face that way, so I guide you and you move across my body, like so. Aha. No. You gotta do that smoother. You gotta move with more confidence. Let’s go again.

Yeah, so, I heard my mother calling my name again.

“Hector! Olvidamos el coquito¡ ¡Tráelo o te rompo la cabeza!”

My mother had spent all day the day before making her coquito. It was famous with our relatives. She had bragged about it to our neighbors. Every year, she let me have just one sip, and I had asked her this year if I could have a whole glass, and she said—if I behaved. “¡Y trae las tazas!”

The doctor was saying he needed some water, but he said he would get it and went to the kitchen. I was about to follow him when Mami said, “¡’sperate, ’sperate! Déjame contar.”

There were twelve people in the apartment, plus me, but Mami said she needed just twelve cups. So I said, “What about me?!”

“You’re too young.”

“Let him have,” my cousin said.

My aunt said coquito was nothing, to let me have some.

“Okay,” Mami said, “trae una copa mas.”

So I ran back to the kitchen, really excited to get my very own, very first full cup of creamy, coconut, Christmasy goodness. Hmm-mm.

And that’s when I saw it. You won’t believe it. My eyes didn’t believe it!

La Suegra standing there over the doctor. I didn’t realize it at first because it didn’t look real, couldn’t be real.

She was stabbing him with Mami’s big kitchen knife. Stabbing! Like chook chook chook chook, fucking Michael Myers stabbing. The doc, he was on the floor. I could see the bottoms of his shiny dance shoes. He was holding onto his throat. It was cut open and dark red blood was pouring out of it. So he was too busy trying to keep it closed, to stop her from stabbing him, stabbing like Mami did with the pernil. Chook chook chook. 

I can still hear that fucking sound, you know? 

Pretty soon there was screaming. I got no idea who. Mighta been me.

Then someone grabbed me and moved me out of the kitchen and down the hall to my room. They passed a wet towel over my face. Whoever it was kissed me on the forehead and told me to dream about snow covering the city. I want to think it was Sophy, but honestly, I don’t remember.

The music had stoppeded ’cause I wasn’t there to put on a new record. I fell asleep to the clank-clank and the ssssssssss of the radiator.

* * *

And now you end with style. A dramatic dip—asi! Or a spin—asi! And boom!

See, hahahaha. At the end, thank your partner—yes, you’re welcome—take a bow and that’s it! 

Dancing is about joy, even when it leaves you without breath and sweaty and tired, ha, like all the good things in life.

Oh that. What really happened that night, I didn’t know for years. I mean, when you’re a kid, they don’t tell you nothing. 

I was at someone’s wedding in California, and Cousin Rita, who I hadn’t seen in a long time, was there. I don’t know who brought it up first but we got to talking about that night.

She said, “I had to find out why what went down went down. ’Cause it never went to trial, there was no news reports, no investigation. So I had to do my own.

“La Suegra’s real name was Carmen. She grew up in Guanica with your mother. She came from a big family, and when she was twelve they sent her to live with a sister who had eight kids. The sister went to see a doctor, and Carmen went with her. The doctor asked her sister why she kept having babies she couldn’t feed. She said her man didn’t believe in protection. Good old Catholic church. This doctor told her he could fix it so she could stop having babies. He even said they would actually pay her a little money for choosing la operación. Plus, in those days there were companies that would only hire you if you had la operación. The sister signed the papers right away.

“Then the doctor looked and saw Carmen there. He asked how old she was, then he asked the sister if she was her legal guardian. He said I could take care of her, too, and she would get double the payment and never have to worry about her coming around with no babies.

“Carmen didn’t know what was going on. They did the operation, and it wasn’t till years and years later, after she got married, and she kept trying and trying to have children, that her doctor told her ‘You don’t have a uterus. Somebody took it out.’”

“So it turns out the doctor who did the operation to her—that was your mother’s boyfriend. Carmen hadn’t seen him in years, and there he was doing the salsa in your mother’s living room. What are the chances?”

“Holy shit!” I said, excuse my French, but I was really shockeded.

“She never forgot his face, after all that time.”

“How did you find all this out?”

“I started digging into government records and got stonewalled. Then I asked my mother. Magda knew everything. She just never told me.”

So that’s it, I guess. Mami never did Christmas in our house again. We flew to PR ever year after that and celebrated there. Mami—she passed of a heart attack. Today it’ll be five years. Junior, he got killed in Syria, Miguel in Afghanistan. Josie took her own life. 

And La Suegra? Well, I found that out from Rita. The cops they took her to jail and she died there that night. Passed in her sleep. Life’s crazy, right? I hope she slept well.

God have them all in heaven!

* * *

Okay, that’s good for the first lesson. Look at how time flew by! 

If you’re looking for some music, there are some very famous records you gotta get. Start with Héctor Lavoe or Willie Colón. Pure salsa. And don’t forget La Reina—Celia Cruz! She brings it every time! Don’t forget Marc Anthony and El Gran Combo. They are the Legends with a capital L. You can get some of their CDs we have on sale here.

What? Oh, yeah. People on the block still talk about it today. Just the other day I heard people talking about it in the elevator. “Oh, that was so fucked up.” “How did they even Christmas after that?” You know, like that. They give me looks. Yes, I’m still there, same apartment, same room, watching the neighborhood change, watching it become less Puerto Rican. Like somewhere somehow we failed a test and they’re taking it all away from us.

But I gotta say, who knows what really really happened, right? But I gotta say that man was like a god to me—God forgive me!—no, let me put it this way, he was like a guiding spirit. The way he moved, the way he presented hisself. An inspiration, you know, an aspiration. I saw him and I knew I wanted to be like that salsero. I wanted to dance like him.

Hey, we have an opening for a lesson starting at eight. You want to go again? Come on. Don’t say no.