Washed in the Blood

And saved by grace

Photo by Ed Leszczynskl on Unsplash

Translator’s Note: This document, from the archives of the Federal Prison in Atlanta, Georgia, dated 20 July 1954, was assigned to me by the New York Puerto Rico Historical Society. The original appears to be a transcription of a parole-related interview. Neither the prisoner nor the interviewer is identified. Martin Monserrate (MM), ATA certified in Spanish/English/Italian and Portuguese.

What is my first memory? Do you ever wonder if the stories you are told are true? How does it help anyone to wander backwards into one’s life, walk backwards into a dark and dangerous jungle? You would have to be mad to want to do that.

Blood. My earliest memory is blood pouring from my nose. And of my grandmother, Monse, holding me, holding my head back and placing a copper coin on my forehead. Monse’s hands were warm but the coin was cold. “Blood to blood,” she would say, “metal to metal,” and repeat it until the bleeding stopped. Isn’t it odd that blood doesn’t taste like it smells?

I was born, awash in blood, on Loma del Viento, Barrio Betances, Puerto Rico. Mama Monse prepared my mother’s body — she was beautiful, she once told me, but she was even more beautiful when she was dead. El Viejo, my grandfather, buried her that same day in the soft earth above the stream that Monse said was conceived in the…