The Music Wars

or: A Cacophany of Clashing Symbols

by Freyda Zell

Don’t get her wrong. It’s not that she doesn’t like living on this island where she’s been for over five years now; a year and a half already in this one seaside barrio, where no one dares to talk to her. But, don’t get her wrong because she doesn’t really mind; she fears they won’t have much in common anyway. Now, to repeat, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t like them, or like the island. It doesn’t mean anything that she hasn’t been very friendly, either. She’s just given up trying to make eye contact which, she thinks, is the beginning. After all, no one returns her buen dia when she offers it upon running into a neighbor on the street. And just because their music is a focal beef for her doesn’t mean she doesn’t like it or the neighbors who play it. Don’t get her wrong; it’s just hard for Ava to dig salsa more than a couple of tunes at a time. She’s into cool jazz, world music, even grand opera! She just can’t take large doses of the pounding salsa beat, especially when forced to wake up to it pumping at 8 AM. While Ava protectively covers her ears, she’s convinced Teresita’s up and bouncing around, hips grinding, doing fancy footwork as she rhythmically drips the morning coffee. Ava forgives neighbors who go to bed hours earlier than she and consequently get up hours earlier too.

But there are other things that have required our Ava to make adjustments.  One is about telephones. The neighbors don’t have land lines, so with cells the neighborhood has become one giant open-air phone booth. Ava feels like an eavesdropper, despite the fact that she misses huge chunks of their rapid-fire jargoned Spanish. It’s hard not to listen given the volume at which they speak. (And it’s too bad she can’t know how much she misconstrues.) Two: it’s also common for people in the barrio to shout at one another across their gates. In Puerto Rico, it is apparently an unwritten law that one does not cross onto another’s property even to knock upon a door. All initial contact is made by voice, or automobile horn, or both (or by the now ubiquitous cell phone, intrusive although quieter). A melange of salsa and shouting sends Ava into fits of hysterics. (She's not all that quiet herself when she has these fits, either.) But she forgives them their local customs. Don’t get her wrong, Ava thinks she’s tolerant and she tries to be respectful. But sometimes she too has to shout down from her balcony to get someone's attention – to beg them to turn down the music, for example.

Ava thinks the neighbors don’t feed their dogs reliably, either, nor do they quiet them when they have barking jags because there are strangers yards away, merely walking on the beach, or revving up the engines of all manner of vehicles they own. Though picturesque, horses on the road are special stimulants to dogs who forget how small they are and brazenly nip at the horses’ hooves (while barking fiercely, of course). But their dogs are especially charming when, during the night, la madrugada, other dogs come into their territory and they begin wolf-like baying, spookily unlike any barks you’d ever hear in daytime. Of course, you shouldn’t get her wrong; Ava loves dogs and even takes internet action to shelter abandoned animals. She gets real pissed when her immediate neighbors bring dogs into the barrio, or encourage strays to stay, then tire of them, or tire of caring for them when the dog latches on as dogs so loyally do.  It doesn’t take long before Ava finds herself feeding two or three bedraggled animals in addition to her own satos (the common name for the many kinds of island-adapted mixed breeds; what we gringas call mutts).

And what else on Ava’s list of grievances? (or, so that you don't get her wrong, her “minor annoyances”):  the continual very brief visitations, amounting to movement and greeting of people from early morning until dark (Puerto Ricans love to chat outdoors in groups. Ava acknowledges that air-conditioning in homes is not all that common); and sightseers (gawkers, really, since the sights of this barrio are limited to endless sea and horizon). Ava’s place is right there, along the shore, where folks come just to stare at the ocean or at each other, not to hang out at the beach. Not really. They mostly don’t even get out of their cars. They drive to the end of the road, just where Ava lives, sit with motors idling, apparently hypnotized, or wanting to be, by the undulating waves. Sometimes they let the kids out of the car, while the grown-ups remain where the car’s air-conditioning (more common) lets them be wide-eyed, or oppositely, bleary with sleep, in comfort. And when fish are running, half the barrio turns out to watch, with buzzing anticipation, the one little motorized rowboat coming in, dragging its net. Everyone is hoping for some of the spoils – even to scavenge the little fish caught in with the more desirable ones, doomed to be left, stranded and thrashing, to die on the sand. 

Ava appreciates community involvement, but she is the one lone gringa (there’s that word again. It’s Puerto Rican for North American – a (f ) gringa, (m) gringo – and not only Puerto Rican, truth be told, but a common referent in the Latino world – they say it has something to do with the greenback dollar, which, ironically, has been the coin of the realm here too for over a hundred years. Ava has no connection to these cultural rites. They are no longer quaint to her. She sees nothing quaint in a milling crowd buzzing and shouting; nothing quaint in little fish convulsing, gasping their last on the shoreline. But don’t get her wrong. She respects the people, and their economies (though always hoping they’ll not invade her precious two acres). She admits she’s getting to be one of those easily irritated older broads, which she sees as a failing in her strivings to find Buddhist serenity. For Ava, “they” are making it tough for her to practice, to meditate and be at peace. The rhythms of salsa are hard to sit still by (and blaming is easy).

On Ava’s dead-end street there is yet another peculiarity, in the number of vacation homes which remain vacant most of the time. On the surface this sounds like Ava should be happy as a singing coqui, except that when the home owners do come to their beach houses, not only do they bring half the people they know or are related to, but they come to party hardy. Now, in her nascent Buddhism, Ava is like the monks of Naropa in Boulder, who, when she knew them, were regular party animals. So don’t get her wrong; she likes to see people having fun! Once April arrives, and following Semana Santa (Easter, or Holy Week), these partying weekends become more frequent, though Ava is never forewarned (you’d think she’d have learned by now). So what if the salsa gives her a headache the size of the Condado Lagoon! So what if her guests have to share the spotlight with city-dwellers who have arrived all the way on the western end of the island to compete with locals in the great quest for a good time?

Come the latter part of June and Puerto Rico celebrates La Noche de San Juan, which honors John the Baptist, namesake of the capital.  For this holiday, the better part of the four million boricuas (native islanders, excluding Nuyoricans, Orlandoricans and all others who are the products of expatriation and had the nerve to be born in the States) flock to the shores, where the tradition is to walk backwards into the sea, with prayers and candles. So far as Ava can tell, this religious tradition has simply morphed into an outright beach party. But don’t get her wrong, she thinks beach parties are great too (they are parties after all). What she’s not so keen on is when the party leaves the beach and winds up in her driveway. Which is what happened at the culmination of the Music Wars.

The Music Wars had already begun with modest skirmishes – Ava, the aggrieved one, having fired the first salvos. Now, again, don’t get her wrong. Ava loves music and wishes everyone else did, too. She does have her reservations about salsa, however, as has been mentioned two or three times. But she also believes that one’s music should not invade another person’s home so that the invaded ones cannot enjoy their own musical interludes untainted by alien rhythms. So after some incidents of having Carlos and Mayra Ramos’s salsa serve as Ava’s A.M. wake up call, piercing her bedroom which actually sits on the side of her house furthest from theirs, Ava decided to begin nicely requesting them to turn down their music. They were in the habit of setting up large-capacity speakers on their balcón, blaring in Ava’s direction. Living next to them was their daughter, the aforementioned Teresita, and her husband Ernesto. They, too, love music and seem to have a large collection of Spanish-language pop and reggaeton, and they, too, are not shy about pumping up the volume.  

The first time Ava stood at the Ramoses’ gate, trying to explain while shouting over the music – in her bastard Spanish – that she would appreciate being allowed to sleep on the weekend and not be awakened by party music so early, the Ramoses did turn it down, and Ava was pleased. The second time, she was not so lucky. Teresita, a fiery type, told her in no uncertain terms that Puerto Rico is a free country and anyone can do what they want in their own house. The idea of sound waves as “common ground” apparently had never occurred to the young woman. So thereafter, the Ramoses and their adult children seemed to have no qualms about their right to the loudest music possible, rudely blowing Ava off (she felt). She decided she had to fight fire with fire (maybe not a great Buddhist idea but it does work on the African plains, sometimes in California, too.  Ava still remembers the ecology she learned, visiting in other developing countries – and despite being intimately connected to the U.S., Puerto Rico is still, in many ways, quite like them, in her opinion). 

When Carlos Ramos, across the street from her, sat alone with the salsa exploding into his ears, and making Ava’s own walls vibrate threateningly, she decided to take action, carting her own music system onto the balcony, facing its speakers out directly toward Carlos and his blaring sound. Her secret weapon was Wagnerian opera, the Gotterdammerung to be precise. Now there was something to play at a max volume! Ava then went inside to spy on, and enjoy, what she was certain would be Carlos’s hot reaction. (She thought if the volume didn’t get him, the operatic pitch surely would). At first, he stayed cool, not indicating anything, but after some moments he looked furtively around, appeared to be desperately hoping some understanding would strike him. Meanwhile, his wife Mayra had come outside too, to see what the racket was. Within less than five minutes, both of them retreated into the house, their outside music not just lowered but fully turned off. Ava smiled with the victory, lowered her own music’s volume, and when it seemed that the situation was fully resolved she struggled back inside with her equipment, feeling like she had briefly walked the halls of Valhalla herself.

But of course this was not the end of it – and Ava’s Wagner Strategy had to be called upon several more times against both the Ramoses and their children. Teresita and Ernesto were not sometime weekenders like their parents, but full-timers and as such were multiple offenders of Ava’s Laws of Proper Music Appreciation. They usually wound up toning down the volume once Ava  battled against them with her own formidable equipment, but they needed frequent reminders, especially when they had early morning visitors. (The Puerto Rican day begins early, and consequently so do those social visits). But don’t get her wrong, Ava was determined to change these musical habits, even though she fervently believed she respected local rights and tastes. She only wanted them to respect hers! To think about her needs sometimes. She was growing bolder. She didn’t need to make eye contact to get certain points across. And this brings us to the Noche de San Juan – actually, to the day of the Noche de San Juan, the day of the decisive battle in the Music Wars.

It was a Saturday, a fine sunny June day, that Ava woke up to, warm but not oppressively so. By habit, she opened both front and back doors, welcoming her view of the beach: the grand bay straight ahead of her, and the low verdant hills behind. And it hit her right away: easily 180 degrees of music throbbed around her. Obviously, the Noche de San Juan party had already begun (even though the noche was many hours off!). Not so gradually, cars began pulling up, parking on the beach road and sneaking into every other available spot. People of all ages, shapes, and fashion sense piled out. It was obvious that they were all there to join up with the Ramoses. Though it was before nine in the morning, cans of the local Medalla beer flashed as men unloaded charcoal grills and all the trimmings from their pick-ups. By ten they were stoking the fires, and by eleven the smells and smoke of barbecued sausage, pork, and chicken were thick in the neighborhood. And, of course, there was music. Nonstop latinorama, growing in volume as a function of the number of new arrivals and cans of beer consumed. It was a block party, claro, but most of the residents of the block were missing, uninvited like Ava. It was not fair that these relative outsiders could take over like this!

Ava had made plans to meet friends at a nearby beach that day, so she swallowed her annoyance about the invasion because, don’t get her wrong, she tries to live and let live. She figured the party’d peter out by nightfall, when she’d first be getting back home herself; why get upset when she wouldn’t even be around to feel put upon? So Ava went on with her daytime plans, not pulling back onto her street until the sun was lazily heading under the horizon. Things didn’t start off too well, as she could barely drive to her own entryway, the dead-end street thick with people and vehicles. Her car crept along, enveloped in aroma clouds of salsa, barbecue, and having to broken-field-run around a few piles of smashed beer cans. She hurt to realize that the Music Wars were indeed not over; she took it personally, this renewed phase of disregard for her wishes and sensitivities. Once again, don’t get Ava wrong; she’s no prima donna, and doesn’t want to be treated special. She just wants to be able to express herself and be appreciated in her differentness from them. And if she hadn’t been invited to the party, why was the party at her very doorstep? Gringa or not, doesn’t she have rights here too? 

Ava’d had premonitions that it might come to this; that she might have to take some startling action to protest her neighbors’ disregard of her right to peace and quiet. She’d been calmly formulating yet another counterattack, and now its time had arrived!  First, she would get out of her still damp bathing suit, get something quick to eat, while also feeding her growing dog pack, and then she would put her plan into motion ...

With the street party sufficiently loud, even though Ava thought it was boring to just sit around talking, eating, and drinking, (though how folks could hear one another perplexed her as the music’s driving beat overshadowed everything!), she grabbed her big frame drum, two sets of mallets, and her big brass cymbals. Catlike, Ava puffed up her chest to make herself feel bigger, since she would be confronting at least forty other people all by her lonesome; and banging loudly on the drum, she emerged from her small house, into the throes of the revelers. 

“You want noise, I’ll give you noise,” she shouted, in English, not really caring if they understood her or not (secretly very nervous more than really angry).

Well, imagine Ava’s surprise when, in response, people started to whistle, clap, stomp feet, while laughing openly at the sight of her brandishing her drum, the cymbals hanging from her shoulder. But she wouldn’t let them co-opt her! She continued in a singsong rant, banging hard on the drum with both hands and mallets, clashing the cymbals intermittently. She felt herself losing it, but she could not stop. She chided them for being country bumpkins – jibaros. When they adapted her beat to half sing, half yell patriotic slogans praising Puerto Rico, Ava could not help herself. She mocked them, screaming, more than singing, that of course Puerto Rico was a most important country and Boricuas had the right to do whatever they wanted when they wanted, even if it bothered others. She was quite certain that the younger people there understood her English. She watched them clam up, as perplexed as she felt herself becoming, because their parents acted like they thought Ava and her drum had arrived with perfect timing to liven up the party, but “the kids” really didn’t know what to think. Teresita and Mayra could not seem to do enough for her. They brought over plates of barbecue. They poured her a gigantic drink, a hodgepodge of several liquors. She had become, in an instant, everyone’s darling. And soon, crazily, Ava began to feel as if that were just who she was. It was all too confusing! They had not gotten furious at her. No, rather, they had welcomed her, taken her in, urged her on, enjoyed her. How could she keep being angry at them? She’d give them what they wanted; be who they wanted, and enjoy it too! At least for this night anyway.

And the alegria of those moments intensified when Teresita rushed out of her house laden with a bunch of small musical instruments – gourds, maracas, castenets – that the women grabbed, joining Ava (who had begun to feel flushed, first with shame for callously trying to turn them off with all the noxious noise she could muster – and also because she had earlier chugalugged that stiff drink) in a massive rhythm section (clearly more intense than rhythmic). Some abandoned their beach chairs to shake it a bit, and laughter flowed. The men, tending their huge stainless steel grills, while busily eating and slugging Medallas, clapped with merriment. The two opposing sides of the Music Wars had become one. The evening seemed to boil down to “If you can’t beat ’em, beat the drum and they’ll join you!”

To this day, Teresita and Ernesto, (and Carlos and Mayra when they infrequently visit), wait until afternoon before they turn up the volume of their stereos. Ava is usually gone by then, so she has no complaints. None whatsoever. But who would she complain to anyway? Still, it is rare that there is anyone to talk to her, anyone who will meet her head on, face to face. The Music Wars may have ended, but apparently one victory does not a winner make. Loneliness and isolation seem to require abundant patience and, likely, a more tender touch.