Out there in the squinty midday shimmer of a Puerto Rican sun that never seems to cool, the old woman takes slow, careful, mincing steps. She is too far away for her face to come into focus in the refracted glare. But a little boy in the doorway of the suburban community center pegs her by her gait and by her unmistakably robust pile of hair. It is a perfectly tailored snowcap, and she holds it high.
"Here she comes!" the boy says in revved-up Spanish as he ducks back into the building. "Here comes Doña Lolita!"
Doña Lolita. Instinctually, he chooses a term of utmost respect -- doña. No last name is necessary.
As la doña eases forward, conversations trail off and the crowd pinches toward the doorway. Oblivious to the heat, 84-year-old Lolita Lebron has chosen an ankle-length black velvet gown and matching jacket.
This is her way. Always formal, almost always in black. Appearances matter. She has given just one set of instructions to the waitresses who will serve guests at her annual festival del maiz, or corn festival, her December celebration of indigenous workers and the crop that sustains them: Put on a nice dress, and you better not forget to wear lipstick.
The applause starts before she reaches the door, building to a climax as she steps inside and opulently spreads her arms with the casual ease of a woman accustomed to making entrances. "Besos y abrazos. Besos y abrazos," she calls out. Kisses and hugs.
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