El Gringoqueño

I didn’t want to go. They made me, sort of kicking and screaming. I don’t know really why I didn’t want to see it. Maybe it was because it was such a big thing, in vogue. If it’s in the current fashion, I want something else. Maybe I felt uncomfortable around religious people. I kept making jokes. "Is this where the religious wackos hang out?" or "Oh, you’re one of those religious people." I mean, we all go to church together, so I’m one of you too. I’d chuckle.

But there was a kernel of truth there in those off-handed comments, that belied what I really felt.  Sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in. When I’m in mass, I’m one of the "in" crowd, part of the culture, on the inside. Sometimes, though, I feel like an infiltrator, like they’re going to find out who I really am and boot me. Sssh.

In all reality, the Catholic church bugs me to no end, from the Pope on down. There’s lots of things that are weird, wrong, or just plain stupid. Many people are sheep. Much of the hierarchy is lost in the abstract, wrapped around many layers of dogma, protective coatings designed to preserve rather than serve. And the people; coming to mass hoping to receive something, perhaps a magic wafer? They hop into their cars and rush off to some trivial secular affair, content that they have done their weekly hour of religious devotion. They learned the right words to say. Piety comes in a can.

And then there are those that have mystified things to an unrecognizable degree…Virgin Marys in wet cement in Guatemala, weeping statues, dripping candles, mystical lights, apparitions, miracles. Each of these people believing that they have faith, but really deep deep down they hope that their faith can be proven, and seek something upon which to rest their salvation. May I have a coaster for this cup of mine, I am having trouble holding it.

And so there I am, left lamenting the dogma, practice, and the many faulty hearts and minds of humanity. I am now forced to endure an epic produced and directed by a pre Second Vatican Council zealot, a movie deemed to be anti-semitic by the media at large. What’s more, even among critics favorable to the movie, it is said to be the bloodiest two hours in movie making history, hard to watch, and downright gratuitous. I’m not really in a good place right now, I don’t know if this is going to help.

Well, let’s just get this thing over with. At least I am getting out of the house, and I got to see the Spider-man 2 trailer that’s showing.

As the final movie credits started rolling, Laura began to feel sick, so I got up to help her to the lobby. I began to get uncomfortable at the world closing in around me, like I’d stepped outside naked. I wanted to hide, run away. I wasn’t ready to leave the darkness of the theater yet. Now, I’m standing here amongst the popcorn, teenagers, parents, and hustle bustle of activity. I thrust my hands in my pockets. I felt trapped. I stepped outside. It was raining torrentially, exaggeratedly. It was a wall of water. I stood there briefly trying to contain my emotions. I struggled there uncomfortable, wanting to be alone, so I ran. I stepped off the curb bursting into tears, and soaked immediately as I made my way to the car, a quarter mile away or so.

I remembered the scene in the movie that broke up all the parents in our row. Jesus had stumbled as the Romans are beating and taunting him. His mother, who has had trouble facing the whole affair had been hiding on a side street too distraught to look. She suddenly flashes back to a fall that her son had suffered at an early age, perhaps 5 years old or so. She runs to him to pick him up and comfort him, comfort her son who was hurting. Mommy’s here, don’t cry. She suddenly realizes her place and rushes to his side. There was not a parent with a dry eye in the house.

We watched Jesus come to terms with his life, his mission, his vocation. The movie opens with him pleading to have this burden lifted, why oh why must it be this way, he asks. Beyond any sort of mystical or metaphysical possibility of ANYONE being able to lift his burden from him, was the realization that he was who he was. If he were to run away, he would not be who he was. He had heard his calling in life and once heard, there was no other possible course of action. It would be as if you grew up to be an artist, engineer, politician, leader… could you be anything but that to which you were called, that which you knew to be right and natural, that which filled you with passion?

It’s weird, but there’s nothing religious about this. Christians will say, "God is calling you. Listen to His will. Do His bidding." What they are really saying is, "Be true to who you are." Who am I? Well, that sometimes takes reflection. You’ve got to seek it actively, sometimes be quiet, sometimes listen to the voices of others, sometimes take chances, sometimes make decisions. In the end, when you are doing what you were meant to do, it will feel like love. You just know.

Love isn’t easy, and neither is vocation, but could I be anything but who I am? Sure, you may sell out your life, ignore your true vocation, be moderately happy, and die having been successful, but once you realize your vocation, your calling, can you ever go back, no matter the cost?

When Martin Luther King Jr. realized that he had to bring freedom to America, they told him he was crazy, a trouble maker, stirring things wrongly. Just relax, play ball, and have a nice fulfilling peaceful life quiet and tranquil with your life and family. I am sure Martin Luther King Jr. wished for this at times, worried about his family, his friends and what he was putting them through. Damnit, why did it have to be me, I am sure he asked. He was compelled to act, and he knew no other way to be. He realized his place. It may not have been the path he would have picked on a multiple choice test, but once he realized it, that was it.

Laura and I are in Puerto Rico trying to get a foot-old through Open Source software, trying to reform education, technology policy, the status quo, and raise two children. Does it make it any easier to know that there is no other way to be, no other course of action in which we would be satisfied. If we jumped the tracks, we’d inevitably find ourselves veering back to this one. As much as we suffer and struggle, there is no other course of action for us. Why oh why am I like this? Why couldn’t I have been born a rule follower, a person satisfied with the way things are? Why oh, why must I attempt to change things? I cause turmoil both for myself and others. I fail more often than I succeed. Everything is a struggle. Why did you make me this way, God?

Jesus pondered that, lamented that a rollback was an impossibility, but did realize that it was nice to just vent every once in a while.

The full weight of vocation hit me during this movie. I think this is the strongest and most important thing that could possibly come from this, and one that kept playing over and over to me throughout. It hit me so hard, it knocked me over, and I lost it for bit. It wasn’t religous, it wasn’t magic.

Jesus knew what he had to do. Geez, and they crucified him. And he knew it, and he could have sidestepped it, but he couldn’t, didn’t want to… no couldn’t, even if he wanted to, because that was who he was.

"Listen, are you waiting for a flood? Man, look at those pants."

"Hey, I like them like that. I’m prepared at all times!"

"And you, look at that old guayabera, VERY stylish."

"This shirt is quality. Q-u-a-l-i-t-y. I’ve had this shirt for over 15 years. You can’t get that kind of quality today."

"Oh, sure," he laughed poking the man’s shirt.

"Man, check that out?" pointing to a sexy bombshell on the morning TV show.

"Ay Dios Mío mami."

"I’d like a slice of that!"

"What are you gonna get?" Another asked.

"Coffee and some oatmeal."

"To go?"

"Hey, let a man finish his coffee and toast. You have some hurry?"

"Well some people have things to do. We can’t sit around on our asses and pretend to be useful."

Chuckles all around.

(Overheard conversation of a group of three 60 year old+ in a local bakery in Puerto Rico).

Just got in from a wonderful party, so I’m a little buzzed. Well, actually, I can’t feel my fingers as I type this. Chuckle. My sister-in-law, who is Lebanese, had an Arab-Lebanese party. Wow, what a nice time. We drank, smoked the water pipe, laughed, told stories, ate tabbouleh, babacanush, humus, kabobs of chicken, and a bunch of things that I will never ever be able to spell.

Juan Carlos brought some fabulous Rioja red wine. That got the thing rolling as we took liberally of these fermented red grapes. Todd, an ethnic American, who became friends with Miray’s brother, Lebanon and his party crew, was an old hat with the whole thing. He knew most of the basic Arabic terms and greetings, and seemed comfortable with his assimilation into his adopted context outside of his own. He reminded me a little bit of myself with the Puerto Rican crowd. Something about them demanded my attention. They accepted me and I fell in, eventually marrying into the culture. Todd, Mikey, Lebanon and Rami were a party group extraordinaire.

Then somebody brought a couple of water pipes, one of which was new, being used in a group setting for the first time. They fiddled with it, complaining about the tightness, the newness of the fitting, poking holes in the aluminum foil to aerate the tobacco. No good, and away and away we puffed pulling the heat into the tobacco through the water and into our mouths trying to get a good draw. The cherry infused smoke was aromatic and we were even able to convince most of the women to give it a go.

A dance began with a particularly rhythmic song, as the hostess and her brother, Lebanon began to circle in a traditional form. Arm in arm they circled, laughing and dancing, winding their way through the house.

Most of the evening was spend chuckling, drinking, sharing stories and trying to get a good draw on the water pipes. I spend my fair share drawing deeply. It was truly wonderful, and eventually we began to get a good smoke. "This pipe is smoking good now," they would say, as they fiddled with the other. I came and I went, as I chased down Jaimito, checked on Olaia and Laura to see how they were and what they were up to, but I kept making my way back to that pipe. There was just something about it.

I was an extremely nice time because of how differently the experiences played out from what I’m used to. It was interesting and wonderful to enjoy good times, but in a slightly different context. The brotherhood of man, shared over tobacco, something as old as human-kind itself, takes on a perspective of closeness, seen from an angle that makes me take notice. Sharing the water pipe, puffing, and laughing and passing, gives a visceral and immediate context to our lives. Sometimes we forget about the commonality we all share, and it is a dead dried plant and some spittle that brings it back into focus. What am I talking about? What else could that be? We all come into this life the same way and we all leave it eventually. What we miss is all those wonderful details in the middle, those simple banal things upon which we rarely focus, quickly and recklessly moving onto the next thing, the next destination. The same feeling, I believe, can be found in other rituals around the world, a Japanese tea ceremony, a Basque cider house, Catholic mass, tribal or native dance, or a simple sharing of the hunt, alcohol, or smoke. Taken in moderation and shared amongst people in a certain context they can be powerful rituals of remembrance.

Bah, but I write such drivel. Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to communicate this in a better fashion. I feel like I do it such little justice with these numb fingers and this swirling "mente" of mine.

This is for you, little apple. I write these words of remembrance.

I was eating an apple while driving home from the Puerto Rico Products Association today. I was travelling through the urban setting, a decidedly un-vegetation friendly environment. I reflected that if I had been in the country, I would have tossed my apple core from the car into the tropical foliage. Drat, I am here in the city. The apple core is an eye sore. How would I like apple cores on my side walk, sitting there, collecting ants and turning brown in the hot sun? The apple that falls on the concrete of the city has no chance for life, and in the best of cases is an ugly mess.

In the country, though, it would have a chance to grow into an apple tree. Ah, but I have eaten the flesh of the apple, the flesh that would give its small seeds the nourishment for new life. I have done such violence to these poor little things. They would stand no chance to achieve life if left to their own devices. They are done whether on the side walk or the forest. They were done in by me, by my hungry apple flesh eating mouth.

The poor devils.