El Gringoqueño

All a man needs out of life is a place to sit ‘n’ spit in the fire.

Month: September 2005

Don’t Count on the Sanguine

September 29, 2005 /

The other day, the head of only Home Grown Puerto Rican Terrorist GroupTM, the MacheterosTM
Filiberto Ojeda Rios was killed in a gun battle with the FBI.  He
had been convicted in absentia, casually sought for years, and finally
killed in his home in the western town of Hormigueros in Puerto
Rico.  His crime? – robbing a Wells Fargo armored car of $7
million to fund la revolución de la sagrada independencia, una
revolución santificada por el pueblo puertorriqueño, or so they tell me.

Ah,
but the sanguine have come ablaze, fiery rhetoric, tongues lashing,
beating their chests.  This man, this most blessed man died
fighting for what he believed in, the ideals of the pueblo, a popular
movement comprised of less than 10% of the population.  He died
defending his right to take what doesn’t belong to him, to fund a fight
that no one cares about.  And now that he’s dead, and out they
come, the student riots, the graffiti (FBI Asesinos!), the big big big
honking idiotic funeral, the flowers, the speeches, the wailing and
gnashing of teeth, the eulogies.  Filiberto stood for
something. 

"Um, what did he stand for?"

"The dignity and patriotism of the Puerto Rican."

"And the bling, don’t forget the bling."

"Pardon?" 

"$7 million buys a lot of bling.  I’m just sayin’."

"No,
he took that money to help take back what was rightfully ours, nuestra
patria, our land, our hearts, our independence, and to remove the
accursed blight of imperial America."

"And how’s that going for you?"

Bah,
I’m bored with this post.  The pueblo is already covering up the graffiti with posters for the upcoming Concierto con Carlos Vives.  I like Carlos Vives.  I’d call him the hardest working man in Latin Pop.   Ah, Carlos Vives.  The ladies think he’s cute too.  Carlos is the man.

Now, I just can’t bring myself to care for
long enough to write what I wanted to write.  Sigh.  It’s
irrelevant.  It’s folly.  Riverdance doesn’t hold my
attention, I don’t see why this should be any different. 

Check out CNN for more information.

Buried

September 20, 2005 /

I’m trapped under something heavy.  Won’t you please come rescue me.  

I’ve
got some posts brewing here, but I’ve not had time to finish
them.  Well, actually I haven’t had the time to start them either,
but let’s not mince words.

I’ve been working on a big website for a bread baking company in Puerto Rico (http://www.holsumpr.com/)
installing servers, doing a security audit, trying to keep abreast of
my volunteer work, maintaining the ongoing development of our software,
and trying to keep it all straight so we can build and launch a cool
Secret Startup Project(TM). It could be fun, fun and lucrative, fun,
lucrative, with ruthless efficiency.  Bah, I’d settle for fun, but
hey – if it’s lucrative and ruthlessly efficient, I’m not going to
complain.

In the meantime, here’s what keeps me motivated when I’m ready to light myself on fire and run screaming from the house/office.

Sept_2005_0004.jpg 

Julio Cesar

September 9, 2005 /

I smiled and said hi to Julio.  He had a small tattoo of an "x"
high on his cheek, near his eye, and knuckles emblazoned with
letters.  I don’t recall what they said – it didn’t matter.  
I only thought that the tattoos all over his visible body, arms, hands,
face, made him look tough, really tough.  He seemed like such a
quiet shy, kid though.  He looked down when I shook his
hand.  He didn’t look me in the eye.  Some of the kids will
look you in the eye.  It shows how tough they are.  "I’m not
afraid of you." They seem to say, and maybe as an aside to their
fellows, "And I just want you all to know that I’m the big dog
here.  Don’t you forget it."   I notice, but it doesn’t
matter.  I’m neither bigger than it, oblivious to it, or ignorant
of it.  I just think it’s irrelevant, that’s all.

Let’s get down to business shall we?

Julio
Cesar’s favorite sport is billiards.  "Huh, that’s interesting," I
told him.  "Most kids here like basketball.  A lot like
baseball, but I’ve never heard anyone say billiards.  Cool."

Julio
Cesar’s innate talent is organizing things.  He likes to drive a
fork lift or "finger" as they call them in Puerto Rico, not because
it’s a job, or he likes the fork lift per say.  He seems to like
organizing the boxes in the warehouse.  He enjoys the challenge of
placing the boxes in the best possible configuration for optimal
packing.  I told him that between the billiards (geometry) and the
box stacking (spatial perception) he might just have an unusual and
special brain.   "Did you do well in mathematics?" I asked.

"Yeah,
I didn’t do too bad in math."  He kind of perked up a bit, like he
had just discovered a great and pleasant truth about himself.

I
asked him if he had finished school.  Juan Cesar, 19, said that
no, he’d not finished school.  He didn’t know why, just didn’t go
any more.  He shrugged, as is the custom of many of the kids.

"You know who Albert Einstein is?"

"No," he shrugged again.

"He
was a scientist from the early part of the 20th century.  He
didn’t do too well in school.  In fact, he never did well in
school.  But his brain was wired differently.  He was able to
visualize things in his mind most people could not.  He ended up
winning the Nobel Prize, the grandest honor that a scientist can
receive.  It’s a worldwide honor."

Julio Cesar looked interested, even if he had no idea who Einstein was.

"Julio,
has anyone ever told you these things before?" I was curious, to see if
anyone had ever connected these dots in his life.

"No, no one has ever talked to me like you."  He smiled.

I
smiled, and my mind raced through an entire dissertation in a
millisecond.  If anyone can make an impression on this kid, I
can.  I’m this big weird American.  I look different than
what he’s used to.  I’m from the colonial power, which as
ridiculous as it sounds in the 21st century, counts for
something.  I’ve got credibility.  To top it all off, I talk
to him about things of which he’s never heard, and make observations
about him that no one ever has.  He’s taken notice.  Maybe
what we talk about isn’t particularly insightful or clinically correct,
but it’s weird, it’s different, and he might just remember it.

He brightened more and asked me if I was coming back next week.  I said yes, that I would be there again on Tuesday.

"I will still be here on Tuesday."  He was excited now.

"Cool, then I’ll see you Tuesday.  Do you know how to play
chess?" I asked pointing to the chessboard painted on the top of the
table.

"No."

"Wanna learn?"

"Yes."

Jaimito, Generous, Sensitive, and Beautiful

September 7, 2005 /

Before I headed out for my prison mentoring session on Tuesday, Jaimito ran up to me with a toy he had fetched from his room.  "Daddy, I have a toy for the boys."  He had heard me talk about the kids in the prison, and assuming that being kids like himself, they would appreciate a toy.  He pressed the toy into my hands.  I was immediately touched, but how will I let Jaimito down easily?  These aren’t boys like him, but big boys.

"Jaimito, the boys aren’t allowed to have toys in the prison."  His face fell, and his little shoulders slumped forward.  I knew the look on his face.  He felt stupid for even suggesting it.  He had been generous and had had his generosity batted away like a fly.  It is such a sad thing, when a little beautiful face such as his has fallen.  A tear came to my eye.  "Jaimito, you’re the most wonderful little boy in the world.  You are a wonderful generous little man to give your toys to the boys.  I’m sure they would really appreciate it." I hugged him and peppered him with kisses until he pushed me away.

"Daddy!"  And he wiped his cheek. 

Ahh…. tough little boys, I sighed.  So tough with his emotions.  Where did he learn that?  Certainly not from Cries-during-Bambi-Daddy.

After the prison session had finished I told Susan and Loretta about Jaimito’s gesture and his subsequent dashed spirits.

"That is just too darling.  Why don’t you have him give the kids some candy?  They’re allowed to have candy," Susan offered.

"That was a great idea.  Now Jaimito and I have a project, and Jaimito will get to offer some help to the kids in need."  I love this daddy job thing – nothing better in this world.

WHY DIDN’T HE SAVE US?!

September 2, 2005 /

Dear God/Bush in Heaven save us from this awful torment.  We bow to your everlasting capacity and power to render unto us the bounty of your talents and treasures.

Okay, so that’s sarcasm.  I’ve been reading some blogs recently, and they all seem to be wailing and gnashing their teeth because Bush didn’t save the asses of the poor folks in New Orleans.  Now, I’m no fan of Bush as you know, but I can’t just sit idly by and listen to this drivel.

"Why didn’t he save us?!"

"Dear God, he’s abandoned us?"

"See, SEE?  How damned incompetent he is?"

Who do you think Bush is, your daddy?  Why give him that job title.  Nanny-in-chief.  Hail to the Protector. Who’s your daddy?  Why, Bush is your daddy.  Didn’t you know that?  I’m George "Rick James" Bush, Bitch!

Bah!  When will you people learn pick up what is left of your broken free-will and put it to use.  See somebody without water?  Go find some for them.  See someone without food?  Go seek it out for them.  Need to have a problem solved?  Solve a problem first. 

Look, we’re only going to get out of this alive if we pull together and act.  Don’t wait for the Man to come save your asses.  You’ve been living at his behest for too long, when will you stop giving your souls to him?

He doesn’t deserve your devotion or your wrath.  The two go together like peaches and cream.

Jaimito vs. the Toilet

September 1, 2005 /

"Daddy," Olaia said to me, "I think Jaimito went peepee on the floor."

"Oops, what happened?"  I quickly went to see, and sure enough, there was a suspicious yellow puddle in front of the toilet.  Jaimito quickly arrived on the scene, looking nervous. "Did you go peepee on the floor, Jaimito?" I asked taking on a tone of interrogation.  I made a rookie mistake, asking him directly if he had gone peepee on the floor.  He quickly replied that no, he had not gone peepee on the floor.  It looked like peepee.  I smelled cover up.

I asked him again, but this time in a judicious opened ended fashion, my years on the street serving me well.  I’m going to give this one enough rope to hang himself.  "Jaimito, what happened here?"

"It fell.  I was wiping myself, and it fell.  It happened to Olaia," he explained.  I was lost, what fell, the peepee?  How, did you shoot it out of the toilet?  Then suddenly, I saw it, a giant wet dripping roll of Charmin stacked neatly on the back of the toilet, dripping the telltale liquid, drip drip drip down the wall.  Placed with the utmost care, almost indiscernible except for the yellow hue.

"Oh, my goodness," I burst, "Jaimito, you poor little thing, you should have called me when you dropped the toilet paper.  I would have gotten it out for you.  Let’s wash our hands little man.  Ewwww yucky yucky yucky."

"It’s okay, Daddy, I got it out,"  like, it’s no big deal Daddy, see it’s good as new, just let it dry out and we’ll all be wiping our asses with it no time at all – no harm no foul.  My heart went out to our fastidious little munchkin and his detail oriented self-sufficient nature.

I gave him a quick clean up, half bath, a bunch of hugs and kisses, and more hugs and kisses, and some more after that.  That little boy is such a super trooper, but like his mommy is determined to do things for himself.  He likes to take care of business on his own.  Sometimes though, I worry, and I hope that he’ll learn that he can’t do everything on his own and sometimes you’ve got to call for help.  Sometimes it’s all right to lean on Daddy.
 

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