El Gringoqueño

The other day, the head of only Home Grown Puerto Rican Terrorist Group^TM, the Macheteros^TM 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.

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.

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."

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.

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.