El Gringoqueño

What is it that Muslim’s fear so much?  Why do they wail and gnash their teeth so?  How come they can’t just go about their business, but must convince, kill, or convert the world when it conflicts with their truth?  First they are ignorant.  Second, they are just plain wrong.  Maybe that’s what they’re afraid of.

I know of a group that lives in what is alleged to be the most decadent nation on the planet, the US of A.  They live right smack in the middle of Satan’s den.  They live quiet ascetic lives the likes of which The Prophet would envy.  They shun our way.  They shun our materialism.  They shun technology.  They support each other and seem to live happy peaceful lives doing what they like.  For their way to exist, they don’t need to rail against the infidel.  They are comfortable in their own skin.

One the other hand when what you believe isn’t natural to you, when you have doubt, when you are fearful and craven, then everything is an attack against your foundation of belief.  Television is an attack.  Books are an attack.  Liberalism is an attack.  Politics is an attack.  Women are an attack.  They are attacking us.  They wish to tear us down, but quietly in places you don’t like to admit, your house is already in tatters.  Please, I pray to God, let them not see the poor condition of this place in which I dwell.  Perhaps if I tear out their eyeballs, they will not look upon me.  Then my state of shame will not be true.

Pay Attention, Islam

Perhaps Muslims could take a tip or two from the Amish.  Here we have a religious community that has sworn off most of America’s way of life.  They live amongst us, and have done so for hundreds of years.  We don’t bother them.  They don’t bomb us.  They farm, make furniture, clothes, trade with locals, and generally lead happy lives.  You do what you do, they say, and we’ll do what we do. 

That’s true belief.  That’s the comfort of knowing who you are, not basing your self identity on what others are doing.  Live and let live.

Of course, ALL the fundamental sects could take a lesson or two from the Amish.  I’ve not ever had an Amish person bother me on a Saturday morning with their literature.  I’ve never heard of an Amish suicide bomber.  I’ve never heard of a white supremacist Amish hate-monger.  They don’t appear on the 700 club.  They don’t make hateful statements against the victims of hurricane Katrina.  They don’t call for the destruction of the Infidel.  They don’t protest at the funerals of soldiers or the deaths of AIDs victims.

They just go about their business, doing God’s work as they see fit.  And here in America, we let them. 

And we’d let you *@*#&% Muslims go about your business too, if you’d just stop BLOWING SHIT UP AND MAKING A NUISANCE OF YOURSELVES.

Why can’t you be more Amish?

I was just looking at my son’s Valentine’s card on my desk.   The little truck sticker that he had placed on it had fallen off.  I picked it up.  What a cute little manly truck.  I stuck it back on the construction paper between the two hearts, one pink and one orange.  To the right of the orange heart he had put a sticker of a helicopter and another small pink heart.  Below, Jaimito had drawn his family as stick figures.  Our bodies were rudimentary, but he had put extra emphasis on the faces, beaming smiling faces.

He had selected each element with care, I am sure.  Jaimito made me a card to communicate his love for me.  He also made sure that the card represented himself, hearts of love, his family, and a truck and a helicopter.

Boy, do I love that little boy.  I want to be just like him when I grow up.  It’s funny, but I remember the rush of first love, those days of your first Valentines.  You get older and those rushes fade.  One would wonder if they were supposed to fade, should I look for new love, hang on to the old, or just accept that first love, that young passionate love is long gone?

Well, folks, it ain’t over.  The rush comes back, and I think, comes back both stronger and steadier.  When Jaimito handed me his Valentine’s day card and said, "Here, Daddy, I made dis for you,"  I swept him up into my arms, crushing him to my breast, peppering his round cheeks with a thousand kisses, until he giggled with delight.  "Daddy, did you see the truck?"

"Yes, I love your truck." 

We’re back in a new chat with Jesus. Welcome back everyone, and Jesus - how have you been?

J: Not good, not good at all. I’m a bit distressed with this organized religion thing.

I: What do you mean? I thought that was an invention of yours.

J: *looks askance at interviewer*

I: *defensively* What?

J: Look, I was the original anti-established organized religion guy. Geez, I came here to tear down the temple, remember? My goal was to tear it all down and - well not so much tear it down as re-purpose it - wait.. let me think for a bit.

Okay, here’s a good analogy. Let’s try this on for size.

Let’s talk about warm chocolate chip cookies, shall we?

I: Oookay… I’m listening

J: Good, let’s think of the institution of the Church as a big warm chocolate chip cookie. Let’s think of them all, all the churches like that - all big warm chocolate chip cookies. The Catholic church, the biggest Christian denomination founded in my name has this huge honking warm gooey chocolate chip cookie and it’s going stale. They’ve stirred and baked this enormous cookie and what do they do with it?

I: I’m kinda lost with the whole cookie thing.

J: Sigh, cookies? Cookies are love, dude. Cookies are love. You’re killing me.

So you’ve got this huge cookie. What are you going to do with it? I’ll tell you what I did with it. I starting breaking off pieces and handing them out to people.

Breaking - it - apart. You got that?

Every time I went to temple, I’d shove some pieces of it in my pockets to take to the sick, outcast, and the forgotten. The tough thing about it was, I couldn’t sneak much out, but to some of the people living on the outermost fringes of society, a crumb of the stuff was pure gold. It made me feel really good to be able to brighten their days and bring them some morsels from time to time.

I: Did they really have cookies back your day?

J: Again, love, dude - love. Cookies are metaphors for love. The church is supposed to be a manifestation of love, therefore it’s like a cookie, best eaten with a glass of warm milk.

So I’m all, ‘Tear down this temple and I will rebuild it in three days’, but that’s not what I said. I said to tear it down and feed it to my hungry brothers and sisters, then we would return and rebuild it in three days. It’s another metaphor. Love and cookies work best when shared freely. Cookies, when kept to yourself, just get moldy and nasty. It gets stale and old and rotten, then you spend all your time trying to keep it from getting nastier, preserving it, putting it in the freezer, protecting it from harm. If you’d just eaten it when it was warm you would have always had fresh cookies. You see it’s not ABOUT the cookie, it’s about sharing the cookie, using the cookie.

The problem was that when I spoke about these things, you all whipped out your little notebooks and wrote down: "Must make cookies. Cookies are sacred. Cookies are the key to everlasting salvation." And you all went off and made little cookie shrines in my name (like I hadn’t seen that before, sheez). Look, it’s for e-a-t-i-n-g. *mimes putting a cookie in mouth, chewing*

But when my hungry brothers and sisters came to taste the cookie, you brushed them off saying, "No, no, no, you mustn’t touch the sacred cookie. That’s one of the blessed mysteries of the church and you went back to the fabrication of more cookies on display under glass."

You can see how it’s a little frustrating. I was the original destroyer of organized religion. I’m not for it. I wasn’t for it. I was a disruptive force, a sacrilege, a heretic, and a subversive influence.

I like to think I was the mad subversive cookie baker.

And I’d hoped you’d all get giddy with cookie baking and serving and just go crazy dishing them out to the corners of the world. Some of you did, God bless you, you got it, but there’s a whole bunch of you who didn’t. I hoped that you’d search out the most lost, the most hungry, the most unloved and offer them a piece of your cookie, and say, "You look hungry, here’s a plate of warm cookies and milk. Best eaten now. We can always make more. Don’t waste your time preserving them."

Get to it man, get to it!

I’m going to pull a page from the anti-blogger.   Pretend I’m hip for a sec (I know it’s a stretch, but bear with me).  I would probably respond to the cliquey little meme-tag shit in the following manner.

Four Jobs I’ve had:

1. Look how freaking poor I am
   
2. I’m one of the working class - at least I was for the summer between my sophmore and junior year of college
   
3. I’m not a classist bastard
4. I’m interesting, I swear - I had a bunch of jobs, see?
   

Four Movies I can watch over and over

1. I’m artsy
2. I’m deep
3. I can play populist too
4. But deep down bah, who am I kidding? I’m better than you are
   

Four places I’ve lived

1. I’m worldly
2. But a homeboy
3. Hon, what was the name of that city in Canada where we spent the night that one time?
   
4. Thank God in a blue state

Four TV shows I love

1. No reality TV
2. I’m quirky - but derivative
   
3. I’m a trend-setter
4. Except for the fact that I watch TV

Four places I’ve vacationed

1. Remember that part where I could hang with commoners… well forget that
2. Europe BAAABBBY
   
3. Never in a red state
4. Can I count Europe twice?

Four of my favorite dishes

1. Something I can’t pronounce
2. Something I never really ate, but the IDEA, the idea of the dish spoke to me
   
3. Something from Europe that can only be found in the expensive trendy import shop around the corner
4. Not something found in a typical red state super market, or God forbid a Walmart.  Ptooie

Four sites I visit daily

1. Please don’t type foxnews.com
2. Please don’t type foxnews.com
3. Please don’t type foxnews.com
4. foxnews.com - damn!
   

Four places I’d rather be right now

1. At our favorite little French cafe, remember the one from the magazine ad?
   
2. In a blue state, preferably San Francisco - well, it damn-well ought to be a state
3. Somewhere conspicuous, reading anything with "Manifesto" "Media" or "Conspiracy" in the title. To help passers-by check out my hipness, extra points for fabricating a jacket with the title in large print.
4. Saving the whales in Europe with ropes made of hemp.
   

Four bloggers I’m tagging

1. Someone who will increase my page rank
2. Someone who will increase my hipness
3. Someone who validates ME
4. Someone who isn’t in a red state

* BTW, I had to google "blue state"/"red state", because I didn’t know which was which.  You mainlanders are a strange lot, what with your gang colors an’ stuff.

"How do you call yourself?" I asked extending my hand.

He mumbled something.  I couldn’t make it out.

"Could you say that again?"

"Escgael," he said again as I leaned in.

"Eh?  What was that again?"

"Esdasel."

"Could you write it down please?"  I handed him a pen and paper.  I watched him write out E-Z-E-Q-U-I-E-L. "Ah, from the Bible - the Jewish prophet.  Interesting.  Cool."

He smiled.

"Okay, now that we have that out of the way, I’m James o Jaime en español.  Pleased to meet you.  So, Ezequiel, first I want to ask you why you came down today?"

"I always come down."

"Okay, did you come down for a particular reason?"  I always ask this because I’m not sure if a particular inmate is coming to the session for religious study, general chit chat, or just to get out of the general population for a respite.  I can go all religious if need be, but I prefer to weave it all together in a more secular way.  But really, it’s all the same to me.  Me da igual. 

"I’d… like to look for… Jesus." 

"Why?"

He shrugged.  Look I don’t know, maybe.  Maybe I felt I was supposed to say that.  Or maybe I was trained to say that.  Or maybe it felt good to say that.  Or maybe I’d like… I dunno.

"What do you want to do?" I asked him.  "What would you rather be doing right now?"

"I’d like to be out of here."

"Yeah, but if you were out of here, what would you be doing?  What do you like to do.  What would you like to do with your time?"

"Paint cars."

"You mean like in an auto shop?  Hmmm, that’s interesting."

We talked, or rather, I talked/asked him about painting cars and his talents and what he liked to do.  He was a quiet kid.  He didn’t say much.

"Hey, you ever see that show on MTV, ‘Pimp My Ride’?  It’s this show where they take an old beat up car and turn it into a work of art.  New seats, new rims, tires, interior, rugs, sound system, televisions, computers, new dash etc.  They always put a super fine paint job on it too.  You want to do something like that?"

"Yeah."  He smiled his eyes twinkling.  He was still a kid of few words, but he had these twinkling eyes.  I’d have to pay attention to his eyes for clues to his thoughts.

"So, how might you paint these cars?  What would you paint?" 

"I don’t know." 

"How about some clouds, and ‘Mi bendición’ with a Puerto Rican flag with a cool metallic ice?"

"Yeah."  His eyes got wide again.  It’s like I could read his thoughts before he even knew he had them.  I could see him dreaming about his beautiful paint job.  I watched reflections in his eyes of some big aluminium rims, sweet Pirellis, neon in the undercarriage, an awesome fade on the side panels with a Puerto Rican flag waving in the cool tropical breeze.  It was like a big piece of sweet candy and I could see it tasted good to him.

"It’s like art, you know?" I offered.  "One of the things that we share with God is the need to create.  It’s one of the things that takes us back to the divine, compartimos ese trato con Dios.  He was sitting there all alone and he had this big nothing, but a lot of love.  He could do no other thing than create… everything.  So great was his love, he created us.  That’s what it’s like when we create.  When we create we are doing the same thing that God did.  We are fulfilling the same need.  We are sharing in the divine."

Ezequiel nodded.

"So, guess what," I added. "Lots of famous painters throughout history created paintings on all kinds of places, walls, poles, town squares, floors, ceilings, carriages, you name it.  They painted everything.  Maybe you do this painting on the car that says, Jesus es el salvador or mi salvación, Jesus.  Whatever."  I thought maybe I was getting corny now.  I pictured in my mind a typical heavily modded import with a rosary and crucifix hanging on the rear view mirror.  Painted on the exterior I saw a big mural of La Señora de la Providencia, an image of the Virgin Mary, with an infant Jesus resting on her lap painted big and fat on the hood.  I saw chrome, lights, a crucified Christ on the door, and a cloud-like father figure emerging from a heavenly scene. 

It’s not my taste, for certain, but I loved it.  I see some of the graffiti here and I must say I am in awe of the talent of these kids.  While I wouldn’t own a Jesus-pimped car, I have to say I’d love to look at it.  I’d love to drink it in, enjoy the art, appreciate the expression.  I would stand in awe of such a creation.

I shook Ezequiel’s hand before we left.  It was a pleasure to meet you, I said.  I told him that I dreamed of the car he would paint.  I told him I dreamed the dream as if it was my own.  I wished I could paint that car the way I dreamed it.  But, I told him, I’d probably screw it up.

It was up to him to do it right, because the world needs that car.