El Gringoqueño

Rain was pouring down in sheets and the traffic had all jammed up, crumpled, jagged, and steaming in the tropical heat. As is my custom, when moving at 3 feet per minute and upon coming to an intersection wherein cars may poke out their snouts and cross through the great slow moving migration, I did indeed complete what had already been apparent, my relative lack of movement, and came to a stop. I had left a good twenty foot gap between myself and the car in front so as to not block the intersection. It was nothing new. It was courteous. It was lawful. It would have been unselfish except for the fact that those twenty feet meant nothing to me… a gap covered in five seconds once the migration should begin anew with a start and a lurch.

We were all there to pick up our beloved children from Catholic School. Mostly we are members of the same community and share a common devotion to braving this cursed traffic jam every day in order that we may fetch our darling children.

So it was therefore surprising that the blowing horns would have begun to fall upon me. Move up! Move up came the frantic wails. Can’t you see those twenty feet are essential to us? Can’t you see that you must move or we shall risk being crushed by the great disaster that comes from behind. And frantically they redoubled their efforts, blowing and snorting.

I held firm, resolute in my righteousness and irritation at the small-mindedness.

Then, without warning a small red Toyota Echo whipped from behind me and lodged himself diagonally into the space, the gap in the intersection directly in front of me. Now even the cross traffic was blocked. But the final straw? Someone in a Mercedes followed suit.

I had had enough. I blocked her. In our little game of chicken (if you could call it that), I could not have been defeated. My car? A twelve year old Chevy Lumina against the beautiful new Mercedes.

Just try it, bitch, I mentally cursed.

So I won. I looked her dead in the eye, shook my head, and mouthed. "Usted es una mal criada." Akin to saying, "The lady is a miscreant."

I love how Spanish allows one to insult with the air of an English butler. It’s fun. You should try it sometime. "I’m very sorry, sir, but the gentlemen is an ass."

So the madam was now stuck in the oncoming lane of traffic, blocked by myself and the stupid little pendejo, Toyota Echo. She attempted to back up and resume her station at my rear, but lo and behold, her traffic jam mate had closed her off from behind. She had no where to go. Oh how I wished there had been a lion or tiger to cull her ass from the herd.

The rain poured harder and I made a decision.

I flung open my door and sloshed my way to her driver’s side window. I leaned on her car and rapped on the window. She cracked it open a smidge.

"The lady is a miscreant. In the whole of my life I have never viewed such a manner. Does the madam believe that no one here to pick up their beloved children does not have hurry. Does the madam have more hurry than myself? Or them (pointing) or them? Does the madam not have the smallest portion of shame? I frankly would be ashamed of myself, a person of the madam’s age (55-60) and maturity to take it upon themselves to comport themselves in such a selfish and uncharitable manner."

Through, she kept attempting to interrupt with indignation, "Perdoname - perdoname - " make no mistake, ’twas not the tone of contrition.  No it was the "Look whippersnapper, I don’t know who you think you are - " the cold icy tone of "Excuse me?"

Indeed.

I had finished what I wished to communicate, so I got back into my car shaking my head and continued along… three feet at a time. Inch inch inch.

I’ve got a bunch to say since Asier was born, but I wanted to weigh in on the Walter Reed scandal by telling a story from my experiences in the Army.

We were in the field, doing a training exercise. We had planned it for months and were executing it for some much needed operational training and team-building. As we were setting up I was notified by the battalion XO (operations) that we would have to stop what we were doing and go on a police call (cut grass, pick up any trash, paint, pretty up the range), because our the Division commander (General) was coming for a visit.

"Don’t you think he wants to see us training?" I asked.

"Just fucking do it, Captain!" was the Major’s reply. This was to be beginning of a beautiful friendship, for sure.

So we reluctantly dropped our months of preparation by the wayside and prettied up the range. My soldiers were extremely pissed. The 1SG fumed, but as all good soldiers, we went about, "making it happen."

Brigadier General Rosado arrived with his staff, CSM (Command Sergeant Major, top enlisted man in the division) and assorted sycophants. They walked around, buzzed in and circled, talking to no one but the top officers of the battalion, all the while insulated by his staff.

I’ve got to do something about this. I don’t fucking care if it gets me in trouble. I wormed my way up to the Command Sergeant Major and took him aside.

"Do you want to know what’s really going on here?" I asked him. "Do you want an honest assessment of the training and readiness of your battalion here and now?"

"Of course," he answered.

"Don’t tell us you’re coming. That’s it. Don’t announce, don’t make a big hullabaloo. Come here quietly, just the two of you, show up unexpectedly, and talk to the enlisted soldiers. Ask them what they think, get them to be frank. That’s all I ask."

"I’ll let him know," he replied.   The Sergeant Major seemed to be a thoughtful pro-enlisted guy, so I hoped that my comments were welcome. I think he really took them too heart. He seemed a decent fellow. This might work.

A few months latter the CSM resigned and from what I heard through the grapevine, it was over styles of leadership. The CSM wanted to get his hands dirtier. He wanted the hands-on pro-soldier approach that I suggested, but Gen Rosado, for whatever reason, would rather have had his little buzzing snapping field of sycophants.

Whatever.

I bring this up, because the Walter Reed scandal smacks of the same ol’ shit. Forget the fact that the General in charge of Walter Reed had only been there six months. Many are saying he is but a scapegoat. How could he have changed things in six months? Poor guy. It was his predecessor that screwed it all up. Why should he take the blame?

My question to him is this: How many times did you visit the facilities, directly inspect with no announcement to the staff working in those places, talk to patients, demand frank ugly reports from your subordinates? Six months is a long time to be unaware of the problem.

You weren’t fired for not fixing the problem. You were fired for not even knowing about the problem.

But unfortunately, this is the problem with much of the military. Gen Patton said it best, "The more senior the officer, the more time he has to go to the front." Why? Because that’s where the operation is and guess what, Mr. General, YOU’RE IN CHARGE! I’d also add that the more senior the officer, the less time he should give before an inspection. The General should want to know what is really going on in his command. He should trust nothing but his own eyes, his own perception. He is the General. He is in charge.

Stop grooming yourself for bigger and better things and DO YOUR FUCKING JOBS!

With that said, our new Secretary of the Defense, Robert Gates, is really getting on my good side. I like that guy’s attitude, very pro-soldier.