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.

Today, I had a frustrating moment with Jaimito. The frustrating moment is one that I live repeatedly in other contexts in Puerto Rico. It is a frustration that I attribute to cultural differences and not some ingrained natural biology.

It seems I was wrong, maybe.

Jaimito came to me with a pad lock I had oiled and left on the table. Javier had reached up and decided that he would play with it. Yuck. Jaimito dutifully took it away from his little brother and brought it to me.

"Daddy, Javier had this."

"Oh, thank you, Jaimito. Could you put it back where he can’t reach it?"

"Yes, Daddy."

What a sweet little boy, Jaimito is.

About five minutes later, I got up from my desk and went to wipe down the lock and put it back on our gate. "Jaimito, where is the lock?" He immediately directed me to his toy box. Then reconsidered and pointed me in other direction. When it wasn’t there, he took me to our bedroom. It wasn’t there.

"Maybe it’s under your bed?" Like, Daddy, let’s go through the standard places to look when something is lost.

"Jaimito, you just had it, like five minutes ago. What did you do with it after you left the room? Remember, you said that Javier had it?"

"Um, I… uh, maybe it’s over here," and he dashed off again.

I was getting frustrated. "Jaimito, the lock is the heavy metal thing that you had in your hands five minutes ago that Javier had grabbed. What did you do with it? Why can’t you tell me what you did with it? Did you forget?"

"I don’t know," he said beginning to cry.

And so it spiraled downward from there. Jaimito bawling, me, if not yelling, being downright grouchy for the lack of a simple direct answer as to what happened to the damn lock.

"Jaimito, the lock is the thing that goes on the gate, that keeps it closed."

And through tear filled eyes, he exclaimed, "Oh, that," and brought it to me.

I was dumbfounded, irritated, and befuddled. It dawned on me, this has happened more times in Puerto Rico than I care to mention. My son, has the manner of indirectness, of not disappointing, of not saying no, not questioning authority, not complaining, not back-talking, just making it happen. My father asked me for something, he seemed to say, and I shall fetch it, even if I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

I explained to him, that if he didn’t understand something, he should ask for clarification. I’m not so big and scary that he couldn’t have asked, what’s a lock. He nodded while wiping his tears.

Maybe I am scary.

"Jaimito," I told him, "just say you don’t know what I’m talking about and ask me to give you more information. There’s nothing wrong with asking me a question. Don’t be afraid to ask questions."

"Okay, Daddy." And I gave him a hug.

In Puerto Rico, when asking for directions, many an American can recount with some frustration at never being given a straight answer.

Is it close?

Yes yes, very close.

Is it far?

Ma’am, do you wish it to be far? Well, yes then it is far.

Do you know the area?

Yes, of course, I know a shortcut.

How much is it going to cost?

Not much. It is cheap I assure you.

Is it any good?

Yes, best quality.

What seems like dishonesty, hides a profound deep truth about Puerto Rico and Puerto Ricans of the island. They don’t like delivering bad news to your face, or rather they can’t bear to be the bearers of it. And if humanly possible, they won’t be. They will transfer your phone call until you give up. They will give pathologically optimistic estimates.  They will smile as they tell you what you want to hear.

They will work tirelessly in a futile quest all for you, so that you are not disappointed so that you are not unhappy. They earn their reputation for great hospitality, friendliness, and helpfulness, but sometimes, a well-placed question for clarification or a simple "no, I don’t know where such and such is" goes a long way to being helpful, at least to this Gringo’s sensibilities.

So after all of that, the American asks, "Why didn’t you just tell me it was going to take this long in the first place? I could have made other plans."

The Puerto Rican, shrugs, smiles, and undaunted replies, "Ahorita (in a little bit)."

Last week I went into a local Subway shop in San Juan.  I looked at the promotional posters offering specials, delicious piping hot bubbling cheese, big big big meatballs and fresh fresh toppings.  I pondered my choices.  Whatever should I get?

Oh will you look at that, they have a special of the day.  $2.99 – cool.  What’s today’s special?  Roast beef.  Excellent.  I love roast beef.  "I’ll have one of those toasted on wheat."

"What chips would you like," The woman asked.  

"I’m okay.  No thanks."  I didn’t need the chips and I wanted the cheapo sandwich and that was it.  I love being a cheap bastard.  Just say NO to the combos folks.  Just say NO!

As she rung me up she asked me what drink I wanted.  Again I informed her that I would not be requiring a combo at this time.  She looked puzzled.

"Honey-child (actually she said, mi amor, but honey child is the best translation for the tone… one of sweet condescension), it already comes in combo."

"Oh,"  I paused, trying to absorb my good fortune.  For a second, my shoulder devil had me convinced that I should take the chips and drink and run – run like the wind, but I took a breath and remembered… "Um, are you sure.  I thought $2.99 was just for a sandwich.  That’s a pretty good deal, maybe too good.  Are you sure?"

"Yes, everything is in combo."

"Um, okay.  I’ll take sour cream and onion (I like sour cream and onion – did I ever tell you that?)."

I stepped into the hot morning sun, beaming the smile of a cat that had swallowed the canary.  I shall frequent this establishment regularly.  Cue Mr. Burns – excellent.

So, it was today, the day that I shall have my beautiful cheap sandwich combo.  I made plans to fetch my $2.99 lunch at the fine Subway establishment and fairly danced through the front door.  Such was my anticipation of hearty roast beef, diet cola, and sour cream chips for myself and PJ.

"That will be $9.50," the nice lady informed me.

Thinking that surely she had erred as to the total, I inquired, "Are you sure?  The sign clearly says $2.99."

"But that’s just for the sandwich," she insisted.

I smiled.  "You remember me right?"  She nodded. "We had this discussion last week.  You told me that the $2.99 price was a combo price, NOT a sandwich price."

"Um, well there was another special we were running that just finished."

"Oh, well I didn’t see a sign," I politely countered.

"Well, we never actually put them up."

"Oh…"  I paused, biting my lip.  "So did you, in fact actually have any offer at all?"

"No sir, I was deliberately wasting your time."

"Right oh."

Now that last part was fictitious, a homage to the classic phlegmatic Monty Python Cheese Shop.  The true ending consisted of her returning the chips that she had fetched for me, re-stacking the paper cups, and charging me $5.98.  I tell this story to you today to emphasize the point that in Puerto Rico, there is a singular true-ism.

There are rules, but they are not posted. 

The following is a series of posts that I started and never finished. I’m going to take the lazy man’s way out, thanks to Slashdot and post my very own slashback, or collection of random snippets of drivel.

The Grapes

I was driving along, doing 62 in a 60, when I came upon a little bunch of cars huddled as they were clinging to a lone police car putt-putting along at a mere 50 miles per hour. Eh?

I wove left. I wove right. I merged. I passed. I sped back up to 62 and continued on my merry way leaving the bunch of grapes behind me slow rolling along at 50 mph. What is wrong with those people? I thought.

Maybe they needed to ripen.

The police car pulled over and squatted on his haunches in the little u-turn lane specially placed for speed traps. I soon saw a celebration, a bursting forth of grapes as they rolled from the table, free, free at last, spilling forth in jubilation, bursting with exuberance.

One by one, they zipped past me at 70, zoom, zoom zoom, Doppler effect, Doppler effect. They rolled into the distance, skipping and dancing with joy.

Silly grapes.

Ice Helps with Swelling

The outdoor hotel lobby of the El Conquistador screamed with pain. Yells and angry words seemed to emanate from a disturbance of some sort. I couldn’t make out the root cause of the commotion, but never mind, the damage was done. A blond, Dawg bounty hunter looking type and a smaller darker man had possession of a large German Shepard. They seemed to be yelling at security. Security seemed to be "discussing" something with them. The yellow haired man said something about the dog, the leash, and, look, he’s tranquil. I don’t know, but I watched security guard after security guard pour into the scene. I watched what seemed a stream of bell boys and curious hotel employees gather around the wound to gawk, their hands shoved deep into their pockets. If there were to be rumble, I want to see it, they seemed to say.

Problem is, what could have been a simple matter really should have been handled better by the staff at a four star hotel. Let’s say the blond man and his friend were in the wrong. Maybe there was a guest scared by the dog, maybe they didn’t allow the dog into the shuttle, maybe… I don’t know. If the dog wasn’t allowed on the shuttle with other guests, they should have gotten a separate shuttle for him. If he was drunk and unreasonable, they could have disarmed him with a smile and a free something maybe another drink, a pretty girl… anything. They could have offered the dog a spa. They could have offered to give them all a free passes to something, offered to walk the dog. I don’t know, but anybody who has any experience dealing with different cultures, like one would expect in a four star hotel, should have been more deft at dealing with such a situation. It was embarrassing, it was pathetic. By the time I paid my parking fee and left, the scene seemed straight out of high school. All that was missing were the chants, of "fight fight fight!"

Welcome to Puerto Rico, where we don’t know how to deal with confrontation and unpleasant situations and gawking is a national pastime.

Let’s get it straight people. If you are not directly aiding in calming the situation, you are MAKING IT WORSE. Ice it. Don’t inflame it.

Oh, and by the way, I vote to revoke El Conquistador’s four star rating.

It is Your Destiny, Luke

Or, as Olaia corrected Darth Vader, "It’s not destiny, it’s a choice!"

–while watching Return of the Jedi. 

If She Was Any Other Woman…

Me: I can’t help it if you married a woman, my dear.

Laura: Yeah *laughs*

Me: Thank God you’re such a man, or we’d just be an old lesbian couple.

Fox News has Ceased to be Entertaining

I am ashamed to admit it… aw who am I kidding, I’m not ashamed. I watch Fox News. At least I did. Recently it has become a bad parody of itself. It’s not even entertaining anymore. And let’s face it, that’s the only reason to watch cable news.

Once, I found them amusing infotainment, but no longer.

Even today’s Bikini Murderer story, complete with gorgeous blond college aged victim found strangled to death with a string bikini isn’t enough to pull me in. I just don’t know you anymore Fox. You used to be fair and balanced. *wipes tear from eye*

Let’s go back to CNN… wait, scratch that. I forgot why I left your snaggle-toothed ass the first time. OMFG, I want to tear my eyes out. Between the giggling sorority girls and Lou Dobbs interviewing for a job at Fox News, I can’t take more than a few minutes. Besides, BOOOORRRRIIIINNNNGGG. You don’t even have the Bikini Murderer.

Guess the Daily Show is all I’ve got. I shall cling to you, Daily Show, for all my infotainment needs, cling to you I shall, for you are honest in your values.

You profess to be a show with no news, yet you are the Tao of news. You are so "news free," that the purity of your veins in which flows news is the newsiest news that was ever broadcast as news from your veins. Your every denial augments your stature, oh newsy-one.

I’m on to you, you allegory of news, you. Quee-Queg, fetch my harpoon.

I was on the road early this morning, out and about on my bicycle to pick up milk, eggs, and bread.  I still have my Rob Beckman bags and Bruce Gordon rack that I bought 10 years ago.  Those bags and rack have been through it all with me.

Anyway, I’m merging across lanes of traffic to make a left and a little Toyota comes up honking and carrying on.  Christ, people!  Cut a bicycle some slack.  They scream by honking and cursing.  Sigh.  But, as with all stupid metallic beasts, their haste has caused them to err.  Their failure to plan ahead has left them trapped at the light making the same left as I am.

We’re gonna be best pals now, together at the light, hanging like old friends, chatiando como locos.

"How’s it going, fellas.  I’m James.  What are your names?" I say to the three college aged kids in the car.  The driver looks stunned and says nothing.  I smile and address the kid in the back seat.  "It’s a nice morning, huh?  You guys on the way to school or work?"

"Work," he replies amicably.

"Ah, well, it was a pleasure to meet you.  Have a nice day!"  I smile and ride off.

I made my U-turn and headed out.  They smiled and waved from the car.  Guess I made some friends today.

It’s funny, but ever since my brother-in-law Chris told me a great story about an experience he had (that he still needs to write about – ahem), I’ve been channeling him when I’m on the road.  Road rage is for idiots. 

Road comedy is where it’s at, man.  Thanks Chris.

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.

Just been stupid busy.  Why is it that nobody wants anything for weeks, then all of a sudden they all want it now, right now!  Right friggin’ now!

Here’s a funny incident.  I’m American right?  I’m not from Puerto Rico, right?  I was not born here, nor am I culturally Puerto Rican, right? I’m a friggin’ big honking gringo, as big and whitey white as white can can be, like a giant white whale, like Uncle Ben’s long grain, the kind of guy that would never get picked for police undercover work, the kind of guy who – true story – got mistaken for undercover security for the Resident Commissioner in Washington D.C., Luis Fortuño.  I’m as big and conspicuous and as gringo as they come.

Well, with all that said, why is it that I keep having to translate for people here?  I end up translating from Spanish that doesn’t make any sense into Spanish that passes as language, with nice specifics, with nice timelines, and precision.  I’m not the only one that says this.  Laura always gets a giggle out of it. 

"Who’d have thought, that they’d need an American to translate for them?"  she mused, after I got off the phone with a client and his subcontractor.  I talked to the sub to explain what the client wanted.  I talked to the client to clarify what the sub didn’t understand – yeah, stuff like that.

"I wonder if they don’t just play dumb because they don’t want to do the work, but when a member of the High Command of Colonial Overlords is there they shape up because of vergüenza."

I dunno.  Maybe they think I’ll pull out my sidearm and shoot the place up a bit.

We white people are crazy that way. *eye twitches*

Tuesday night’s prison session was a difficult one.  Normally, it’s a positive experience, as I guess this one was in the end, but I’d not had an inmate quite so lost.  I was at a loss.  What would you do with a kid like this? 

We usually start out with a series of questions.  What is your favorite food?  What is your favorite sport?  What do you like to do in your spare time?  What talents do you have?  These questions, I believe, are the fundamental and most important questions of our lives.  They give you a road map of who you are.   There’s this quote that I love.  It comes up occasionally when I log into one of my servers.  It goes like this:

Your only obligation in any lifetime is to be true to yourself.  Being true to anyone else or anything else is not only impossible, but the mark of a fake messiah.  The simplest questions are the most profound. Where were you born?  Where is your home?  Where are you going?  What are you doing?  Think about these once in awhile and watch your answers change.
— Messiah’s Handbook : Reminders for the Advanced Soul

It’s kind of like that at the prison.  We ask simple questions and we get simple answers, but they reveal a lot of deep truths.  Last night was different though. 

Héctor is 16.  This is his fourth time in the juvenile detention system in Puerto Rico.  To the question, "Who do you most want to emulate?", he answered, "My mom."  

"What is it about your mother that makes you want to emulate her?  Is it something she does well?"

"She works really hard.  She works in a pharmacy and never complains about nothing.  She is very organized and dedicated."

"Disciplined?"

"Yeah, disciplined," he answered.

"So, tell me about your mother.  Did you live with her?"

"No, I lived alone."

I was puzzled.  "Okay, where did you live, with your father?"

"I live by myself.  An uncle died and left a house.  My father said I could move in there.  It’s close to my father."

"Hmm, okay, tell me about your father, then.  What’s he like.  Do you see him a lot?"

"No, my father works a lot."  He then perked up a bit, and said with pride, "My father lets me do whatever I want.  I had a car at thirteen."

"At thirteen," I exclaimed in surprise.  "You can’t even legally drive at thirteen.  How did you drive."

He shrugged and grinned.  "I just did."

"So you live alone.  Wouldn’t you rather live with someone?  How come you don’t live with your mom?"

"I did, but after fourteen years together, she left my dad, and two months later was with this other guy.  I hated him.  I think she was with him before she and my dad broke up.  He is an opportunist.  He’s no good for her.  Mi padrastro y yo no nos caemos bien."

"I see."  And we went on.  We talked about some of the other things on the question list.  Héctor’s favorite food is lasagna.  His favorite sport, soccer.  He likes reggaetón music, math, riding his motorbike, and aspires to better his mechanic skills and maybe work in a garage.

We returned to his mother.  I asked him if she visited him in the prison.  He said that yes, but she wasn’t happy to be there.  She was sad or angry and it wasn’t a happy moment for him.  I tried to explain to him how a parent could be disappointed in a child but still love them.  He looked uncomfortable so we shifted back to what he admired.

"So, maybe you admire her discipline.  How might you get that for yourself.  How do you get discipline?" 

He didn’t know.  I mentioned that I was an officer in the Army and that the Army can be a good place to get discipline.

"Ah, no, I wouldn’t like it.  Absolutely not." 

"Yeah, it’s hard, I agreed, but sometimes hard things are worthwhile.  It’s not like I want to convince you to join the military… but can you agree that your life isn’t rolling in the right direction?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Sometimes when you’re moving in the wrong direction, you’ve got to take drastic action.  You’ve got to get out, change your position, change your surroundings, do something dramatic.  I don’t know, I don’t judge, I’m just trying to help.  I’ve got my own set of problems.  ¿Todos somos pobres hombres, no?"  He smiled. 

"You know," he said, "It’s not even my fault I’m here."  And then the flood gates opened.  This kid needed to talk, so I listened to the remarkable incident that landed him here.  Normally we don’t ask the kids what they’ve done.  We’re not supposed to get personal with them.  Frankly, it’s irrelevant to me.  I don’t care what they’ve done.  They’re kids.  Some of them are murders and drug dealers, others are drug users, thieves, petty crooks, they’ve assaulted someone, or whatever.  We don’t ask, but if they want to tell us, we’ll listen.  We’re trying to elevate them.  We care about you.  You have value.  You are valued.  You are loved.  We love you. 

"I was getting into it with my step-father, mi padrastro and he called the security guard who called the police.  I was already on probation and he knew it.  I jumped out the window and climbed up on top of the apartment roof.  I jumped from one unit to the other and climbed down inside the parking area.  I had his car keys with me, so I hopped into his car and left.  I made it to Caguas before the police nabbed me for car theft.  That’s why I’m here.  I got a year for supposedly stealing his car.  I didn’t do nothin’"

I was in shock.  And to myself, I cursed the son-of-a-bitch.  This guy’s wife’s sixteen year old son, runs off in his car and he sends ‘em up for grand theft auto for a year.  This kid did something wrong, certainly, but what kind of person does that?  Did he rationalize it to himself as tough love.  "You know mi amor your son needs this.  He needs to get serious about his life and to learn that there are consequences.  This is good for him."

But quietly, slyly he grins to himself and thinks it is good for me too.

 

You know how there are various funny websites making fun of numerous
English product translations to Chinese? For example, Coca Cola comes
out "happiness in the mouth" as its literal translation. I sometimes
think it helps fuel our distrust or timidity over these alien Chinese
and their weird language and their body lotion translated as "imposing
lavish experience focus and well-being for your dermis." They’re weird,
otherworldly. Whatever.

I was driving the other day and one of
those local radio station vans passed me. You know, the ones with the
KROCK 100 "all the hits fit to play" or WLOVE 103 "We put your groove
on french toast" or some such nonsense. Well, I saw the following, ONDA
94 "Toca lo que Pega" or literally: WAVE 94 "(It) plays that which
sticks". I swear I almost had an accident. Now, comeon, Spanish isn’t
that different from English, but you’d be amazed how much goes into a
translation to make it palatable to its audience. For example, if I was
to translate ONDA 94′s slogan to English, I’d just say, ONDA 94 "We
play the hits", not "The hits are played" or "We only play what sticks"
neither of which actually capture the exact phrase in Spanish.

In
Spanish, I might come up with the following: ONDA94, "Tocamos los
grandes exitos" which means "We play the greatest hits." It’s simpler,
more literal. But for some reason, "Toca lo que pega" has more
immediacy, more puissance. It sounds hipper, more local, less about
waiting for something to be a hit and then playing it like a follower.
"Toca lo que pega" connotes leadership. It makes me think that they
know what holds up, what people like, and they play it because they
KNOW.

In Spanish I instantly understand the phrase "Toca lo que pega" but when put to translating it, I have to think about it a bit.

Anyway, back to sticking to my popular tunes of "prevailing essense" or something.

Frequently I write up responses to things that interest me or pursue a
thought that pops into my head during the day. More often than not, I
write it up in a hurry, reread it, and discard it. Occassionally, I go
back and check out the drivel that I had written and think, "Hey that’s
not so bad, why did I throw it away. Good thing I saved it." This is
one such occassion, and the theme a recurring one. China’s growing
economic might and progress. Chinese technology

Go ahead and read it. It’ll sound about the same as every other
thinly veiled awestruck/fearstruck warning to the western world, to
"get off yer duff and take these bastards seriously, or they’ll run the
world in a few decades, while you and your familly drown in your own
excrement." You’ll find things like, "There are 300 million cell phone
users in China." "If even 10% of the Chinese population did _blank_
then that would turn the word market for _blank_ on its ear." They
always talk passingly about "our market opportunity" but belie it with
"if only China would open its doors to the west." Sprinkle in "human
rights," "nuclear weapons," and "communism" and you’ve got the makings
of a nice little pseudo cold war in the brewing, a nice sun brewed ice
cold war.

You see, our problem is that we are really afraid of China, but
it’s not just China. Before them (or concurrently) it was Russia.
Before that, it was the Vietnamese, Native-Americans. Before that, it
was the Turks… It’s always somebody, and hindsight has always proven
our fear was all for naught.

So, back to China. What was it about this article that irked me? -
Cell phone users – I got this image in my head of 300 million folks
walking around with little black gadgets stuck to their heads. I see
them, a sea of thin, slight, Chinese people hustling and bustling with
little portable hot-pocket roasters yibber yabbering away about
important stuff concerning world affairs and their plans for global
domination and our own subsequent subjugation.

Unfortunately, their plans are probably more in line with, do you know
who X has a crush on, or did you get the new album by X, or hon, pick
up some rice on the way home from the office, or hi, mom, the phone
company told me that it would be another ten years (or never) before
they extended service to our area, so I just got this cell phone.

So people aren’t doing anything but using these cellphones to perform
the same things that you or I do in the same circumstances. But what if
the Chinese dumped cell phones onto our markets, got a lock on the
global cell phone market, why, they could… hello? These are cell
phones, people!! These are communication devices. Like ALL tech, it
doesn’t have the ability to DO squat by itself. It can’t invent
anything new. It can’t create. It can’t motivate. It can’t thrust. It
is a TOOL, a tool for people, subject to their follies, their
strengths, their weaknesses. A cell phone cannot DO anything to you. It
cannot change your way of life. It cannot subjugate you. Unless…

And that brings me to another point. If technology is essentially
impotent, what CAN China possibly do with it or any other piece of
technology they acquire? The short answer is this: What their president
tells them to do.

We should not fear a people without true freedom, for it is the most
important attribute of success. One person cannot make decisions for 2
billion people. He can’t even begin to comprehend the lives of his
living relatives. The only way China can succeed in any lasting way is
if they are free to pursue their inalienable rights of life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness. Will they pursue folly? Sure. Will they
do great things? Sure. Will they be a threat to us? Surely not.