El Gringoqueño

I was confronted today with a misunderstanding that I didn’t know how to correct. Laura’s mother called to ask if Santa, the woman who helps us with our house and kids, could leave work early and help her with something. She went into this long-ass explanation of which I could not make heads or tails. “Yes, sure, it’s fine with me,” I said. “No problem, I’ll tell Santa.” When I went out, I chuckled with Santa that Mami Nellie needed her to run some sort of errand. I asked her if she had already explained it to her, and if she understood. Sure, she said. I chuckled, I have no idea what she wanted, but the details weren’t important, I said, she could leave early to help Mami Nellie.

But I made a crucial mistake, and I could sense it immediately. I said, “No me importa.” Literally, it’s not important to me, or in my mind expressing that the details weren’t necessary or important. Mami Nellie needed her and that was good enough for me. The problem in Spanish, is that for some reason, that direct “No me importa.” Seems to take on this formal tone in some grand manner as if I was a king on high and I were to say, “I give little import to the suffering of you worthless peasants. No me importa.” Right after it came out of my mouth, Santa’s tone changed, and I knew why.

“Ah, if my worthless life isn’t of any import to you, then fine…” That’s not what she said, but that was the tone, that I got back.

“But, Santa, you misunderstood. I wasn’t saying…” The words were right, just that they weren’t. Arrggghhh, how do I fix this? “Santa, are you offended. I didn’t mean, I misspoke.” And she said, no, that it was fine, no problem, and cast her eyes down, as is done on this island. Conflict, discomfort? Just redirect, route around, don’t meet it, don’t acknowledge it. All happens here in what is called an indirecta, an indirect way of dealing with discomfort. It is unspoken, but for those of the same culture, clearly understood.

I got it, all right, I just couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

So, I fired up my indirecta powers in Laura and explained the exchange to her. I’m going to make this culture’s tricks work for me. If Santa couldn’t bear to face me directly because of my offense, I must work an indirect path through someone else. Laura is the perfect vehicle. She can explain where it went wrong, why being an ethnic American makes these things all the more confusing. My Spanish is good enough, my accent neutral enough that most people would assume a much higher level of cultural comfort than prudence should dictate.

You see, Puerto Rico is extremely mono-cultural, that is, there is a large degree of cultural homogeneity. Everyone is in the club and knows the secret handshake without having to ask nor assume anyone doesn’t know it. There are rules, etiquette, modes of behavior that are assumed universally.

However, if you are American, if you speak English – they can deal with that, no problem. There’s an abstraction, you are clearly not from here. You are an outsider. There are different rules. Puerto Ricans get that, and adjust accordingly. It’s not so tough when faced with an obvious gringo right off the boat.

My reality on the other hand, is quite different. I deal with everyone in Spanish, fluent Spanish, comfortable Spanish. The people with whom I deal in this mode, do not put on their “dealing with gringo hat” and as such will see me through their culture’s eyes rather than as a foreigner. They attribute to me a cultural comfort much greater than reality.

The problem is, I’m still an ethnic American. My attitudes, my modes of thought, my manner are still American. I am direct. I don’t beat around the bush. I don’t shy away from argument. The indirecta is uncomfortable to me, as I find it deceptive, disingenuous. I don’t roll with punches as easily. I want to punch back. I get angry more easily. To a Puerto Rican, it can become jarring. Excited speech can quickly be taken as angry speech. Try to address the point of offense to clear it up? Hah, you may as well try to dig a hole in water. They will quickly deny they are offended, not wanting to admit weakness. You press them to accept your humblest apologies for your poor words. They shrug it off, deny offense, give a quick smile, and stay offended for life. They will hang on to their offended demeanor like a life preserver and will not give it up… ever.

Misunderstandings occur not because I’m American, but because I seem like a Puerto Rican. It doesn’t happen often, but I can tell immediately when it does, like a slow motion train wreck about which I can do nothing.

Luckily, I have Laura to smooth things over, to explain away my cultural faux pas as I go on about my bumbling ways, like a bull in a china shop.

The security guard stepped out of the bakery, his wrinkled navy
blue uniform baggy around his tightly cinched belt. He wore
comfortable shoes with thick white socks. He walks a lot during the
day, so comfort remains high on his priorities. He had gone into the
bakery to get a cafecito, a small coffee in a tiny white
styrofoam cup. Soon he would return to patrolling the tiny strip mall.

On his way through the swinging glass door, he jostled the full little cup and spilled
hot coffee on his fingers. Our man held on though, held on for dear
life. I could see the pain in his face, but he wasn’t going to give
up that coffee.

Damn
- now he had hot sticky coffee all over his hand. No napkin – he
checked his pants – clean. He sighed mild relief, the
uniform would go for one more day without washing.  He exchanged the
cup to his left hand and shook off the drops, and turned looking for
something upon which to wipe his little fingers. He reached out to a
bright
yellow metal pole, a parking barrier, its top peeling paint and, after
a quick glace around to see if anyone was looking, wiped his hand upon
its top, down the side, and gave it a slap.

He brought the cup to his lips and gingerly took a sip.

They have always existed, severe melancholics, those for whom
perfection is an attainable goal. The monks lock themselves away with
their craft to the exclusion of what we would call normal. Are these
noble endeavors, to cloister oneself far away from the distractions
of human life? They chose a lifetime of solitude, silence, rigorous
study, self denial, not for ignorant religious reasons, but for the
sake of their craft. These were the ones who preserved history,
recorded deeds, transcribed knowledge and kept it safe
for posterity. They wrote great works of philosophy, theology, and
science. They were the maladjusted geeks of their generation, so they
hid themselves away from the frat boys.

Still, I can’t help but feel a sort of pity for those so ill
equipped to deal with the stupidity and chaos of human existence that
they must flee from it. I cannot help but feel like they’ve missed
out on something, they who lock themselves away from humanity in
search of order, perfections, the divine.

I get the same feeling reading Slashdot,
and I’ve come to realize that programmers are our modern monks, quasi
agoraphobic masters of their craft, who wish strike out all discord
in the universe, make it perfect.

More specifically, these Slashdotters generally cannot tolerate
children, are set on never having any and express disdain for those
ignorant souls in the majority, the stupid politicians, the idiot
masses, the uneducated fools that hurt the environment, muck up the
order, impinge on our monks’ solitude. The disdain is expressed in a
variety of manners, from a quick sharp word to the author of a
factually incorrect statement, to the merciless flagellation of
abusers of grammar or spelling. Slashdotters revile rules imposed
upon themselves, limitations that rob from them the tools used to create
order. Witness the rebellion in both Europe and
the US over software patents. Programmers regard source code as
speech, and to patent it, to limit it, is tantamount to a civil
rights violation. Slashdotters hate spammers as well, these idiot
purveyors of Viagra, cheap real estate, and get rich schemes
withhold from our programmers free and open communication with their
fellows. It is as if all across the silent monastery rang the din of
Brittney Spears 24/7.

Happiness is irrelevant. There is only truth. There is only
perfection, and to the monk, perfection is attainable, if only he
could concentrate on it a bit harder, for a bit longer, with the
right tools, away… from… it… all.

I have come to realize that my pity is misplaced, for the monks of
our generation, as in generations past, are who they are and are
compelled to embark upon their quest to attain the unattainable. They
are the dreamers, the philosophers, the unreasonable forces in the
universe that create, if not perfection, at least a detailed map of
what it might look like. And that is a start, for without a map, how
may we know where to go, what to do with ourselves?

I dismounted my bike, grabbed a couple of dollars from my bike bag, and started into the bakery. Coming up the sidewalk were four young attractive women. A man walking into the bakery ahead of me, stopped short, arching his back and his head at an awkward angle as he gawked. I almost walked into him. I cleared my throat, "Ahem, con permiso." I shook my head, wasn’t that the damnedest thing. He should’ve taken a picture. It would have lasted longer.

I made my way to the line in the panadería. It was just after eight o’clock in the morning, the busiest time. The line was long, the bakery crowded. I tried to get there earlier, but sometimes, you just can’t get out the door.

The young women, stepped into the bakery, chatting loudly, giggling, carrying on. They were noticeable because they were all dressed in filmy, revealing, noodle strap dresses, high heels, and an unusual amount of makeup for so early in the morning. There were indeed hot, and they were about to unleash their wiles on a bakery full of old weak men. Poor devils.

The bakery came to a complete stand-still. It was like a television freeze frame, ala TJ Hooker. A fifty-ish short balding man walking toward where I stood, muttered to his friend, "… e gusta el lechón con gandules." I didn’t hear the first part… Me, te (you), if it was a question or what… but the point was clear. "Pork and pigeon peas" go well together in a sexual way. The innuendo was unmistakable, and I tried to contain a smirk. Only a Puerto Rican can say he likes pork meat and pigeon peas in a way that connotes sex. I mused on comical variations, taking liberty, but couldn’t push it to hyperbole in Spanish. I like marshmellows in my coffee. I like ketchup on my burger. I like little toys with my happy meal. And slowly, with feeling… I like salty… deep fried… artery clogging, pork rinds mashed into gigantic mounds of green bananas. Nope, just cannot push it far enough. Everything sounded sexual in Spanish.

I shook my head to myself, and watched the funny time warp within the bakery. The women were standing directly behind me in line, carrying on, obviously excited by the eyes burrowing holes in their flimsy clothing. I had a good vantage point to observe the leering, as I was directly in its line of site, and despite being clad in a bright red spandex skin suit, bike helmet, and sunglasses, was completely invisible. I was a camouflaged nature photographer, dressed in bright orange, invisible to the color-blind wild beasts. It was absurd. It was hilarious. I continued to watch the reactions from behind my bright blue lenses, the population of older men visually undressing the women with their unabashed desires and their longing gazes. These people have not even the tiniest slice of shame, their decorum thinly dressed in colorful food metaphors.

I asked Esteban for a dozen eggs. "Esteban, I don’t have an egg carton today, do you think you could rig me something up?"

"Sure," he said as he proceeded to put the eggs in a paper bag.

"Um, do you think you could put them in a cardboard container? I’m on my bicycle. They’ll surely break in a paper bag."

"Oh, sorry, he proceeded to break down one of the cardboard trays used to deliver the eggs, and put it inside a plastic bag."

"Um, do you think you could put some plastic wrap around it. They’ll surely fall out. Sorry for the bother. Next time I’ll be sure to bring my receptacle."

"No bother, really. Service is why we are here." And he handed me five eggs crudely wrapped in plastic.

"Esteban, I wanted – Um, nevermind, good day." I wasn’t going to get my twelve eggs today. The sirens had conspired with the gods to keep me from my goal.

Sometimes I think that the black
bile will overwhelm me, fill me up to my eyeballs with anger and
despair, anger at those in power that have not accepted the true
responsibility to those they serve, and despair at being so utterly
powerless to affect the change that I feel this world so desperately
needs.

Here I am with this stinking goo leaking out of me, affecting
those around me, venom poisoning relationships, attitudes, positive
change, weighing down, hanging in the air with its foul putrefying
odor.

I was speaking to my dear old friend Courtney the other day, and
she said, "It’s just that the complete powerlessness… I mean,
the Bush administration just makes me feel so… powerless." I
had been feeling so under the weather about the present state of the
world, my military service, my military fellows, Laura’s brother
Carlos who has been put on standby to be sent to Iraq. I wanted to
scream and point out this evil mist that had settled over American
society. I couldn’t scream though, buried as I was in my own
excrement.

I have been working so hard, seems like 17 hours a day, and
getting nowhere. Oppressing me is this shroud of ugliness both from
within and without, angry, nasty, vile, desperate thoughts, as I hear
Fox News in the background, parroting cheerful messages of war and
how liberals are undermining America. Hello, people?! We’re at fucking
WAR. You’re prisoners in your OWN homes! And your government thinks
you’re all criminals and wants to SPY on all of you! Liberals are doing
what again?!

I toil for clients that don’t pay, put up with ingrates,
degenerates, and malcontents, while I hear Bush’s administration’s
"stop loss" shenanigans, designed as a back door draft,
whose purpose is to keep in harm’s way those that have already
sacrificed so much. Bush is taking advantage of the faithful service
of thousands of Americans pressing them into involuntary servitude
beyond their enlistment contracts, beyond their retirement, beyond
any measure of good faith that should have been rendered to them.
This comes from a man who did everything he could to avoid military
service himself, who never sacrificed, who didn’t do shit. Look!
daddy set me up in a cool airplane! Chicks dig pilots. Do you
think, Mr. President that chicks dig disabled veterans? Of course
you don’t Mr. President, despite what you’ve read in Penthouse.

Does it make me feel powerless in the face of this evil dictator
who acts like he owns the country? This is our country, dammit! Bush
is the CEO, we elected him to the board, but we shareholders own the
thing. It’s our country, but he wields it like his personal
conviction with his smug little smirk and federalist totalitarian
self. Midget dictator, fucking creep, smug bastard, beady eyed
miscreant, bible thumping wacko, American society hostage taking
fool, abuser of military service, arrogant trampler of civil rights,
and big business whore.

I was asked recently if I had seen Fahrenheit 9/11. Hell, no, I
responded. I’ve lived it! Why would I want to drag myself through
that shit, something to make me feel more powerless, less
significant, less valued, and a victim of a presidency gone horribly
awry. Fuck that, I can get that from Fox News, and the fucking
erroneous pay or die letters I get from the Defense Finance and
Accounting Service (DFAS) for recoupment of military service WHICH I
PERFORMED! Fuckers.

There, I’ve let some of the ugliness out, exorcised some of my
demons. Whew, it felt good. You know what. If I were ever on Inside
the Actor’s Studio (which I won’t be), FUCK would be my favorite
expletive… there’s such a nice draining feeling to it, like a good
satisfying puss-filled pimple pop.

I think I’ll go sit next to Laura and see if she’ll put up with me
now.

or, "Hanging out in a European Café."

Laura and I had an early morning meeting at a Cyber Cafe here in
Puerto Rico, in Rio Piedras. We arrived early because traffic was
light due to the day of remembrance for President Ronald Reagan.
What are we going to do for half an hour in Rio
Piedras, we asked ourselves?

"You know it kinda feels like we’re in a small European town
square," Laura remarked.

"Yeah," I said, "If you cover your eyes, your ears,
your nose, and your sense of aesthetic." I chuckled at my own
joke. Laura didn’t laugh. I repeated it in a lame attempt to get a
smile at least. She giggled slightly.

Then, in her ever indomitable spirit of can-do, she stated, "Let’s
see if there’s a coffee shop." We took a couple of steps up the
block, passed a stray dog, a homeless man, a coin operated laundry
mat, and abandoned our search.

"Hmmm, Europe, you say?" I chuckled again.

"Let’s check behind this street. I ambled off at Laura’s
heels like the dutiful dog that I am. It was eight in the morning
and already it was hot. I began to sweat as we walked across a large
parking lot to an adjacent street. "Hey, this looks promising,"
Laura said, nodding toward a corner café.

"Yeah and as we walk in, I hope we
don’t startle the grizzled old woman as she finishes her cigarette in
her nightgown." It looked like that kind of
place.

Once we stepped inside, the atmosphere
changed. Gone were my visions of an old woman in her pajamas with a
shotgun and a cigarette clenched between her teeth. No, they were
replaced by the cold grim reality of a couple of college kids in a
sparsely established tiny corner student hangout dump.

"Well, we’re here, I guess. What
should we have?" I mused. I checked out the selection. "Let’s
get quesitos and coffee. That okay with you?"

"Sure." I ordered two
expresos (that’s espresso in Spanish for you snobs out there), and two cream cheese pastry
rolls. We scoped out a clean table near a window with decent chairs
and sat down. We were then next to the street
in front of a large glass window. As the second homeless man passed,
Laura remarked.

"Don’t you just have the feel of a
European café nestled here against the window gazing at the
street?" She started to laugh.

"You know I like hanging out with
you, Laura. We should do these mini dates more often. I’m having
fun in my European café."

Laura started laughing harder and a
tear formed in her eye. "And you know if we put chairs out on
the sidewalk we could drink in the rich aroma of urine." She
started to lose it in a giggle fit, mascara streaming down here face.

With a flick of my wrist and a wistful
French flourish I sighed, "Aahh," and sat back in an
artful recline. Laura could not contain herself as she turned into a
hapless puddle of giggles and tears. She could barely sip her coffee
and eat her pastry. We commented on the buildings, how wonderfully
artful they were, with their square corners covered in mold and
pealing paint, and their imaginative shapes, concrete boxes stacked
one on top of each other for as far as the eye could see.

"This is the
life," I said. "An eternity of European cafes couldn’t replace this one moment I’ve spent with you, my dear."

We recently endured two straight weeks of rain, over 24 inches of
constant precipitation from morning, through the afternoon, during the
night. It has been tough. I don’t think I’ve endured being inside for
so long in a good many years. You get used to being able to go out
everyday and do some sort of activity. In Puerto Rico, you get sudden
cloud bursts, but in a few minutes that tropical sun mops it up and
life goes on.

Monday was my first morning bike ride in over
two weeks, and it felt good. My chain had rusted a bit from the
humidity. Annoying. You leave your keys a couple of days on the key
holder and you get rusty keys. Such is life.

"I’d like a dozen eggs, " I said to Estéban.

"There are none," he replied.

I sighed, drat. No eggs. I got my milk and headed out. It started raining again. Can’t catch a break, can I?

Tuesday
rolled around, and it’s a welcome relief, sunny and mild. Ooops, what’s
this? Black clouds were rolling in. I headed out in a hurry, hoping to
beat the inundation that was sure to come.

"Any eggs today?" I asked.

Estéban chuckled and checked with the guy behind the counter. "Yeah, looks like there’s enough. We can spare a dozen."

I
thought to myself. Weird, they’re still short on eggs. Then it hit me.
Chickens don’t lay when it’s raining hard. It bothers them. An unhappy
chicken is a non-laying chicken. I remembered the last time we were hit
with tropical storms, there was a short term egg shortage on the island.

The guy next to me, curious, asked idly how much they were. "How much is a dozen?"

Estéban,
got a twinkle in his eye. He chuckled and recounted an incident where a
woman asked him that same question.  "’¿Cuanto es una docena?’ she
asked me, "Twelve little eggs, I told her. Doce huevitos. You know she
got mad? Told me that was more than she had expected."

The whole bakery started rolling. Chuckles went all around, and the mood was genial.

"Listen, are you waiting for a flood? Man, look at those pants."

"Hey, I like them like that. I’m prepared at all times!"

"And you, look at that old guayabera, VERY stylish."

"This shirt is quality. Q-u-a-l-i-t-y. I’ve had this shirt for over 15 years. You can’t get that kind of quality today."

"Oh, sure," he laughed poking the man’s shirt.

"Man, check that out?" pointing to a sexy bombshell on the morning TV show.

"Ay Dios Mío mami."

"I’d like a slice of that!"

"What are you gonna get?" Another asked.

"Coffee and some oatmeal."

"To go?"

"Hey, let a man finish his coffee and toast. You have some hurry?"

"Well some people have things to do. We can’t sit around on our asses and pretend to be useful."

Chuckles all around.

(Overheard conversation of a group of three 60 year old+ in a local bakery in Puerto Rico).

Just got in from a wonderful party, so I’m a little buzzed. Well, actually, I can’t feel my fingers as I type this. Chuckle. My sister-in-law, who is Lebanese, had an Arab-Lebanese party. Wow, what a nice time. We drank, smoked the water pipe, laughed, told stories, ate tabbouleh, babacanush, humus, kabobs of chicken, and a bunch of things that I will never ever be able to spell.

Juan Carlos brought some fabulous Rioja red wine. That got the thing rolling as we took liberally of these fermented red grapes. Todd, an ethnic American, who became friends with Miray’s brother, Lebanon and his party crew, was an old hat with the whole thing. He knew most of the basic Arabic terms and greetings, and seemed comfortable with his assimilation into his adopted context outside of his own. He reminded me a little bit of myself with the Puerto Rican crowd. Something about them demanded my attention. They accepted me and I fell in, eventually marrying into the culture. Todd, Mikey, Lebanon and Rami were a party group extraordinaire.

Then somebody brought a couple of water pipes, one of which was new, being used in a group setting for the first time. They fiddled with it, complaining about the tightness, the newness of the fitting, poking holes in the aluminum foil to aerate the tobacco. No good, and away and away we puffed pulling the heat into the tobacco through the water and into our mouths trying to get a good draw. The cherry infused smoke was aromatic and we were even able to convince most of the women to give it a go.

A dance began with a particularly rhythmic song, as the hostess and her brother, Lebanon began to circle in a traditional form. Arm in arm they circled, laughing and dancing, winding their way through the house.

Most of the evening was spend chuckling, drinking, sharing stories and trying to get a good draw on the water pipes. I spend my fair share drawing deeply. It was truly wonderful, and eventually we began to get a good smoke. "This pipe is smoking good now," they would say, as they fiddled with the other. I came and I went, as I chased down Jaimito, checked on Olaia and Laura to see how they were and what they were up to, but I kept making my way back to that pipe. There was just something about it.

I was an extremely nice time because of how differently the experiences played out from what I’m used to. It was interesting and wonderful to enjoy good times, but in a slightly different context. The brotherhood of man, shared over tobacco, something as old as human-kind itself, takes on a perspective of closeness, seen from an angle that makes me take notice. Sharing the water pipe, puffing, and laughing and passing, gives a visceral and immediate context to our lives. Sometimes we forget about the commonality we all share, and it is a dead dried plant and some spittle that brings it back into focus. What am I talking about? What else could that be? We all come into this life the same way and we all leave it eventually. What we miss is all those wonderful details in the middle, those simple banal things upon which we rarely focus, quickly and recklessly moving onto the next thing, the next destination. The same feeling, I believe, can be found in other rituals around the world, a Japanese tea ceremony, a Basque cider house, Catholic mass, tribal or native dance, or a simple sharing of the hunt, alcohol, or smoke. Taken in moderation and shared amongst people in a certain context they can be powerful rituals of remembrance.

Bah, but I write such drivel. Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to communicate this in a better fashion. I feel like I do it such little justice with these numb fingers and this swirling "mente" of mine.

‘Cause
somebody has too. It seems in Puerto Rico, that this day passes without
so much as a glance. Only Federal facilities are off today, while most
businesses (including banks) comport themselves as if it was a normal
workday.

Hispanics in the U.S. complain that THEY don’t
have a DAY. They ask why the influential Hugo Chávez who fought for the
rights of immigrant workers doesn’t have a day… as if everyone needs
a DAY, a special day to call their very own, to love him and pet him,
to squeeze him and hug him. Is Martin Luther King Jr. Day just a token
black holiday?

Our honoring of Martin Luther King Jr. is not
an acquiescence to black pressure, an ethnic hero of choice for those
darker Americans so that they may feel like they are somebody. I shout
an emphatic NO! even though the road to a national holiday was frought
with much debate over this very topic. He’s just a black leader. He’s a
womanizer. How can we put him on a pedestal with the likes of
Washington, Lincoln? America finally "gave in," and bit by bit they
adopted the national holiday that was to become Martin Luther King Jr.
Day. I imagine there are many still grumbling, and I wonder if white
folks don’t like the feeling that maybe there’s a black man telling
them what to do.

Folks, Martin Luther King Jr. was not a
great Black American, he was a great American. Martin Luther King Jr.
restored OUR sullied, tattered, torn constitution to what it originally
intended. Martin Luther King Jr. restored your rights, whatever your
ethnicity. He restored your dignity whatever you call yourself. He gave
back to you what was stolen from you. He fought, suffered, and died for
YOU, you Americans, you Hispanic Americans, you Native Americans, you
Chinese, Korean, Philipino, Croatian, Polish, German, Italian, Irish,
French, Scandanavian, Russian, Indian, and Arab Americans. Martin
Luther King Jr. wrestled with the soul of a nation, a lethargic broken
lost shadow of its former self and fought to restore its heart, its
core. He struggled to return to YOU what you deserved, what every
person deserves.

I say to every American citizen that did not
take time to reflect on what Martin Luther King Jr. did for you
individually, shame on you! Shame on your shortsightedness. Shame on
your selfishness. Shame on your cluelessness.

The arc of
the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice. Martin Luther
King Jr. pulled many a long night by himself, hands bloody, arms weary,
against apathy, hatred, bigotry, and even physical death. He pulled and
pulled and pulled a sinking America kicking and screaming back into
focus, back toward justice, back toward righteousness,

For you.