El Gringoqueño

Why oh why is the world like this? I was listening to the bizarre account of the two little girls who where stabbed in Illinois. The suspect/culprit is the father of one of the two. How could it be? How could a person become so enraged that they would kill their own child. Obviously the answer is that this person is broken, a broken human, aberrated and twisted by a lifetime of apathy, violence, and despair.

What is it about our society that crafts these wackos? They are works of beautiful twisted art, perfectly shaped from babes to fulfill their seeming lifelong purpose to go out in a blaze of violence and destruction.

Remember the runaway bride? It was so long ago now, and I don’t give a crap what her name was, I don’t even remember much about her particular case. It is lost to me lo these many days. What I do remember of the incident was that I’m sure she was mad at somebody. There was anger, displaced resentment against, I can only imagine, her parents and their relentless pressure for her wedding to be perfect, her husband to be perfect, for her to be perfect. She had been arrested and convicted twice for shoplifting. Her family was wealthy, upstanding, but they’d demoralized her, belittled her, drove her insane with their control, her church’s control, her community’s control. "LEAVE ME ALONE!" She acted out in the only way she didn’t know how. She flailed and writhed to cause them pain in the way that gave her control. I want to hurt them, she screamed to herself. She didn’t care about consequences. She was not thinking. She just wanted to hurt them because it was the only thing that she felt she could do.

Fight or flight. Let’s do both, shall we?

So back to Zion, Illinois. Let’s paint a picture of this guy Mr. Hobbs and his life. He was born into poverty, possibly lower middle class. His parents struggled all their lives. Dad was an abusive type. He worked long hours at a menial job. He resented his lot in life… these damn kids, this damn job, and his meager life of anonymity. So he drank. The alcohol helped him not care. When he’d smack his son around, he didn’t feel a thing. Damn kids, clean up your goddamned room! Pick this shit up! Your mother’s too soft on you. And he’d whack ‘em, whack ‘em good. When he wasn’t hitting his kids he was just gone.

Sooner or later, Jerry started getting into trouble in school. First he’d just pick on those littler than himself. He was the classic troubled bully. As he got older, he got into more and more trouble with the authorities, both school and otherwise. He dropped out of school.

You should be able to figure out the rest from here. When he got into a dispute with anyone or anything, he lost it. He’d start lashing out with whatever was handy. He didn’t care. His rage flooded his senses, brought back his powerlessness. Somewhere deep down he remembered the lessons of his father.

They are bringing it on themselves. Bitch doesn’t listen to me. She’s a fucked up bitch, telling me what to fucking do.

She screams that she’ll kick him out, or she’ll leave him, or call the police. She used that threat a lot. She used it like a blunt object. I’ll call the fucking police, she screamed.  She doesn’t deserve to be treated this way, she’d say.

Goddamnit… treat HER this way. What about how you’re sucking the life out of me. You - you’re doing this to ME, fuck you, bitch, I don’t give a fuck how you feel you deserve to be treated. You’re a whore and bitch, and - and.

He was cooling down in county lockup. He wasn’t so enraged now. The bruises from his tussle with the cops who responded to the domestic disturbance were starting to throb. Four of them had piled on. They seemed to take pleasure is roughing him up. "Hit a woman, didcha, tough guy. You’re a big fucking tough guy, hittin’ a woman. You hit kids too?" He rubbed his shoulder where they’d wrenched his arm high up on his back in a chicken wing. They’d clubbed him in the kidneys too. Damn, that hurt. He couldn’t sit comfortably. Was he still mad? He hurt, but he’d calmed down. It was out of his hands now. Remorse started to creep in. Damn it, he didn’t mean to lose control. She was just - doin’ it again. A twinge of rage lit off like a spark plug.

He was sentenced to 18 months in state prison. This was the final straw. The judge could see where this was going. This guy needed to know that society was serious and that he’d done wrong. Justice decided that he spend some time outside of the boundaries of society, an adult time out, so to speak.

Jerry, fully intended to change his ways. He thought about it every day. He wrote crudely spelled sentiments to his wife. He loved her and looked forward to turning it around. He saw all the good in his life. It was modest, but they had a little house, a beautiful daughter, and he could always get some work. It’s not like they needed much.

The day came that Jerry had waited for. Here was his big chance to start over, to take control of his life and live it. His wife accepted him with open arms. She’d fallen in love all over again, mostly. Jerry, it seemed, was a new man with a new outlook.

Mother’s Day 2005

"Jerry, don’t worry about it. It’s okay. It’s Mother’s Day. I don’t want to fight about this. I’ll punish her tomorrow. Can’t we just have a special day without yelling?"

"No, she took that money, she’s got to answer for it. I won’t have any daughter of mine growing up a thief."

"Look, can we just drop it?"

Little Laura pranced out the front door with a nahnahnah to greet her friend and scamper off to play. There it was again. His blood began to boil. She’d sassed him. They’d all sassed him, made him feel powerless., revealed his impotence. Nahnahnah, there’s nothing you can do, you stupid son-of-a-bitch with your limp dick and ugly face, they seemed to say. His face twisted up almost unrecognizably and he charged out after her. I’m going to drag her back to the house by her hair if I have to. She’s not going to get away with this. I’m the man around here. She’s the kid. She’s got to listen to me. He flew down onto the path where the two girls were laughing and giggling. "Come here," he yelled. "You’re going home."

"Mom, said I could go out," she retorted.

"I say you can’t, now get over here."

"I’m not coming and you can’t make me. Mom said I could stay out. Leave us alone." and the girls turned to leave.

First he slapped her, then grabbed her hair and threw her down. Her friend had a small pocket knife and stabbed at Jerry to protect her friend. She didn’t know any better. She thought she was protecting her like on TV. A knife?! raged Jerry’s mind. You’d try to stick me with a knife you little bitch. What the fuck kind of parents do you have. And he grabbed her wrist twisting it unnaturally. She yelped in pain as Jerry snatched the knife and stabbed it back at her. Stick me, will you! He slashed and slashed and slashed. His daughter’s horrified face looked to him like contempt. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!! He silenced her disdain. That’ll teach her.

As soon as it was over, the rage left him and the weight of what he’d done came down. It was only a matter of time, but he was strangely calm. It was all out of his hands now. He was free.

I wrote this after one of my Confirmation classes. I think it’s about the best contemplation on the Eucharist that I’ve ever heard, that is, I like it and it sums it up for me. I always try to look at the rituals of Catholism through the eyes of an outsider. Are they silly? Where did they come from? Why do we do them? What does it mean to believe? And what is belief? They may be silly, but there is a wisdom that can be grokked if you know how to get in there, separate yourself from your preconceptions, supersititions, magic, and just see and know a thing for what it is. Life isn’t any deeper than what we are. That is, it’s plenty deep enough, thank you. You just have to look and listen and ponder. It’s all there, the spirits, the magic, the flavor - all there right in front of you. It’s not weeping concrete stains in the shape of the Virgin Mary. It’s not miracle medical cures.

It may not even be eternal life in heaven.

And with that I begin my meandering through the true nature of the Holy Eucharist.

The next week we talked about spirits. First we talked about the spirit of a tomato? They all looked at me quizzically. Eh? Tomato? I explained where the tomato comes from, where it is grown, how it is cared for, who picks it, how it arrives at the supermarket etc. The tomato becomes more than what it would first appear. The tomato, the more you know about it, its journey, the more it becomes a symbol of something deeper, and the deeper you go, the more it becomes an icon – it actually becomes that thing it represents.

Take the beef cow for example. “Ew!” they all chorused. “We don’t want to know about our food being alive at some point.” They all shuddered, thinking about the slaughterhouse, the death of the cow as it arrives at their plate, all ground up and cooked. How can knowing the path of the cow make our enjoyment of the burger any better?

Ah, I said, but you miss out on a great opportunity to imbibe more than just a burger. Take, for example, my experience in the Basque Country of Spain. We lived near a rural community called Oiartzun in the north of Spain. In the town, the country folk each raised and slaughtered their own cow. They would raise the cow for a year or so, and then they would kill it. They fed their cow the best of things, alfalfa, cabbage, beets, turnips, the best of things. They would grow and cultivate an entire plot of land just for the cow.

We were visiting the Aristizabals house one Sunday afternoon. The family wanted to show off their prize cow. The mother, Maria de los Angeles, took us to the stall where the healthy looking young cow stood munching on some nice fresh greens. The cow raised her head and glanced our way, half-curious as to who were these intruders to her space. She couldn’t be bothered to turn around and give us her attention, head down munching on her lunch. Maria de los Angeles, anxious to show off her cow, grabbed a pitch fork and poked the cow, yelling, “Yeha yeha.” The cow did not budge an inch. She poked harder but the cow did not move.

Mikel, the father and cabinet maker, gently clucked to the cow and patted it on the rump. She turned as easily as if on a trivet. Beautiful she was, healthy strong, and big. Everyone in the family beamed with pride for their cow.

Some time later, we heard that Beltza had been slaughtered, the meat packed into two large freezers in the family’s farm house. Ekiñe, the youngest daughter, excitedly told us they had bought a new young calf. She laughed as she told us they had named it Beltza.

Later, during the Christmas season, Laura and I were invited over for a holiday season dinner, on the menu, Beltza. I knew her, I thought.

We shared with the Aristizabals the finest cut of meat from Beltza, a cut from which there was only enough for one meal. I remember that meal, the communion, the shared experience, the newness, the realness, the depth of experience, appreciation for the life that we had taken as well as the life that we were living, the sacrifice, the brotherhood, and community. Beef had never been more alive to me, on my taste buds, but more importantly in my heart.

I had used that story to illustrate to my class how knowing more about reality around you leads you to deeper satisfaction. Sometimes it’s not pleasant. Sometimes there is pain, even death, but by closing yourself off to it, you close yourself off to the richness of life, the beauty of living. Without awareness, consciousness, life becomes unseasoned and bland.

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.

Jaimito, leaned his elbow on the window of his truck. It was going to be a long day. He was glad he’d gotten up at the crack of dawn, gathered up his crew and shoved off in the twinkle of new light. He’d roared out over the road in his shiny yellow dump truck, loaded with blocks. He had more blocks than he could haul in one vehicle, so he loaded the excess in a smallish VW beetle, cramming them in through the windows and hatch until there was room for only the driver. He had to get the materials to the project site, and Jaimito was a resourceful fellow. “Can’t be done” was a phrase not in his vocabulary.

The road in the early morning was twisted and bumpy. He down-shifted and roared over a rump shaped mound. He smiled and let out a yip. The morning did that to you, filled you up with so much optimism that even small victories were cause for celebration. The way was filled with craggy opportunities for victory, and Jaimito passed the time pretending that each bump was a great and wondrous obstacle, fitted especially for him to conquer.

Upon arrival at the work site, Jaimito and his crew set about unloading the blocks, and staging them strategically. It became apparent immediately that there was a problem with the grading. There was a large bump where the plans required a level surface. This was not going to do.

“We’re going to need to move this earth!” Jaimito exclaimed. “Let’s get these things out of here.” Large pillow like rocks were quickly dispatched to lower ground. “Hmm, we still have a problem with this giant vein of protruding bedrock here,” he said aloud. Time to get the rock pulverizers.

This was fun work. Crushing rock had to be the best job on the planet. He imagined he was a large ancient elemental force and with a whoop and a holler, the rock crumbled before his hydraulics and explosives. Where others saw obstacles, Jaimito saw opportunities, and where there was drudgery, Jaimito made fun. Perhaps it was no coincidence that his crew was the most productive, the most motivated.

“Okay, men,” he exclaimed. “We’re all through, go ahead and leave the vehicles and material where they are. We’ll get an early start tomorrow.” And with that they headed home leaving the shiny yellow dump truck, and the yellow VW Beetle and the blocks behind in the cleared area where he had dispatched the giant rock.

I am sickened by the current debate over "a woman’s right to choose." Are you fighting for death because life is not worth living? I understand the draw of the whole "ending suffering thing." Who wants to suffer. Who wants to have pain. We children grow up poor, uneducated, perhaps suffer some form of mental illness, have parents who beat us, abuse us mentally or physically. There are those that look at that and say, shaking their heads, "Poor thing, it would have been better had they never been born." A child not wanted is not worth having. A child not brought into this world in love is not worth the baby food to feed it, the federal program to restrain it. The fetal tissue that interferes with our lifestyle does not deserve to breath free, achieve its potential.

Some see the suffering of this life, and seeing no point to it all, believe it better to not exist.

Some see the suffering of this life, and seeing no point to it all, try to make it better, for heaven and hell are one, but in hell we cry out alone, the world lost to us by the veil of our own pain.

Contrary to what you’ve heard, there is no point to suffering, but where some see the solution as oblivion when confronted with the wounds of the sick, the desperation of the poor, and the cries for justice from the oppressed, there are others that find ways to make life better, ease the pain, and care for their fellow humans.

And what is simply off the table? We are not choices. We are life, and we have rights. No person has the right to choose life or death. These are the things that simply are, in all ways inalienable and incontrovertible.

It’s not magic… there is no magic moment. There is no breath of God magically bestowing some sort of magical soul into the fetus. Is it life when the sperm fertilizes the egg? Is it life when the guy unhooks the bra? Is it the first trimester, the last? Is it life when it passes the birth canal? Leaves home?

Or is life some precise clinical moment where science tells us that "Yes there is brain activity. It is alive." Has digits? Has organs? Sucks its thumb? Responds to a stimulus? Says it hates you?

These two moronic arguments over minutia fail to realize that all life has struggled to exist since the beginning of time. It was here before us. It will be here after us. We are but among caretakers in the garden, tiny little caretakers, humbly tending to the bounty of the universe, joyous to have existed at all, grateful for the opportunity to live, honored to have been given such a gift as to be tenders in this wondrous mysterious place. But instead we pretend to be the masters of the garden, where we decide what is what, and what was and what will be.

There are only two things that are infinite - the universe and human hubris. And I’m not sure about the former.