El Gringoqueño

At least that’s what I hypothesized while trying to get him to figure out what he wanted out of life.

"Alexander, say you’ve got a week to live. What are you going do?"

"Um, I’ll get out of here?"

"Yes," I answered and snapped my fingers, "You’re out of prison."

"Well, I guess I’d ask God for forgiveness for my sins."

"Done and done. You’re already forgiven. Don’t waste any time asking for forgiveness. It’s already been done, and your life was given back to you. You’ve got a week left. What do you do?"

Alexander looked at me like I had just said the most ridiculous thing ever.  Look, he seemed to say, you tell me I have a week left, I tell you I want to be on my knees asking forgiveness for my sins - the best possible answer, mind you, and you throw it back in my face.  What kind of chaplain are you anyway? 

I’m the kind of chaplain who thinks that living on your knees is a waste, and besides it’s hard on your knees.  It’s a sin against your knees, and God doesn’t want that. 

Alexander considered his fate for a moment.

"Um, I guess I’d be with my mother and father. They’ve been so good to me. I’d spend my last week with them."

"Ah, so with your last week of life on this earth, you’d be seeking more than love - you’d be seeking to love. You wouldn’t be looking for amor, you’d be seeking to amar. Amen I say to you, brother."

We talked about other things for a while. Alexander likes boxing and Burger King bacon double hamburgers. In fact, he loves them so much he has his parents sneak them to him during visitation. I got a real kick out of that. We chatted about a fight he got into recently. Some older bigger kid poured shampoo on his cot and threw his clothes in the toilet. Just like high school, I remarked. Alexander got up in the guy’s face and got a couple of good licks in before the guards broke it up. Alexander said it didn’t matter anyway, because as he recounted to me with pride, he was already going to the maximum security facility.

"So, let’s return to the question: What do you want out of life? What about if I gave you 80 years. What would you do with your life? I give you a million dollars and 80 years. What’s next."

"Well, I um, I don’t know."

"Let’s just say that it’s okay to buy bling, a nice house, have a beautiful girlfriend, a great music system, lots of parties, a pool, and beautiful view. You can get all that in a month. By my calculation, that leaves 79 years 11 month. Now what’s next."

"I dunno, enjoy myself, pasarlo todo tranquilo."

"Alexander, how come when you have a week left you’ve got a clear idea of what you should be doing, but I give you 80 and you squander it?"

I reflect this week how easy it is to become a glutton. Give me more of it, I say, I want to live longer, better, and with more things. Do I realize what it’s for?

I ask you, who stuff your faces at the banquet, for what do you want it?

Figure it out before you come back for seconds, please.

Last night I was at the juvenile processing facility.  I got to meet a kid named Phillip.  American name, but didn’t speak a word of English.  I thought it weird.  Whatever.

He was a baby, barely 15, but he wanted to be a boxer.  He’d trained with his uncle before winding up in prison on a year and half sentence.  I secretly wondered what a 15 year old could do to wind up in prison for 18 months.  Geez.   Either that or what I’ve heard about the racket of "lawyers" extorting money in the projects para bregar was actually true.

"You have a friend who gives you a Playstation… what do you do with it?"

Puzzled look - like I was trying to trip him up with a trick question, like if he said, play the damn thing, I’d zing him and say… no you give it to charity and spend more time in church on your knees thanking the good Lord for your life.  Remember to wail and gnash your teeth.  He loves that.

"You would… "  I motioned with my thumbs as if to fiddle with the controller.

"Play it?"

"Yeah!" I exclaimed, "You play the thing.  That’s why your friend gave it to you.  And what is a Playstation for?  To be P L A Y E D."

Phillip smiled a 15 year old smile, ear to ear, clean teeth to clean shining teeth.

"So now you’ve got this Playstation that you didn’t ask for.  You kind of know what to do with it, but it’s really no fun by yourself.  Who do you call first?"

"Mis amigos?"  He offered.

"Right.  Then you get together and share your gift with your buds.  You pass time with them sharing the Playstation."

"Yeah."  Phillip smiled again.

"Phillip, what’s your talent?  What do you want to do with your life?"

Phillip hesitated.  I don’t know why, I had not been trying to trick him.  The quickest and most natural thought is usually the right one.  I had not led him astray up to that point.  He stilled seemed to be searching for some kind of noble Godly vision of what he should be doing with his life instead of what he wanted to do, what he was good at.  He gathered the courage and offered:

"I want to be a boxer."

"Cool," And without missing a beat, "Did you know that Jesus was a boxer?"

Again Phillip was thrown for a loop.  Jesus a boxer?  How could it be?  Boxing isn’t Godly.  Boxing isn’t pious.  Boxing is at best the red-light district of sports and humanity.  

"Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘leave it all on the field’?  Or in your case ‘leave it all in the ring’?"

"No."  He looked at me quizzically.

"Well, after you fight, you should barely be alive.  After you finish, you shouldn’t be able to stand.  After you are through, you will have nothing more to give, no interviews, no congratulations, no celebrations, and if you lose no sorrows, no regrets, nothing.  You will have used it all up and left it in the ring."

Phillip looked at me, eyes wide in puzzlement or amazement. 

"Phillip, for what purpose do you have this life?  Did you ask for it?"

"Eh?"

"Are you going to get out alive?  Does anyone live forever?"

"No, I guess not."

"Isn’t it a gift like the Playstation?  Aren’t all gifts just that;  not asked for?  And just like a gift that you didn’t ask for, the best thing you can do with it is use it, before it breaks, before it becomes obsolete… or the Playstation III comes along."  Phillip chuckled.  "What would you save it for anyway?  You’ve got to use it. 

Jesus wasn’t just a boxer?  He was the champion of the world, uncontested, undefeated, even in death.  He knew one thing that only the greatest champions have ever come close to knowing.  He knew that how you do a thing is more important than anything else.  That whatever you do, you live it fully, completely, with no regrets.

When you box, it’s a spiritual exercise.  In order to do it well, you’ve got to study it.  You have to train.  You have to discipline yourself.  You must have respect for it.  With all the things you do you pay homage to your life and your life is that which has been given to you as a gift.   You honor  your gift by being the best boxer you can be.

Remember too, though, that all gifts carry a burden.  You have a heavy responsibility.  If you want to be like Miguel Cotto you have a heavy burden to carry.  You might see his victories, his money, or his fame, but his bouts show his discipline, his patience, his devotion to his craft.  He’s not hanging with his friends in the evenings.  He’s training early in the morning and getting his rest.  When he’s not training or resting, he’s probably reviewing films, studying his sport or eating a special diet.  Yes, he has time for friends, but he’s a championship boxer and it’s not easy.  And he’s surely not getting in trouble.

Phillip, is this future what you want?  Do you accept this?  Will you take up the burden, the responsibility, and the commitment to make your dream a reality?"

"Yes."

"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.

I smiled and said hi to Julio.  He had a small tattoo of an "x" high on his cheek, near his eye, and knuckles emblazoned with letters.  I don’t recall what they said - it didn’t matter.   I only thought that the tattoos all over his visible body, arms, hands, face, made him look tough, really tough.  He seemed like such a quiet shy, kid though.  He looked down when I shook his hand.  He didn’t look me in the eye.  Some of the kids will look you in the eye.  It shows how tough they are.  "I’m not afraid of you." They seem to say, and maybe as an aside to their fellows, "And I just want you all to know that I’m the big dog here.  Don’t you forget it."   I notice, but it doesn’t matter.  I’m neither bigger than it, oblivious to it, or ignorant of it.  I just think it’s irrelevant, that’s all.

Let’s get down to business shall we?

Julio Cesar’s favorite sport is billiards.  "Huh, that’s interesting," I told him.  "Most kids here like basketball.  A lot like baseball, but I’ve never heard anyone say billiards.  Cool."

Julio Cesar’s innate talent is organizing things.  He likes to drive a fork lift or "finger" as they call them in Puerto Rico, not because it’s a job, or he likes the fork lift per say.  He seems to like organizing the boxes in the warehouse.  He enjoys the challenge of placing the boxes in the best possible configuration for optimal packing.  I told him that between the billiards (geometry) and the box stacking (spatial perception) he might just have an unusual and special brain.   "Did you do well in mathematics?" I asked.

"Yeah, I didn’t do too bad in math."  He kind of perked up a bit, like he had just discovered a great and pleasant truth about himself.

I asked him if he had finished school.  Juan Cesar, 19, said that no, he’d not finished school.  He didn’t know why, just didn’t go any more.  He shrugged, as is the custom of many of the kids.

"You know who Albert Einstein is?"

"No," he shrugged again.

"He was a scientist from the early part of the 20th century.  He didn’t do too well in school.  In fact, he never did well in school.  But his brain was wired differently.  He was able to visualize things in his mind most people could not.  He ended up winning the Nobel Prize, the grandest honor that a scientist can receive.  It’s a worldwide honor."

Julio Cesar looked interested, even if he had no idea who Einstein was.

"Julio, has anyone ever told you these things before?" I was curious, to see if anyone had ever connected these dots in his life.

"No, no one has ever talked to me like you."  He smiled.

I smiled, and my mind raced through an entire dissertation in a millisecond.  If anyone can make an impression on this kid, I can.  I’m this big weird American.  I look different than what he’s used to.  I’m from the colonial power, which as ridiculous as it sounds in the 21st century, counts for something.  I’ve got credibility.  To top it all off, I talk to him about things of which he’s never heard, and make observations about him that no one ever has.  He’s taken notice.  Maybe what we talk about isn’t particularly insightful or clinically correct, but it’s weird, it’s different, and he might just remember it.

He brightened more and asked me if I was coming back next week.  I said yes, that I would be there again on Tuesday.

"I will still be here on Tuesday."  He was excited now.

"Cool, then I’ll see you Tuesday.  Do you know how to play chess?" I asked pointing to the chessboard painted on the top of the table.

"No."

"Wanna learn?"

"Yes."

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.