El Gringoqueño

All a man needs out of life is a place to sit ‘n’ spit in the fire.

Author: Jim (Page 17 of 51)

Father of 4, Engineer, Social Worker, longtime blogger, #linux user. Opining on the internet? What else is it for?

A Cool Sip of Satisfying

October 1, 2012 /

Laura and I talk a lot about marriage, fidelity, and love.  Sometimes I am scared of what I don’t know I don’t know.  So we talk, put it all on the table.  Are we crazy?  What are we feeling, thinking?  Should we be flipping out because we’re in our forties?

I have said it before, but it is distressing to us that many within our various circles have decided to call it quits with their spouses.  It’s like magic – hit your forties and bam, people start to think.  I don’t know what they think, but I know what thoughts consume us.  And we talk about it.

We constantly ask ourselves if even the questions we are asking are right?  What should we be thinking about as our lives near a midpoint (statistically speaking)?  Are we worried that we didn’t get to do the things we wanted?  We don’t have all the things we wanted or needed?  Is our house sufficiently comfortable?  Do we have lots of friends, nice cars, well paying meaningful employment?  Should we have dated more?  Did we miss out not having sexual conquests, sowing our wild oats?  Girlfriends?  Boyfriends?  Enough travel?  Who did we become?  Did we become what we dreamed?  I My, we, our, mine?

We do ask those questions.  I can imagine so many couples ask themselves, is this all?  I want more, I dreamed of more, but right now it’s too much work.  I want to start over.  You’re not doing it for me.  Laura and I do conclude that most of the things we thought we wanted when we younger have not happened.  Life is not ideal, we are not particularly successful by objective standards, I guess.  We have four beautiful kids whom we adore, but our lives are not champagne wishes and caviar dreams.  Money is tight, old friends are scattered over the globe, new ones are hard to come by.  Professionally we struggle for relevance.

I work in technology.  If you want to know what that means, consider the downfall of Myspace?  That happens to people too, to anyone who stops swimming for even a second.  The current will wash you away and no one will care.  The river don’t care, man, not one bit.

Laura struggles with being a woman working in a Latin culture, one in which women are secretaries, little girls to fetch the coffee, not capable of making important decisions.  A smart competent woman is paired with a rising male star only so that she will assist him and he may shine.  It happens over and over and over.  Most of them haven’t the drive, smarts, and wisdom she holds in her little finger – but because she is a woman, she gets a pat on the head.  Oh, isn’t it cute, the little girl has an opinion.

We are no strangers to difficulties, marital and otherwise.

Couples counselors will say that you have to work for what you want, that you have to put in effort.  That a good marriage takes work, sweat, and you will reap the rewards.  You will get what you want, but you have to work for it.  Sure, so people go to counseling and work on the externals; communicating wants and needs better.  Go on dates, and try to rekindle the new relationship energy.  There are lots of things, but all too often the problems in our families and in our relationships reflect our values in society.  Life is to be experienced.  Life is about what I get out of it. Seeking professional support through Calgary counselling services can help couples explore deeper patterns, strengthen communication, and build healthier, more meaningful relationships.

I’d like to turn that on its head.  Life isn’t about me, it’s about you.  It’s not about filling your cup, but emptying it, pouring it out to those in need.  When we think of life as things to experience, things to consume, things to smell, things to imbibe, things to sex, things to use, we are pouring them down a bottomless chute.  All things that I collect for myself are transient, fleeting, will corrode, have no lasting effect, and will be forgotten along with our worm ridden carcasses.

When we choose to take from this world and stuff it in our maw, we will never be satisfied and the world will be poorer for it.

If, however, you choose to pour yourself out, to empty your cup, to leave it all in the ring, when the end comes you will have enriched the world, touched those around you, left a legacy to your life here among the living.  The saying, you can’t take it with you is true for everything, even experiences.

The best and most lasting thing you can leave behind is love.

What I Choose Every Day

September 13, 2012 /

I have written and erased this post a bunch of times. Too preachy?  Too self indulgent.  Poorly written? – Maybe one or all of the above.  In any case, I feel like I need to get it down and just throw it out there, let the universe have it, if it cares.

My pastor said something a while back that stuck with me, “Show me the God you believe in and I will tell you who you are.”  That’s pretty radical, if you think about it.  The God in whom you believe really is more about you than him/her.  The traits with which you identify, amplify, and espouse, really tell us about you, not some mythological character.  If you believe in a condemning, vengeful, short tempered god, guess what?  That’s you.  If your God is merciful and loving, the same.

When I was young, the angry god who would send people to Hell just didn’t jive with me.  There was never any doubt, even before I had any sense of theology, we’re talking like second grade, that there was something flawed about this god.  The idea of original sin, an angry spiteful god who would punish us for misdeeds never made sense to me naturally.  Like a good Catholic, though, I kept my more radical thoughts to myself.

Recently, the Internet has given voice to a growing movement of Atheists, emboldened by the ability to connect anonymously, they have found new solidarity from the daily pressures to nod and remain silent while the shrill voices of Christian dogma swirl around them.  To say you are an Atheist is nearly a death sentence in many circles, so they have found respite online.  While rational and cathartic, I have noticed some things that trouble me in the same way as those shrill angry vengeful self-professed christians.

On the one hand you have: god cares and has a hand in our daily lives.  He punishes the wicked and rewards the just.   He’s out there waving his magic shillelagh always on notice to smite the wicked.

On the other hand you have: the universe doesn’t care.  It’s not that the universe is capricious, though.  The universe simply cannot be appealed to.  We may prostrate ourselves to it, but there is nothing.  There is nothing to care.  Even an indifferent universe would seem a conscious choice.  No, there just is simply nothing that may care about you and your needs and your life and your little petty issues.  Nothing.

The universe is cold and does not feel your pain.

So I say to you, my fellow, do not tell me the universe does not feel, because I feel.  I feel your pain.  I care about you.   The universe is not indifferent, because I am not indifferent.  I know that I make a conscious choice to love.  It is not always easy, and I fail frequently, but I try to point my bow into the wind toward what I believe is my God, a god of love.  We may fail.  We may despair.  We may feel alone.  We may want to judge.  We may wish to punish, but if we do not have love for our fellows, we are lost, and surely god is dead.  You see, he’s not out there apart from us.

It is not magic, it is faithfulness.  Faithfulness to what, you ask?  Be faithful to love, my brothers and sisters.  Be faithful to each other.

Bring Me Fishsticks!

August 17, 2012 /

I had a weird dream last week, one which my family took great interest and amusement in fulfilling.

In this dream, we are sitting at home discussing what we are going to have for dinner.  At some point, I suggest fishsticks, that I’ve been craving these breaded codfish fillets that are oh so good.  That sounded good, everyone agreed.  Now, to the task at hand.  The Egyptian mummy/pharaoh/sorcerer was close to getting an amulet of ultimate power and it was up to us to stop him.  If he got it, he would control the world and we would be doomed.

I don’t know how it happened, but in the course of our battle with this figure, I ended up with the amulet.  The throngs of people turned to me and asked me what my bidding was.

“Fishsticks,” I replied.  “Bring me fishsticks.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to command us to do something more world-dominatingly?” they asked, their confusion mounting.

“Did you hear me, slave?  Bring me fishsticks!”

And I woke up.  It seemed so real, the breaded codfish still lingering in the air.  Everybody got a chuckle at my retelling.

Friday evening, Jaimito came to me with a plate.  “Daddy, we bring you fishsticks,” he said with a little bow.

Pita and Hummus

June 23, 2012 /

Just wanted to post a quick note about the delicious hummus and pita that I made yesterday. It was good, but that’s not why I’m posting this.  Why then?  I really don’t have a reason, I suppose.  Perhaps it is just a testament to doing it from scratch, not that I am special, but that it better reflects process than destination.  Sure, I ate some hummus and pita bread.  If that’s all it was, then I guess I should post nothing.  But the journey and the ritual matter.  People have been cooking these things for thousands of years (well flatbread anyway). There’s something to that.

The pita bread came from my wild yeast and oh how it rose, each of the nine flat breads popping up like little microwave popcorn bags in the oven.  Perfect.

I didn’t grow the chick peas, but I did cook them from dry.  Then I used my new food mill to extract the skins and seasoned it with tahini, garlic, olive oil, lemon juice, and salt (Laura re-seasoned with more of each). Dinner was pita pockets with fish, hummus, and tomatoes and lettuce.  The kids tried to get around eating the hummus.  haha.  I cleaned their plates with some extra bread.

Javier Ignacio el Sabio

June 3, 2012 /

Laura and I were in the car with all our kids talking about something interesting I had read online about China and some or their seemingly ridiculous cultural behaviors.  The post in question closed with this:

It’s not a land in which the foreigner suffers. It is not a hostile land or a wild land. It is, rather, a land of pointless minor absurdities and wholly unnecessary inconveniences, which coalesce to infuriate the ill-tempered and delight the rest. When I first arrived, I was informed by a nice older gentleman, “FIRSTNAME, do not ever ask ‘why’ here. You can ask yourself any other question, and the answers will enlighten you. But do not ask ‘why,’ because here, there is no ‘why.'” And he was right. The answer–the only answer–to “why” is “because China.”

Much back-slapping was had about other Chinese cultural blind spots, but inevitably the talk turned to why America was superior.  Someone stepped in and posted:

I’m troubled by the attitude exhibited by the original poster, which I find common among Westerners who interact with East Asia (and that includes anyone from casual travelers, long-time expats to even Asian Americans). In a nutshell, the attitude is this: “When I encounter something that is ridiculous and absurd to my Western frame of mind, it must be because it’s actually ridiculous and absurd.”

To which another poster challenged:

Disprove this attitude by providing a counter-anecdote for a theoretical Chinese national visiting America.

Where finally, I offered the following:

“Would you like to supersize your combo meal, sir?”

“Why would I want more food than I can eat?”

“Because it’s only $.50 more. It’s a better value.”

Because America.

There we were in the car, reviewing this debate, and how ridiculous and uniquely american all these super sized for cheaper deals are, when from the back seat a little voice piped up:

“That’s what’s called ‘up-selling’.”

To which Laura and I burst into irresistible laughter at Javier’s brilliant little mind.   The cute question is, “Now what does it say about us that this boy, who at barely 7 years of age KNOWS what upselling is?”  He knows it’s an American thing, he knows it does not make sense.  He knows it is a cultural temptation only relevant to the US.

Eggs Don’t Matter

March 26, 2012 /

Aggressive ‘helicopter’ parents force egg hunt cancellation

Uncle said it best, “Jaaackieeee, EGGS DON’T MATTER!” [1]

It’s a perfect metaphor for what is wrong with our results-driven society where we claw and scrape and push and shove and lie and cheat to get what is ours.  Why do you want it?  Because others have it?  It is a gluttonous age when we have more than we have ever had, but are more worried than ever of going without.  When will we learn that these things don’t matter?

Whatever you believe, the message of this Easter season, the message of Jesus, is that these things don’t matter.  Practically nothing matters.  Even your life is transient, fleeting, superfluous.

What does matter is seeing others as yourself.  The achievement of one is an achievement of all.  The failure of one is a failure of all.  We are all in it together, pulling together, sharing, caring, and loving.  There is no “us vs. them,” because there is no “them.”  There is only we.

What I would have liked for this Easter season egg hunt with the grabbing and clawing and selfishness, would have been for those who had claimed an egg to have shared with those that had none, that everybody would have seen the pain of a child who had none and said, there but for the grace of God go I.

These eggs are meaningless, valueless, if they do not represent the gift of love that I give to you, my neighbor.

Wild Yeast Pita Bread

March 12, 2012 /

In keeping with 1st century themes during this Lenten season, I decided to capture some wild yeast and make bread the old fashioned way, no tricks, no fast acting instant yeast.  Real men hunt their yeast from the air.  haha.

The last time I did this, we lived in Oakland and the San Francisco sour dough wild yeasties were awesome, and much weight was gained.   This time, I set out a mixture of water and flour the consistency of pancake batter and just left it out, uncovered, nestled in a corner of my open, unairconditioned constant eighty degree kitchen.  In accord with ancient Belgian beer brewers, I left my container uncovered to the flies and little critters that fluttered and scurried about.  It sounds terrible, but those little critters bring the yeast, baby, dropping it from their legs into my little culture.  At day four I filtered out their corpses, and sealed my container up.  In no less then six days, the frothy mixture smelled of beer.

Did you hear that?

Beer!  That’s the lovely smell of yeast in action.

Ever impatient, I pressed my yeast troops into action, ready or not!  And I was not disappointed.  The pita bread came out beautifully, an air pocket opening up the middle for stuffing, and the flavor had a subtle sourness to it, just enough to give it some character.

Give it a try.  It’s so easy, and every yeast/bacteria culture will have a different flavor depending on your region.  At first evaluation, the Puerto Rican yeast/bacteria from our little valley is top notch for vigorousness and flavor.

Amazed and Privileged to Know Him

February 17, 2012 /

Jaimito came running to me, breathless and excited.  “Daddy, daddy! Come here, you have to see this beautiful sunrise!”  I followed him down the stairs and went to the window, leaning out into the cool wet morning.

“Oh, Jaimito, it is beautiful!  Thank you for getting me.  I’m glad I didn’t miss it.”

He was smiling, pleased with himself, but more than that, happy and privileged to have witnessed such a nice sunrise.

I love that in this modern age, with smartphones and millisecond attention spans, my kids can still look up the sky, be amazed, and want to share it.

He’s His Mommy’s (Anthropologist) Son

January 8, 2012 /

I introduced my kids to a dessert treat that I had as a kid, the ice cream float.  The most typical, I believe, is the root beer float, a scoop of ice cream served in a glass of root beer.   In Puerto Rico, it’s a little tough to find root beer, but we improvised with strawberry soda.  Sounds yummy doesn’t it? I had talked about the tradition with the kids during the day, building anticipation, talking about how I enjoyed this as a kid, and how my mother had enjoyed when she was a kid.  Once it came time to experience the tradition my four niños were as effervescent as the carbonated beverage.

I scooped one nice ball of vanilla ice cream into each of their glasses and poured the soda over it.   The mixture bubbled up in a thick pink head of sweet creamy foam.  Armed with a long handled spoon they dug into their drinks.  “Oooo, Daddy,” they squealed, “IT’S AWESOME!”

It was Javier, however, who had the most to say about it.  His experience seemed to go beyond the visceral and deeper into the larger questions.  It was obvious he had been thinking about it all day.

“Daddy, this was a tradition with Grandma Weez, right?”

“Yes, Javier, I had ice cream floats as a kid.   We used to really enjoy them, and Grandma Weez loved them when she was a little girl.”

“Um, I don’t know how to say this, Daddy.  If you just say it, it’s a lie, right?”

“What do you mean, Javier?  I don’t understand what you are getting at.”  Javier, furrowed his brow and chewed his lip.  His thought, it seemed, was more sophisticated than his vocabulary.

“Um, I’m not saying it right.  If you just say it, it’s not a tradition, right?  You have to do it.”

“Oh, I see what you’re saying.  I hadn’t thought about that,” I said, pondering the depth of the inquiry.  It was a really profound question.  Are the traditions passed down from one generation to the next rendered null if they are no longer practiced?  If you just tell stories about them, they begin to die, or in Javier’s explanation, become lies.  “Well, Javier, there is something called oral tradition, that is, those things that are stories that are told from one generation to the next.  It’s a form of entertainment and cultural history that one generation passes to the next.  It’s kinda like TV or movies.  You see them, listen to them, and then you tell others about them.”

I continued, “But I do see your point, if the practice of telling a story or actually participating in a tradition, doing it, becomes something you just talk or reminisce about, something as a curious bit of nostalgia, then I guess you would say it’s not a tradition anymore.  You are one smart little cookie.  I hadn’t through about that before.”

I have been thinking about the question he raised since yesterday, and I believe I will continue to think about it, but it seems to me that nostalgia is not a substitution for tradition.   That little Javier is his mommy’s son, a little anthropologist in training.  Keep those questions coming, Javier.  Sometimes the most profound thoughts are actually simple questions.

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