Category: Culture (Page 3 of 7)

I arrived at the Plaza de Armas late on Monday, a bit after the noon hour, thoroughly drenched from the inside out, woozy from the heat, and probably a bit dehydrated. It was a miserable ride, but I made it. I leaned my bike against a tree and fell into one of the park benches, elbows on my knees. I caught my breath and decided to eat my lunch at that moment and relax in the breeze in the shade of the trees. I took a sip of cold water and greeted the folks around me. Buenas tardes.

The one who self-professed to know how to handle his money and his wife, was sitting behind me, there with his cane. He was by himself today. There was another man in front of me, who was very loud. He spoke as if through a bullhorn and with a strange accent. I think Cuban, but I can’t be sure. To his left was a woman recounting the tale of her dear friend who was enamorada, in love, with some man. “I told her, be careful. He is not what you think he is, but she is in love.” She carried on a bit, she is this, she is her friend, she is that, “and I told her, be careful, but she does not heed me, because she is in love.” She repeated this punctuation no less than three times. I desperately wanted to know more. Who was this woman? Who was this man, fascinated I was by gossiping tales of the love lives of the 70+ set. I am a gossip whore – sue me.

But I never got to find out, as the first drops fell big and fat on the hot concrete. Just a few at first, and I continued eating my sandwich, unmoved. I was already soaked from sweat anyway. El cubano and his woman friend got up, held newspapers over their heads and dashed for shelter. She excused herself and was gone, but el cubano moved under an awning to wait it out. The one behind me who handled his wife and money simply sat.

Then the rain came in buckets, an aguacero, and the plaza was now inundated. I decided that it was time to move, and grabbed my bike and sought shelter in front of the old alcaldia (the mayor’s office). From my vantage point across the plaza, I watched the one who handled his wife and money stand up as if to move, but he didn’t. He remained there, bent a bit, resting on his cane. He shuffled six inches to one side, then six inches back, half turned, frozen. Do I go, do I stay? Is it worth the effort? It was decided, and he remained motionless beneath the downpour. I thought that maybe I should bring him an umbrella next time I come by. That would be nice, I thought. He could manage his wife and his money, but perhaps he needed some help staying dry.

After a few minutes the rain slowed to a trickle, and the people emerged from their shelters, old folks shuffling back to their haunts, the tourists moving along in their chatty little groups, looking up, taking pictures. El cubano came back to his bench, and the one who got drenched, turned from where he stood, wiped it of the puddles of water, and sat back down, his pants thoroughly soaked.

I normally arrive at work on my bicycle and take a break in the Plaza de Armas in Old San Juan. I usually sit for a half hour sipping cool water and trying to get my body to realize that it can turn off the sweat production. There is always a strong breeze in the shade under the trees and it is a lovely place to relax and people watch.

There were three old men sitting in a row on a bench facing away from mine. I couldn’t see their faces, but all of them looked to be in their seventies, perhaps eighties. One was fat, like a little dough ball with a cane, the other wiry with a baseball cap emblazoned  with USA flags. Did I see a military designation?  Couldn’t make it out. Yes, they seemed like veterans, pensioners passing the time together in the plaza. The one on the left, a dark-skinned gentleman with a lively disposition was searching for something on a tiny handheld radio. “Mira, allí, poco para atrás. Allí está. Aguanta.” Barely audible, he had coaxed a faint song from a distant AM station by holding the little radio just so. I could barely make it out, but then this little old man broke into a beautiful Puerto Rican folk song. He belted it out in a clear strong voice. I’m old, he seemed to say, and I want to sing. A couple of passing older women stopped to chat, to reminisce, and to hear more. After, the friends went back to looking for songs to sing.

It must be nice, I thought, to have such friends to hang with at such an advanced age. I peered at the three men, fiddling with their little radio looking for songs to sing, talking shit about nearly just about everything, the weather, government, who is doing what with whom. Old they were, but animated and lively like little kids, and I could see them, the ten year old boys inside, for whom a song, a tv show, a sports hero, a story, a game are all they need, and all the possibilities of the universe residing strictly within. I concentrated, and their age melted away. For a brief time I saw them as perhaps their parents had seen them in their time of youth – little boys playing in the plaza.

On Mother’s Day, the comments floating around the internet, at least the comments attached to actual identities on Facebook and social media, universally praise mothers. “Mom, I love you!” “Mom, you’re the greatest!” “Mom, you’ve done so much for us!”  And they post touching stories and pictures. It’s lovely.

Then there’s the dark anonymous internet where this gets passed around. Watch it. I’ll wait.

It’s okay to laugh. It’s funny. Misogynistic humor is the best humor.

So men say one thing when they think women are listening, and another when they are alone. I am a man, I know it happens. And this funny video, and it is funny, encapsulates every snide comment that men will make to each other when we don’t think women are listening. The fact that it is hilarious, and it’s Bill Burr, the philosopher poet of our generation, or perhaps any generation, validates our opinions, maybe even giving us the courage to repeat it out loud.

Men, I need to have a word with you all. Have a seat here, and let me explain something to you I feel you are not understanding.

This particular bit uses the comedic device of taboo and double entendre. Bashing motherhood as the hardest profession is taboo, of course. He also twists up the word difficult focusing solely on the physically demanding. In debate, I suppose one might call that a red herring, as it has no bearing on the argument. We are comparing two things linked only by the double meaning of the word “difficult.” Haha, I get it. That’s funny. Men, stop repeating it. You’re embarrassing yourselves.

Now look over here. Right here. I’m not going to explain this again. Motherhood is difficult, but not for the reasons that Bill Burr says, and not for the reasons you might think.

Motherhood is hard, because for so long, women didn’t have a choice about it, and still have only limited choices to this day. No matter a woman’s gifts, whether she posses the abilities and talents to be a math wiz, musical prodigy, skilled artist, brilliant linguist, promising scientist, skilled engineer, extraordinary doctor, principled lawyer, or honest public servant, she is tacitly corralled into being a mother. Our entire society is tipped toward that end. It may be inclined less than it was in previous decades, but don’t kid yourselves; women have fewer choices over their destinies than men do. They are bullied to think something is wrong with them if their life’s purpose does not include children, that if they pursue career over family, there is something wrong with them.

Men do not have this problem, do they?

Lots of smart fantastic motivated talented women are raising children instead of doing something else.  Or perhaps they are also doing something else, trying to have it all, but not advancing as well as their male peers, who are more “dedicated.” There’s nothing wrong with raising children, of course, but the problem is that women are coerced into giving up their ambitions and  having their identities subsumed by their precious talented children, so that they may as well be invisible and frequently are.

Here, mothers, I have a special present for you. Have a special day. We’ll called it Mother’s Day, and everybody will recognize you for your hard work. But the work isn’t hard physically, it’s hard because we make you give up yourself to do it. May as well call it happy womb day!

I could stop there. But why? I can’t identify a problem and not propose a solution. Most of the focus has been on women’s empowerment, helping women recognize their rights, their abilities. There’s the “Lean In” crowd.  It’s all good, but I want to tack in another direction, one that addresses the simple fact that it’s a man’s world.

Men, managers, decision makers in business and in the general workforce do the following:

• Help women juggle the responsibilities of parenthood with your workplace expectations – provision some plan for dealing with single parents, whether it be day care, activity buses, maternity/paternity leave, flex time, whatever. Treat woman and men as equal care providers. If Bill’s wife is giving birth, find out what their situation is and propose that Bill take some paternity leave so that she can get back to work faster. It will benefit us all in the long run. Make sure Bill is not impacted negatively for his paternity leave.
• When another man leans over to you and says, “Will you look at the tits on that one,” to describe a female colleague, call him on it. Set the tone of the culture in your workplace. Previously you might have remained uncomfortably silent, but now I say to you, step up, even if it’s your boss – especially if it’s your boss.  If it’s your boss, make an HR complaint about a hostile workplace culture. And it is hostile, maybe not to you directly, but don’t kid yourself, that toxicity will get you sooner or later.
• If you are a father, take on as many traditionally mommy roles as you can. Balance your wife’s life so that she can achieve her dreams and not sell them to only be a mother.
• Advocate for the equal participation of women.  If you are a manager, mentor a woman, advance her career, take chances on her. Don’t expect that the issues that affect women are theirs alone to bear. They are yours to bear as well. Take up arms against these barriers as if they affected you and take a bullet for one of your female fellows. The internet likes to call this “white knighting.”  I like that, do it. Be somebody’s hero and help them enrich the world.

If there’s anything I hope you take away from this little piece it’s this: She loves being a mother, but that’s not all she is.  When society (men) expect that women be mothers and only mothers, that’s what makes it the most difficult job.

Watching “Once Upon a Time” when it hits me – and I don’t know why I’m realizing this now – Disney is racist. There are no black characters, and when they appear they are either disappeared or killed post haste.

1. Sidney / Genie / Mirror – gone, probably in jail
2. Lancelot (yeay a black Lancelot – oh wait, he’s dead) uceremoniously killed by Cora
3. Gus Gus / Tow truck driver – killed by king
4. Cinderella’s fairy godmother – blown up

Seriously, Disney?

When I finished reading Nelson Mandela’s memoir, there were many things that stuck with me.  One detail in particular, rattling around in the back of my mind, was the Xhosa tradition of leaving milk in the sun to sour it.  Apparently this makes it easier to digest for those that have mild lactose intolerance and is common practice for the Xhosa people.

Mandela related a specific incident involving this spoiled milk while on the run from authorities.  He was staying in a safe house in a white area, and without thinking, put some milk on a windowsill to sour.  A couple of laborers noticed it and remarked, “Why would a white man put milk in the windowsill?  We are the only ones that do that.”  Nelson was spooked by his near discovery and left for a new hiding place that very night.  Interesting, I thought, and yucky.  But, I mused, sour milk is absolutely perfect in baking, cakes and… pancakes.

“Yes, pancakes,” I said, “I resolve to make Mandela Pancakes.  I will call them Mandela Pancakes, and I will sing an African Folk song while I make them.  Nel-son  Man-del-a, Nel-son Man-del-a. ”

Yesterday, I zipped out on my bicycle to fetch a small carton of whole milk for the purpose of spoiling it.  I left it out the entire day in the hot Caribbean sun, the sides bulging as gases pressed on the waxy cardboard container.  I picked it up several times to check it, shaking it for good measure and when the night arrived,  I opened it and took a whiff.  It was there, yes it was, that faint sweet acrid smell of spoiled milk.  Aha!  Tomorrow, we shall have Mandela Pancakes, and they will be delicious.  “Nel-son Man-del-a, Nel-son Man-del-a,” I sang, and the kids laughed.  I then told the story of how he was almost caught because of his soured milk.

Who knew the things one can learn from a man on another continent?  And it is suggested to me that these things we learn, the serendipitous delights of interconnected knowledge, are made possible by diversity, by embracing the pluralism we find everywhere.  And the pancakes?  They were delicious.