Category: Culture (Page 5 of 8)

I was on the road early this morning, out and about on my bicycle to pick up milk, eggs, and bread.  I still have my Rob Beckman bags and Bruce Gordon rack that I bought 10 years ago.  Those bags and rack have been through it all with me.

Anyway, I’m merging across lanes of traffic to make a left and a little Toyota comes up honking and carrying on.  Christ, people!  Cut a bicycle some slack.  They scream by honking and cursing.  Sigh.  But, as with all stupid metallic beasts, their haste has caused them to err.  Their failure to plan ahead has left them trapped at the light making the same left as I am.

We’re gonna be best pals now, together at the light, hanging like old friends, chatiando como locos.

"How’s it going, fellas.  I’m James.  What are your names?" I say to the three college aged kids in the car.  The driver looks stunned and says nothing.  I smile and address the kid in the back seat.  "It’s a nice morning, huh?  You guys on the way to school or work?"

"Work," he replies amicably.

"Ah, well, it was a pleasure to meet you.  Have a nice day!"  I smile and ride off.

I made my U-turn and headed out.  They smiled and waved from the car.  Guess I made some friends today.

It’s funny, but ever since my brother-in-law Chris told me a great story about an experience he had (that he still needs to write about – ahem), I’ve been channeling him when I’m on the road.  Road rage is for idiots. 

Road comedy is where it’s at, man.  Thanks Chris.

Just been stupid busy.  Why is it that nobody wants anything
for weeks, then all of a sudden they all want it now, right now! 
Right friggin’ now!

Here’s a funny incident.  I’m American
right?  I’m not from Puerto Rico, right?  I was not born
here, nor am I culturally Puerto Rican, right? I’m a friggin’ big
honking gringo, as big and whitey white as white can can be, like a giant white
whale, like Uncle Ben’s long grain, the kind of guy that would never get picked for police
undercover work, the kind of guy who – true story – got mistaken for
undercover security for the Resident Commissioner in Washington D.C.,
Luis Fortuño.  I’m as big and conspicuous and as gringo as they come.

Well, with all that said, why is it that I keep having to translate for people here?  I end up translating from Spanish
that doesn’t make any sense into Spanish that passes as language, with nice specifics, with nice timelines, and precision.  I’m not the only one that says this.  Laura always
gets a giggle out of it. 

"Who’d have thought, that they’d need an American to translate for them?"  she mused, after I got off the phone with a client and his subcontractor.  I talked to the sub to explain what the client wanted.  I talked to the client to clarify what the sub didn’t understand – yeah, stuff like that.

"I
wonder if they don’t just play dumb because they don’t want to do the
work, but when a member of the High Command of Colonial Overlords is
there they shape up because of vergüenza."

I dunno.  Maybe they think I’ll pull out my sidearm and shoot the place up a bit.

We white people are crazy that way. *eye twitches*

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.