El Gringoqueño

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

Page 41 of 51

Why Bush Won

November 3, 2004 /

This whole election thing has gotten to me. Here in Puerto Rico,
the sure bet win for the Statehood party (PNP – Partido
Nuevo Progresista) candidate Pedro Roselló was
basically in the bag… only the bag had a hole in it. The Puerto
Rico Independence party (PIP – Partido
Independentista Puertorriqueño ), fearful of moving
toward statehood for Puerto Rico, whored themselves… err… pooled
their votes and voted for the Commonwealth Party (PPD – Partido
Popular Democrático ) candidate. As of this morning,
the final results are not in, but it’s looking bad for our candidate.
Sigh, it’s got me depressed. Do you people live on the same planet
as I do? Are you blind to the way Puerto Rico has fallen apart in
the last four years?

I did my part though. I did my civic duty. Laura and I were
election officials and we tallied and counted and certified the
results for our voting unit. We were part of the process, and it was
fair as far our little corner was concerned. I trust that it was
equally fair throughout the island as well.

What more could we have done?

As for the national US election, being residents of a US
Commonwealth, I may not vote even though I was born there, lived my
entire life there, and am an officer in the US Army Reserve. If I
lived abroad in any other country, including Israel, Britain, France,
Germany, Brazil etc, I would be able to vote absentee in the last
state in which I resided. This would remain true even if I were
never to return, nor had any intention of returning to the US. But
since I live in Puerto Rico, I have no vote, no voice.

Still, I followed the US election with much interest. Puerto Rico
is still governed by the mainland just as if we were a state… but
we have no vote in Congress or the Senate. Was I Bushie, or was I
for Kerry? I would have been one of the famous undecideds – up
until Monday night, when I decided I would cast a ballot for Kerry if
given the chance. I finally came to the conclusion that Kerry was
just smarter, more prudent, and less of a loose canon than our
current President. Kerry, in my mind, was the more respectful
candidate, the more thoughtful candidate, more of a consensus
builder, more a team player. Bush on the other hand, seemed to
appeal to Americans’ fear, fear of gays, fear of terrorists, fear of
loss of religious values. I am particularly worried by his “Mission
Accomplished” attitude, by his recklessness, his smugness, his
bully pulpit from which he feels ordained to bring religion and
government together, one nation under God. Gives me shivers.

This I decided coldly without hatred, without malice. I decided
it with my mind. I drew it out and calculated pros and cons.

But there was this incongruity, something for which I was not
prepared. As I watched the returns, I kept sub-consciously rooting
for Bush states. There was this little voice that kept saying,
“Whee!” and when a state fell Kerry’s way, I felt a tiny
little twinge of pain. From where do you spring to strike me, I wailed,
thrashing at the dark shadows that assailed me. I have decided with
my rational mind to vote for Kerry, but there was a sweetness from
Bush victories.

I reflected upon my pain and joy, and it brought me back a week, a
week in which the team of my youth, the St. Louis Cardinals faced off
with the hapless Boston Red Sox, a team with a very long dry spell
for world series titles. I said to myself, “I’m a Cardinal,
but I hope the Red Sox win. They deserve it. I hope the curse
ends.” I didn’t really care though, I tried to convince
myself, but I kept checking online and flicking to the channel to see how the Sox were doing. If I
was honest with myself, I could tell my heart was rooting for the
Cardinals. Every time Boston would score a run, I felt the pain, the
disappointment. Come on, let’s get this thing going, I would
secretly hope. When the Sox clinched it in four games, my mouth
said, good, but there was this dry lump there stuck in my throat. It
would have been nice to have made a series out of it, gone to seven
games, but hell – good for them. But my heart was crying, a
little depressed for the loss of the team of my youth.

So it was last night and today with Bush and Kerry. I still say
Kerry would have been a better president, but my heart keeps rooting
for Bush. What the hell is it that has hijacked my subconscious?

Politics is a contest for the Strong-man. I think it secretly
appeals to us. The high gentlemanly road is seldom traveled by the
strong-man. The strong-man consistently beats his chest in the
jungles below, battling tigers, getting bloody, and growling in surly
unintelligible tones (note Bush’s debate performances). He is
beating up on his opponent, hitting him below the belt, attacking,
attacking, attacking. The opponent traveling the high road has been
waylaid by our marauder… and we cheer. Damn that son-of-a-bitch is
tough. Did you see that, we whisper to each other. That fellow
didn’t stand a chance. Sure the low blow was ugly, and we winched
feeling the pain of the high-minded fellow cupping his ‘nads in his
hands.

Bush won because politicos are nothing more than alpha males,
strong-men who rise to the top not for their big ideas, their
compassion, duty, service, high ideals, or academic vision. They get
there because they defeat their opponents with clubs, and sticks, and
rocks, and in any manner with whatever tool or whatever deception.
It’s the ultimate fighting championship in the political arena, a no
holds barred, knock-down drag-out, brawl where the winner is decided
by who pummeled whom into a bloody pulp. Do we kind of fear the
winner a little? Do we like the winner? Does our mind tell us that
this is the person we want leading the country? Or do our little
monkey hearts beat faster with exhilaration as we scream and screech
throwing up our arms and dancing upon the bloodied corpse of John
Kerry?

We love a strong-man, it exhilarates us in ways we can’t control,
can’t reign in, can’t comprehend. And they know it, damn them.

This is for you, Dad

October 28, 2004 /

While walking around the neighborhood this morning with Jaimito in his stroller: "Look, Jaimito, a helicopter."

"A copper-copper?"

"Yes, a helicopter."

"Oh,
I see it. I see it," he exclaimed excitedly. "Ooo, Daddy, da’
copper-copper, w’ d’ ting, dat go ’round, ’round ’round, ‘n’ it go up
‘n’ up." He threw his hands up in the air.

"Wow, little boy,
great explanation of rotor lift. How did you know about that. You’re
smart, you must take after your Papa (grandpa) Jim."

Being bi-lingual doesn’t mean you’re bi-cultural

October 26, 2004 /

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.

Fundamentalism vs. New Age, Two Sides to the Same Coin

October 25, 2004 /

Fundamentalism: Freedom from distractions
New Age: Freedom from
restrictions

Each has a drawback:

Fundamentalism: Has restrictions to true choice

New Age: Loss of direction to distractions

Let me explain. With fundamentalism, for example, Southern Baptists or Shiite Muslims take great pains to separate men and women, the temptations of the flesh. Rigorous precepts of co-mingling, no alcohol, no dancing are enforced to allow men and women to go on with their lives without distracting temptations of the flesh. Fundamentalism has at its core a belief that the flesh is VERY weak, and must be chained up, covered, locked down and put away. The spirit soars in inverse proportion to how detained is the body.

This actually works pretty well, and isn’t necessarily a terrible thing. After all, it still is an attempt at living a life of meaning and usefulness, instead of a life mired in selfish desires and self destructive behavior.

But Fundamentalism assumes weakness, and therefore never expects too much of one.

Its drawback comes when those external restrictions are removed. Without the enforcer, the jailer keeping your body locked up tight, without the imposition of rules, without a learned internal decision-making capacity, you can fall victim to excesses for which you are not prepared. Think the “preacher’s son/daughter” syndrome or “Catholic school girl.”

Secondly, fundamentalism has a spirit crushing affect on those that fall ever so slightly outside its ordered confines. I’ve known several Mormons, both active in the faith and fallen away from it, and the commonality among them is the crushing expectation of the community. This can cause them to raise to great heights, but can
just as easily drag them to deep lows. To get a divorce in the Mormon faith is one of the most unforgivable transgressions. Pre-marital sex? Drinking? Carousing? Men, failure to provide for your family? The Mormon community exacts a heavy, many times, unspoken toll on those not strong enough to keep the rules of faith.

New Age, on the other hand, is a recent phenomenon. It strives to remove restrictions from the individual. It seeks to unlock your hidden potential. Give up your petty fears, focus on the self, and you shall be free. Your guilty heart holds you back. Your fears, your past, your transgressions, your weaknesses, they all have one thing in common – they conspire to drag you down, lock you up, keep you miserable. That cannot be God’s plan for you. New Age strives to unlock all the chains that bind.

It’s a lovely message for those that have been beaten down, for those that feel that they have never been realized. It may be the first time that some of them have felt any self-worth. Perhaps it was a battered wife, an alcoholic, an abused child, or any of the variety of broken souls that litter the earth. New Age religion offers these people a way out, an offer of acceptance and non-judgment.

It really is a lovely message, but it has a fatal flaw as well. Excessive focus on the self causes a loss of awareness of the other. Take for example the author Richard Bach,   of Jonathan Livingston Seagull fame. His recent explanation of his divorce is revealing of the pitfalls of New Age thinking.

…Leslie and I are no longer married. Soul mates, to me, don’t define themselves by legal marriage. There’s a learning connection that exists between those two souls. Leslie and I had that for the longest time, and then a couple of years ago, she had this startling realization. She said, “Richard, we have different goals!” I was yearning for my little adventures and looking forward to writing more books. Leslie has worked all her life long, and she wanted peace, she wanted to slow the pace, not complicate it, not speed it up. Not money, not family, no other men or other women, separated us. We wanted different futures. She was right for her. I was right for me. Finally it came time for us to make a choice. We could save the marriage and smother each other: “You can’t be who you want to be.” Or we could separate and save the love and respect that we had for each other. We decided the marriage was the less important. And now we’re living separate lives.

Do you see the same thing I see? Lack of passion? Lack of focus? Lack of heart? Here’s someone who’s painted himself into a corner of denial. Look, buddy, just admit you two screwed up. You couldn’t compromise. You couldn’t make it work. Each was more in love with their “self” than the “other”. Examine your limitations. Learn from your failure. You’ve got to see where you’ve screwed up. You’ll not learn from it if you don’t see your failures in a cold clear light.

One would believe that New Age opens up an infinite variety of experience, a limitless, endless array of choices all of which are equal and none of which are right or  wrong. They simply are. With little framework to define a right path or a wrong path, people may wander around without direction, without purpose, or perhaps the main purpose being self-fulfillment. Like little ants wandering around randomly looking for food, deep New Agers suddenly come upon a morsel, and being so cut off from the other, do not even have the capacity to communicate the message of what they have found. They are content to let the colony discover the morsel for themselves, for how could they be so arrogant as to assume this morsel is fit for anyone else but themselves.

Without at least some level of rigor, decisions become bland, tasteless, without risk, without price. A marriage ends because it did. We chose not to be married, and it was the right choice for us. We become so detached from each other, so free, that we may as well just float away in our own little bubble, little known to the universe, having never wanted to risk offending it with our failure.

I’ve always had a deep distrust for both extremes, that is, fundamentalists scare me with their rigorous intolerance for distractions and those that bring them, and New Agers scare me with their aimless free floating lack of commitment. The truth must lie somewhere in the middle, somewhere between crushing restrictions and overwhelming relativism.

Enjoy These Moments for They will Never Come Again

October 20, 2004 /

Today was also the day that Jaimito stopped saying Wiederwo
(WEE-do-woh) for Superman.   Don’t ask me where he got it from. but
Laura and I delighted for a couple of months while we would ask him to
repeat "Superman" and he would concentrate and say distinctly
"WEE-do-woh."  I’m sad that he’s not saying it anymore.  Now he says
distinctly "Superman."  Jaimito, Mommy and Daddy loved your Wiederwo. 
Can’t you indulge us with your cuteness for a little while longer?

Jaimito’s First Haircut

October 20, 2004 /

jaimito_first_haircut.jpgJaimito got his first haircut today. What a big boy he was, very
serious, very still. Earlier it was all he could talk about though. In fact, he’d been talking about his haircut since this
weekend. I had mentioned that I needed to get mine cut, and Laura
had offered the idea of taking Jaimito for his first. "It’s
getting kinda long," she said. Jaimito must’ve overheard,
because he could talk of nothing else. "Daddy, we gonna get
‘aircut?"

"Yes little man. We’re going to get a haircut." And we
got in the car and drove off to the local Army post.

Once we got to Ft. Buchanan, we had to stop and get gas.

"Daddy, an’ da ‘aircut?" he asked turning his hands
palm up and shrugging his shoulders.

"We have to get gas first. We’re going to get the haircut
soon." And as luck would have it, the gas station didn’t accept
ATM payment. Sigh – I went to take out cash.

"Daddy? An’ now da ‘aircut?" he asked again, looking
bewildered.

"Soon, Daddy has to get money to pay for the gasolina."
Gasoline sounds cuter in Spanish.

"Oh, da ‘asolina’" He was satiated. Whatever it was
that Daddy said must be okay. Jaimto seemed to be thinking, I don’t know really, but he doesn’t seem worried why should I be?

We took out money. Daddy pushed the funny buttons, and Jaimito
retrieved the cash from the máquina.
After he pulled it out, he looked in the slot to see if there was more.
Good idea.

We got back in the car and drove once again to the gas station. This was just not going to do. "Daddy! Da ‘aircut!"
He wrinkled up his nose in an exasperated fashion.

"Just a second, little man. We’re going to get our haircuts
next. We’re going now. Just a second."

And he acquiesced. Okay, Daddy, whatever.

Once we had paid the gas, climbed back in the car, driven over to
the PX (where the barber shop was), and dismounted the car again,
Jaimito’s alegría begin to take hold.
He started talking excitedly about "Da ‘aircut" and I
would excitedly confirm the hair cutting.

We jumped over some rain puddles in the parking log. Jaimito
loved that, "Wheeeeee! Daddy, da agua!"

Once inside the shopping area, he bolted to the barber shop, but
upon opening the door, he got quiet all of a sudden. Hmm, the moment
of truth has arrived. I’m scared, he seemed to say.

There was an open chair, so there was to be no hesitating. "Up
you go, little man." I told the barber that this was Jaimito’s
first haircut, so we had to save the hair. "My wife will never
speak to me again, if I don’t collect his hair." He chuckled
and began to snip snip on Jaimito’s fine honey colored wisps. Jaimito
was frozen like a statue throughout the entire procedure. Was he
scared? We he just concentrating? I couldn’t say, but I kept up a
barrage of reassuring words and smiles. The other barbers
all remarked how well he had behaved. "Kids twice his age don’t
sit this still," said one.

And when we were done, there stood revealed the handsomest little
hombrecito that I have ever seen. And the
kicker is that on the car ride home he taunted me, saying, "My ‘aircut
better den yours." I couldn’t believe my ears. Did he say what I
thought he said? I laughed with him and said that mine was better. It
went back and forth until I agreed that his was better.

Little CD Shop of Horrors

October 14, 2004 /

Hey look Amazon, I know you’re
all busy and whatnot to ship one stupid little itty bitty CD to me. I
ordered it in February and by June, you’d not sent it. Your suggested
resolution was to cancel the order. I did so and selected another under
the false hope that I may one day hold it in my little hand.

It
is now October, and I still have not seen ANY product from you. You
sell CD’s, right? I see that they are featured prominately on your
website.

Your little shop does, however, seem to be entirely
uncontaminated by CD’s. I just have to ask you: Do you in fact have any
CD’s at all?

El Cafecito

October 12, 2004 /

The security guard stepped out of the bakery, his wrinkled navy
blue uniform baggy around his tightly cinched belt. He wore
comfortable shoes with thick white socks. He walks a lot during the
day, so comfort remains high on his priorities. He had gone into the
bakery to get a cafecito, a small coffee in a tiny white
styrofoam cup. Soon he would return to patrolling the tiny strip mall.

On his way through the swinging glass door, he jostled the full little cup and spilled
hot coffee on his fingers. Our man held on though, held on for dear
life. I could see the pain in his face, but he wasn’t going to give
up that coffee.

Damn
– now he had hot sticky coffee all over his hand. No napkin – he
checked his pants – clean. He sighed mild relief, the
uniform would go for one more day without washing.  He exchanged the
cup to his left hand and shook off the drops, and turned looking for
something upon which to wipe his little fingers. He reached out to a
bright
yellow metal pole, a parking barrier, its top peeling paint and, after
a quick glace around to see if anyone was looking, wiped his hand upon
its top, down the side, and gave it a slap.

He brought the cup to his lips and gingerly took a sip.

Drowning in Rats

October 4, 2004 /

There it was. He had rousted the great
beast, disturbed its slumber. He wasn’t sure if he had meant to or
not. Foolish pride? It glared at him with its steaming fiery
eyes, sizing him up. Its tail twitched in the dim
light. He stood frozen for what seemed an hour, wondering if this
would be the end, if his luck had finally run out. Would this
creature devour him here.

The beast snorted.

That was all.

He had elicited a
snort.

He exhaled, relieved but a bit taken
aback, dare he say disappointed; disappointed not to be dead? He
stood for a moment shaking from the adrenaline and tension. "Beast,
I will make a meal for you yet, " he muttered as he stomped off.

"What was that? D’you say something?"

Billy, glanced back at the news editor,
"Hrmph… nothing."

He knew the story wasn’t worth two
bits, small time political scandal, one where the poor slob
bureaucrat got a luxury car, a few bucks or other such
nonsense. Small time stuff. Everybody was scraping by. It’s just
one tiny little stupid little story awash in a sea of similar tiring
uninteresting shit. He was boring himself thinking about it. Why
the hell had he written the piece in the first place? He fancied
himself an investigative journalist. Journalist, now there’s a funny
word, conjures up a mythical mission to expose the underbelly of the

beast, be the final check and balance to any system of government.
Billy smiled. He felt better again. Gotta pump myself up, he
thought, as he left the office.

"In a slump, Billy?" a woman asked.

"Yeah… no. Well sorta. Too many
stinking rats around this place. Nobody cares about the damn things.
Oh sure they complain about them, but who’s gonna go clean ’em out?"

"You lost me." She pushed her
glasses against her brow, "Are you trying to get the city
exterminators on your bad side now?"

"Ho ho, you’re a damn
fine comedienne now aren’t you," he chuckled. "No, it’s just
that if I could take all the rats and cram ’em together into one big
unholy monster, I might have a story, that’s all."

The Monks of our Generation, los melancólicos

September 24, 2004 /

They have always existed, severe melancholics, those for whom
perfection is an attainable goal. The monks lock themselves away with
their craft to the exclusion of what we would call normal. Are these
noble endeavors, to cloister oneself far away from the distractions
of human life? They chose a lifetime of solitude, silence, rigorous
study, self denial, not for ignorant religious reasons, but for the
sake of their craft. These were the ones who preserved history,
recorded deeds, transcribed knowledge and kept it safe
for posterity. They wrote great works of philosophy, theology, and
science. They were the maladjusted geeks of their generation, so they
hid themselves away from the frat boys.

Still, I can’t help but feel a sort of pity for those so ill
equipped to deal with the stupidity and chaos of human existence that
they must flee from it. I cannot help but feel like they’ve missed
out on something, they who lock themselves away from humanity in
search of order, perfections, the divine.

I get the same feeling reading Slashdot,
and I’ve come to realize that programmers are our modern monks, quasi
agoraphobic masters of their craft, who wish strike out all discord
in the universe, make it perfect.

More specifically, these Slashdotters generally cannot tolerate
children, are set on never having any and express disdain for those
ignorant souls in the majority, the stupid politicians, the idiot
masses, the uneducated fools that hurt the environment, muck up the
order, impinge on our monks’ solitude. The disdain is expressed in a
variety of manners, from a quick sharp word to the author of a
factually incorrect statement, to the merciless flagellation of
abusers of grammar or spelling. Slashdotters revile rules imposed
upon themselves, limitations that rob from them the tools used to create
order. Witness the rebellion in both Europe and
the US over software patents. Programmers regard source code as
speech, and to patent it, to limit it, is tantamount to a civil
rights violation. Slashdotters hate spammers as well, these idiot
purveyors of Viagra, cheap real estate, and get rich schemes
withhold from our programmers free and open communication with their
fellows. It is as if all across the silent monastery rang the din of
Brittney Spears 24/7.

Happiness is irrelevant. There is only truth. There is only
perfection, and to the monk, perfection is attainable, if only he
could concentrate on it a bit harder, for a bit longer, with the
right tools, away… from… it… all.

I have come to realize that my pity is misplaced, for the monks of
our generation, as in generations past, are who they are and are
compelled to embark upon their quest to attain the unattainable. They
are the dreamers, the philosophers, the unreasonable forces in the
universe that create, if not perfection, at least a detailed map of
what it might look like. And that is a start, for without a map, how
may we know where to go, what to do with ourselves?

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