El Gringoqueño

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

Page 51 of 51

Adjusting to New Lifestyles

We were just becoming comfortable with our friends in the Bay Area, before we had to leave… The last place I can call home, is… well my home with my parents. Beyond that it’s been a constant struggle to find myself, where I fit in, my place and routine in each different place.

Laura and I have been discussing the topic of spirits lately, namely how objects, places, and people have spirits, or if you prefer, characteristics that go deeper than their superficial appearance. For example, the spirit of the tomato, that demands that you use it properly, that you respect the tomato, comes from a place that few people know. How can you know the tomato unless you know the spirit of the tomato, where it came from, how it grows, does it come from a vine, tree, or bush? Is a tomato always red, are they always juicy and tasty? Why do they ripen? Who tends them? What kind of insects like to eat tomatoes? How do you protect a tomato from them? Who grows tomatoes, and how are the people treated that pick the tomatoes? Where do they grow, in what kind of soil, what kind of weather?

You see there’s a lot more to a tomato than just that red thing you put in a salad or your hamburger (now there’s something I miss). Of course you don’t need to know everything about the tomato to enjoy it, but to know more lends itself to KNOW the tomato and to fully appreciate it.

Hemingway has the great quote about The Old Man and the Sea and how people talk about the symbolism of the objects and characters in the story.

There isn’t any symbolism. The sea is the sea. The old man is an old man. The boy is a boy and the fish is a fish. The shark are all sharks no better and no worse. All the symbolism that people say is shit. What goes beyond is what you see beyond when you know.

I think this carries over to how we Americans view our surroundings, nature, and each other. If we understood better the spirits of our food, our goods, our entertainment, and ourselves, we’d be better acquainted with how better to respect those things and maybe what they represent.

That is to say, a blender doesn’t deserve more respect than a human being, but it deserves some respect, respect for the designer, respect for the manufacturer, respect for the shipper, retailer, sales clerk etc. That thing takes on so much more intrinsically than just being a blender. It tells us about ourselves, what we like, how we live, how we use our surroundings.

We don’t think about were our garbage goes… it just goes away.

Things have a cycle, a state of being that goes through the same process we do. They have a birth, a life, and a death. Each of these things isn’t more important than the other. When a weed whacker dies, it goes to the land fill. We need to understand how this thing dies, and is that a proper end. Do we need to drain the oil from it, can we extract the metal parts in order to recycle? Will it decompose properly? Can it be fixed? With this thing’s death, come the birth of a new one. If we buy another, somebody somewhere had to make one extra just for us. How important are weed whackers to our society? Is the world better off that they are being born, living, and dying in our culture? Can we say the same thing for the multitudes of objects that adorn our houses? Do we respect them? Do we see their spirits?

So, that was just a little stream of consciousness there something I had been thinking about surprisingly enough because of the price differences between here and the US. Most interestingly, why some things that I know don’t cost a lot to manufacture were more expensive here, and vice versa. Maybe it all has to do with how each culture views the spirit of the object, how it was born, how it lives, and how it dies.

Wait, but there’s more, if you order now you’ll get… I was just talking with Laura, and I also was thinking about how we mystify ancient cultures like for example Native Americans. When the Christians came to the new world, they heard of spirits and mysticism. Maybe a cross cultural misunderstanding occurred because of the western view of the word Spirits. "What do you mean there’s a spirit living in the tree? It’s just wood."

To which the Native American would reply, "Yeah, I know it’s a cellulose structure useful for many things. But I’m talking about what else the tree is. You newcomers are single minded, you see the tree as a thing for which to make houses and furniture. You construct from it without understanding what else it is. We watch how other things use the tree, the woodpecker, the squirrel, the fungus… We watch the leaves fall, we watch the sap drip, we watch it heal itself when it is cut, we watch it grow, we watch it die. We watch it reproduce, and we watch it become sick. The many ways in which it lives and breathes give us new life as well. We depend on the tree for much more than houses, because we know the spirit of the tree, we use it to heal ourselves, the… and you will forgive me if I use one of your buzzwords.. paradigm of the tree is something that can be applied to most everything we do, the lessons we learn, the way we see ourselves.

Our brothers the Sioux of the west, know the Spirit of the Buffalo. Yes they kill them and eat them, but they are dependent on the buffalo. They do not JUST eat them, nor do they just KILL them. They are not vegetarians, they are not animal rights activists. They kill, and cook and eat the buffalo. They also use its feet, they use its eyes, they use its stomach, they use its hide, they use its Spirit, that which is the buffalo, to divine who they are and how they fit in on this planet. Part of the buffalo lives in them."

To which the Christians would understand that the Native Americans were part animal, and were therefore justified in killing them, sigh. Anyway, it’s possible that this common perception of the ancient ways was just due to the ignorance of the west. And you know we still place too much emphasis on outward appearances and not on the Spirit of the person. If we watched and waited a bit before opening our big mouths, maybe we’d finally after the centuries, learn something.

Two Hot Chicks in a Susuki

I was riding up E 14th St in Oakland, when a Susuki Samurai or some
such vehicle came up along side me and proceeded to make a right turn.

"Hey!" I yelled swerving off onto the other street.

Oblivious to my scream, the two girls replied, "Heeeeeey-ee," a
nondescript reply as if awakened from a slumber. I yelled for them to
watch where they were going and continued on my way.

"And they want equal rights, " came the words of a grizzled beared man
in a blue pickup. On the back it had a confederate flag bumper sticker,
the words Old Fart on another, and a VA sticker in the rear window of
the camper shell. A yellow, mut leaned its head out the window, tongue
wagging in the wind.

I said nothing to the man. I accepted his words as a statement of
solidarity. He had seen what had happened, the lack of remorse by the
two women, and was reaching out to a brother. ‘Hey man, I’m there for
you."

I still shook my head, though. It could have just as easily been a
couple of whites that might have cut me off. In fact, it’s happened
more often than I want to remember. In fact, once it was a cop. Cut me
off in an intersection. I yelled, "Hey!" which always seems to work.
It’s not as offensive as "Hey, fuck you!" but still pucent enough to
drive home the point. Would that it were a horn. They’re so
inoffensive, insomuch as people don’t take them as personal insults of
their family or some such thing. They don’t feel obliged to get out of
their car and chase after you with a tire iron (chapter 7).

The cop guns the engine of his Crown Victoria cruiser and very firmly and clearly yells, "Hey, fuck you!"

I remember the blue Ford pickup man’s soft words as well meaning but ignorant. I shook my head and pedaled on.

ZZZZhuuuuummmmm, came the tires, "EEEeeeeeeee. Heeeeeeeyy-eee, we’re
sorry" Vrrrroooomm. There was the Suzuki, dodging and skipping catching
up to me. An attractive buxum black woman leaned out the window.
"Heeeeeyyy-eee, we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to cut you off."

"That’s all right, " I yelled back in disbelief.

They skidded off, and stopped at a red light next to the blue Ford. I
pulled up and leaned on the door frame. "That’s the first time anyone’s
every apologized to me for cutting me off. Thanks, " I said smiling.

"We’re sorry. We didn’t mean it." She giggled and smiled.

And there was the man in the Blue Ford pickup. He had his dog, and his
bumper stickers, and his beard. I wish I could have said something to
make him feel more like a brother.

To Build a House

Specialist Canon gave the clutch a push and rolled the 5 ton over a
dusty road. It was 0700 and already hot as hell. SPC Canon had his BDU
jacket off and stuffed behind the seat. He was wearing an issue brown
tee shirt, his BDU pants, and construction hard hat.

"Sir, it’s just around the corner. We’ll drop the stuff and come back around 0900 after formation."

"Fine, that’s good." I looked at the small houses as we rumbled past.
To call them houses was generous, though. They we little more than
pieces of driftwood banded together into makeshift platforms under tin
roofs. Their long legs looked like crooked old men, windows little more
than gap tooth grins.

I glanced at the two soldiers in the back sucking in the heat, stoic
enough though, basking in the dust cloud that settled over them as the
truck came to stops. They were perched atop piles of lumber, plywood,
tools, and a box of nails.

"You know it’s my ass, if anybody catches us, " I turned and leaned my arm out the side of the truck.

"Pffphht, sir, you know everybody always blames the SPC. Yer ass… my ass!"

I laughed, "Well, that’s because the specialist knows everything. How
do you expect a Lieutenient to have organized all this by himself."

"That’s what I’m saying, nobody would believe it… an then it’s PFC
Canon. Shit, then I got to go get new rank sewed on, that’s a shitload
of money for 16 uniforms."

He was grinning now, and I winked back at him. I would be the fall guy
for sure, an officer with a bunch of lower enlisteds, stealing project
supplies and running off to God knows where. I understood him though. I
got yer back, sir. We’ll all play dumb, just relax, an’ we’ll get you
through this.

I think he understood me too. You guys were just following orders. You
were with an officer, so you were just doing what he told you to.
Nobody got killed, or hurt, so after a reprimand…

My career would be over, though. Beats having to sew new rank on 16
uniforms. I laughed to myself. Funny how people communicate in the
Army. Last night, while in the showers, I listened to a couple of
enlisteds talk shit to each other, a past time that military men seem
to have mastered.

"How much you pay for your apartment?"

"Shit, I pay $700."

"Fuck, that’s nothing, I pay $800."

"Yeah, well with utilities and condo fees, mine actually works out to $900."

"Shit, man, what’s your old lady do?"

"Spends my money."

Snicker. "Man, how much does she spend a week?"

"Fuck, all I get is a six pack, and a TV guide…"

"Sucks to be you."

It’s kind of nice taking a shower, not to wear rank. People don’t act
as themselves when you’ve got officer’s rank on. If they don’t know
you, they look figety, uncomfortable. It made me uneasy watching them
sometimes. And then there were the older guys, Master Sergeants and
First Sergeants (1SG). They don’t fear, which is good, but then they
feel the need to bluster. "Damn kid, ain’t been around for but a couple
of years. Put that damn rank on him. He’s my kid’s age, for God’s sake."

Either way, they act differently when you are in uniform. It’s nice to
take a shower. You wash off more than just the dirt and sweat.

I smiled, "Sucks to be you."

"Yeah, shit." He went back to washing his face.

I lifted the brim of my cap and mopped the sweat from my brow. The
jungle was starting to steam now as mists lifted from the valleys and
crags. They looked like full bowls of cream, or maybe big steaming mugs
of coffee, with the rich savory aroma of wet, oxygen laden air. I
started to feel sweat soak into my back where it was pressed against
the canvas seat cover.

This part of Panama was rugged and breathtaking. Craggy, and
mountainous, it didn’t look like I had always pictured jungles. The
peaks were like shards of bright green glass pushed up from the earth.
Looked so sharp, you might get cut.

We were climbing now, up and out of the valley of coffee cups. The mist
lay shimmering behind us as we trudged along. I could see the whole
coast now, as irregular as the rest of the landscape. There were a
million little inlets and harbors each with a mad bull kicking to get
at the rolling undulating ocean, straining at the gates, like with one
little kick, and they would come charging out of their pens.

"Sir, we gonna kick yer ass in cards tonight?" SPC Canon taunted.

"Quit talkin’ yer smack, Canon. We’ve already kicked yer ass 3 times."

"Outa how many, sir? Ten maybe? And fer the last three I didn’t have my
partner. Tonight, it’s gonna be different." He mimicked throwing down a
card, "Smack. Take that."

I shook my head. "Canon, Canon, Canon… when you gonna learn. All
right, we’re gonna see." He was better at Hearts than me, we had been
playing all week. Some would call it fraternizing. While the other
officers were off in their own little stress world, I was hanging out
with my troops. I figured it was a good way to keep an eye on them.
Yeah, familiarity was maybe a little too easy for them now, but I have
their respect.

"Uh, oh." SPC Canon said. "Sir we’re busted."

I looked ahead. There was a check point. It’s Sunday, and our day off.
Why were they having a check point? "Relax, I’ll take this one." I
jumped down from the truck and trotted over to the MP, a burly
Specialist, with a chip on his shoulder. It goes with the territory of
MP’s. Most of them are bored to tears, so a little action really gets
them going.

"Sir, where are you headed with those soldiers?"

"We’re taking wood to the abuttment work site in Adelante. It’s our day
off, " I volunteered, "but we’ve got a lot of work to do Monday, so we
wanted to get a head start."

"Okay, that’s fine, sir. But you can’t go this way. They’re setting up
to repave over here. Tell your work crew to reroute around Adelante for
tomorrow."

"Thank you, Specialist, I’ll pass it along to my commander." I trotted back to the 5 ton, and pulled myself up into the cab.

"Way to go, sir." SPC Canon grinned.

"See, this bar comes in handy once in a while. Any other requests?"

He smiled a crooked smile, "You can get yer ass whooped tonight in Hearts."

We drove on.

"There it is, sir." Canon said pointed to a brightly colored stick
shack. Looks like some the boards had come from an old bilboard,

I wondered who told them they were poor.

Cut from the land in their irregular shapes too, were the small houses
of the Panamanians with brown-faced children standing on front porches
shouting and waving. I waved back.

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