Thinking of Java ... again!!

I'm thinking of coffee this morning and of how much I love it. Why is that? Is it the flavor, the process of making it, the sound of oily black coffee beans ground to perfection, the assault to my olafactory glands of that first fusion of hot water on pulverized coffee bean? I close my eyes for a few seconds -take it in. Wonderful. God's gracious gift. There is an art to brewing coffee and there is a joy in the consumption too. I know that the "experts" tell me that caffeine is a drug. It is addictive. It will hurt me. Yes. Whatever. I can think of more abusive ways to hurt my body? Go away!! Will my single mug of coffee in the morning and the joy I recieve in the making really ruin me for life? I doubt it. And for what it's worth I really don't give a damn what the "experts" tell me about my love for coffee. They are probably all crypto java lovers themselves! I recently had someone jump on me for my love of coffee. They were holding a mixed drink while dishing out their diatribe. I smiled and took another sip of my French Roast coffee, freshly brewed -the only coffee I care to drink. Bottoms up! If Jesus were invited to a party of mine I would ask him to turn the water into coffee -blends from all over the world! I can take care of the wine- Pinot Noir for sure! Well, I just love coffee. I love the aromas in a coffee shop. I like to see the newspaper stand with all the papers, magazines, etc. I like to see people reading. I take in the atmosphere of a cafe, the ethos of the place. I often journal at cafes. Why? I'm not sure. I watch people constantly and it inspires me to think of all sorts of things that I normally can't muster up on my own. Last week I sat at a Starbucks here in town. I watched a long line of people waiting to be served like worshippers waiting for their eucharistic meal, hungry hearts open mouths. For some reason it made me feel sorry. I'm not sure why. I thought, "My gosh, I wonder what all those people are thinking, what issues they all face, what disappointsments they've all faced in the last month, what drives them all." It was just a random thought. Well, that's all for now. I'm going to have a cup of coffee. I made it myself this morning! It's in a bright red thermos ready to please me -a wonderful blend of African & South American beans. So, yes, this morning my thoughts wander and think of coffee. Would you care to join me? We could talk about all sorts of things and inspire each other to love all the more what drives us in this pursuit of writing, of journaling.

Which Newspaper Shall I Read Today?

The Birmingham News or The New York Times .... hmm ... lemme see

Have been thinking about the impact of the written word. Back in 1989 the newly elected President of Poland, Lech Walesa, was addressing a group of journalists in the Washington and he asked them whether or not they thought the world could ever have another Stalin or Hitler. It was a rhetorical question to them but he did answer it himself by saying that he didn’t think this possible anymore what with the advent of mass communication. Journalism’s responsibility is seminal to the developing of emerging democracies. We take the task so lightly. I doubt any of us give much thought to the incredible freedom we have to choose from a menagerie of newspapers or radio broadcasts here in America. I watched a film last night about the life of Fidel Castro and while it was regrettable to see a group of revolutionaries that began with what appeared to be a sincere desire to free the people of Cuba -now a perfect Orwellian incarnation- I was nonetheless reminded of the power of a free press and of free speech to turn a motley crew into a full blown dictatorship. Today we have information technology that allows millions of people access to our ideas with the click of a mouse. There is power there for sure-for good and for evil.

A Tribute to a Great Friend

Gary Allen Wilson 1951-2004

As I drove to work this morning my mind wandered to all sorts of things. I had a brief moment wherein I felt happy ... happy at the thought of doing something that I WANT to do and that comes natural for me. It dawned on me this morning that only we humans fret and struggle to find our "niche" in this life. The animal kingdom, they never struggle with "mid life crisis" and all that shit. They are born. They perform their tasks that come innately for them. They perform all this flawlessly and with grace and beauty and then they die. Perhaps they die content. The raccoon that I saw dead on the side of the road this morning, do you think he worried about mid life crisis? Did he have a warning of the impending doom that was to face him? Do raccoons believe in the afterlife? I'm inclined to say no but then again I've never talked to a raccoon to understand their noetic structure on things eternal. It may very well be that they too look forward to retiring to a place where there are no cars or trucks speeding along the road but instead field of trash bins loaded with goodies and not a lid in sight. Raccoon heaven.

My best friend in college died last week. His adopted son, Nathan, wrote to tell me; the letter arrived yesterday. Died Tuesday, buried Friday. I was Gary's best man in his wedding back in the early 80's when I was still running around Boston trying to figure out what to do with myself. The last time I saw Gary was in 2003. I drove up to Salisbury, Maryland where I found him in a nursing home room, stretched out, thin legs, shriveled up and not looking at all like the long-haired hippie he was before he got "saved" and went to Bible college to become a preacher -which incidentally he never did follow through with.

The only means of communication I had with him at the time was via a computer screen. He could pick out letters on the monitor suspended above him via eye movement and could thereby make simple short, abbreviated sentences. It's all we had. Gary was an intellectual, a lover of music and a bibliophile of the highest order. Rarely did you find him without a book. In fact as I recall he had a method of reading where he read from a different book each day. What a guy!. My earliest recollection of him was sitting in his rocking chair in a college dorm listening to Vivaldi's Four Seasons and just a rockin' back and forth. Whenever I hear Vivaldi's Four Seasons I stop and think of Gary who evolved from being a classic 60s hippie to a raving evangelical fundamentalist in the 80s to a relaxed beer drinker and avid fan of Neil Young in the 90s. The last thing we did together while he was still up and around was watch a Neil Young concert together. I guess you can say we both evolved. Life's like that. It's about evolution, growth, adapting, change, and hopefully love. Gary Allen Wilson. May he rest in peace.

The Rape of Nanking

11.15.2004 –Birmingham, Alabama -3:30PM

Iris Chang is Dead at 36

What a sad weekend indeed. Not only was I reminded of the loss of my dear friend Maria Consuelo to suicide, her birthday was on Saturday, but here I am reminded this weekend too of yet another wonderful human being who served us all well by exposing a piece of history that most of the world would have rather preferred to have kept covered. Iris Chang shot herself a few days ago. She was found dead in a vehicle on the side of a California highway with a self inflicted gun shot wound.

I think I would have enjoyed meeting this woman. Her book “The Rape of Nanking: The Forgotten Holocaust of WWII” exposed Japanese atrocities against innocent Chinese in their occupation of Nanking (now Nanjing) in 1937. I think the Japanese hated her for doing this. Up until her 1997 book the story was untold and hardly referred to. Imagine the Japanese killing 300,000 innocent people and raping 80,000 plus women. Even the Nazi’s were said to have been shocked at the deeds. Here’s Chang writing about the event:

"Many soldiers went beyond rape to disembowel women, slice off their breasts, nail them alive to walls. Fathers were forced to rape their daughters, and sons their mothers, as other family members watched. Not only did live burials, castration, the carving of organs and the roasting of people become routine, but more diabolical tortures were practiced, such as hanging people by their tongues on iron hooks or burying people to their waists and watching them torn apart by German shepherds. So sickening was the spectacle that even Nazis in the city were horrified."

She was depressed. Maybe she heard one too many sad story. People like Chang are called to do what they do. She once remarked that it didn’t matter if she made one penny off that book. The history needed to be told. I love people like this. They are the true unsung heroes in our culture of greed and self-seeking egocentrism. Why is it that people like this take their lives and the ones we wish would do so live on to lead governments, cause mayhem with their politically driven agendas, and promote themselves at every turn – all for the cause of “the people.” Yeah, right. My ass!

Rei

Rain, Pizza, Tim, and Money

11.11.04, Birmingham, AL- 9:22 p.m.

Man, it's been a long day. I woke up this morning and heard the rain outside and I think I groaned and rolled over. Today was a total waste of a day. Hit the office this morning and was there just long enough before it was time to lunch with my bud Tim -whom I hadn't seen in a long time. I think that's why we talked for four hours -good thing I know the restaurant owner. They locked the doors to the haunt and Tim and I just sat there talking about all our shit. When I realized how late it was and this young Mexican kid was performing his cleaning ritual I told Tim we probably ought to beat it outta there. So, we did. We went outside and started another rag out there for another half hour. What a cool guy. I wish he'd ditch the gig he's got. I saw in his eyes before he said anything that he is going down. He seemed to need to talk. I listened a lot. People that hurt need an audience. I think Updike said that somewhere.

Leck's gone to Florida for a much needed break. Maybe by the time he gets back next week I'll have pulled in enough to deal with our financial woes. God I hate money! If the love of it is the root of all evil then the need for it is our bane of existence.

Anyway, that's all for now. Cya

rr

Its never been a simple task for me to make friends. True. If you met me you'd be convinced otherwise because I tend to be a pretty transparent person -not shallow mind you, there's a difference. But when it comes to making really close friends, it just doesn't happen often. Maybe there's something about me that while being attractive is equally distasteful I don't know. Perhaps I try too hard. I know, maybe what I need to do is stop being so honest with people, you know, take up spectator football, learn all the stats and players names and learn to ride the waves a bit more. Maybe I need to put an end to all this writing and this penchant to record ideas. I don't know. I read Norman Vincent Peale's book, "How to Win Friends and Influence People" back in the 80s. It said that if you really want to impress people that you talk to them about the things that interest THEM -nevermind what you like, who you are, etc. Tell 'em what they wanna hear and they'll stick to ya like lukewarm grits dashed against a kitchen wall. To tell you the truth I find most people I am around terribly boring. Oh, there are a few souls that I get with on occasion and I walk away with a a feeling of azure skies and a hope that the world's not such a bad place to hang your hat afterall. It's not all that bad. Maybe all this is why I have a weakness for collecting books. My books are always there and waiting. They give me great pearls of wisdom and yet never question me, judge me or look the other way when I'm trying to say something that's important to me. They are there. Faulkner calls out to attend a funeral. O'Connor ends with a dark and apparently grace-less but actually grace-filled ending. Percy crawls inside my head with characters that think and feel. Dickinson makes me dizzy with metaphors that haunt me for days. They are all dead and yet they live. It's not so bad, right? All in all we still need skin. I like to call it the ministry of presence. There's a man who attends the church I go to that announced a few weeks ago that he is going to die. It came on unexpectedly. Just a cough that turned out to be a form of cancer that goes back to summer jobs working with asbestos. I don't know what to say when I am around people with a death sentence like that. I think I'll draw nigh, ask questions that no one dares ask, like "What does it feel like to know you're gonna die?" Maybe I can put some of this out here for a soul to read. My heart feels so heavy today. Sometimes things just don't work out the way you planned.

It's Saturday night I find myself in my office working on a website that I hope will bring some fragmented pieces of myself together. What a day! I feel like a coffee bean in a burr grinder. So much is going on at the moment. It seems that once again it is inevitable that I will face yet another change in vocation. It's all monetarily driven at this point and, dare I say, I almost welcome the change. But don't let me fool you. There's still much to be decided yet. I'll keep everyone posted. I know there are souls out there that read these posts regularly and whose life depends on this attempt at poetic commonplace chatter we call blogging. I joke.

I was just checking out a friends website, a film producer and was reminded about how we are all in some form or fashion on a pilgrimage. If you get a chance check out the following site: www.sometimearoundseptember.com. There's a lot to read there but it's all worth it.

I'm writing more these days and that's a good thing. There's a lot more I need to post on here and in time it'll work its way on here. In the meantime check out some of these recent posts. I'm debating putting all this on the website I mentioned above. If so, I'll for sure put the link out here and redirect your attention to another site where we can carry this on. That's all for now. I hope it will all come together. I need to let go.

Behind the Door (Short Story)

Behind the Door
March 28, 2004

There I stood at the intersection of William and Morgan Avenue in front of a rust colored sign with bold white letters that read “DANGER Construction in Progress.”

I could hear the muffled voices of workers high above. For a second I thought that I could never be a construction worker because I was too afraid of heights and would have seemed ill placed among beefy, tattooed and sun scorched men who chew tobacco and dry shave with dull razor blades. No, that wasn’t for me. There wasn’t a thing complicated about this. My brother and I tumbled off our two-storey house one summer while trying to put up a radio antennae. Heights? No can do.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye nestled between two bricks and a broken two-by-four a gold colored door lock with a key inserted in the key hole. The set looked too clean to be discarded, and the key had a little white tag hanging from it like the ones you see at the Five and Dime store when you buy a brand new key. I reached for it when I suddenly saw a flash of light.

The tarnished key that hung from my neck on a shoelace was not a symbol of privilege but instead of necessity. We lived on the corner of Tomlin St. in the house with broken windows and wandering, emaciated cats. Our front door opened only after I turned the key to one o’clock and followed this with a swift kick to the bottom left quadrant. It never failed to open for me. If you kicked the right corner, the door would open without the use of a key, but I tried to avoid this. People in our neighborhood watched everything and lived to suck in the despair surrounding them.

Occasionally I would fake the key turn and just kick the hell out of the door thereby tricking all passersby with any thought of breaking and entering our shotgun house. It was a system that seemed to work.

If you wandered to the back of our house you would see two rusty Westinghouse stoves, one Sears refrigerator with a missing door, a 1972 Ford Maverick with no doors or windows, and a tree swing with a rope but no swing –all leftovers from past tenants some alive some dead. All of our neighbors resembled our back yard in all its degradation.

As I recall there was a small doghouse too, but no dog in sight. He was dead, poisoned one summer by a group of drunken Mexicans that broke into the house. Since they were clueless about the intricacies of our front door they chose to kill toothless Webster and climb in through an already broken window. Wetbacks!! The joke was on them. There was more in the way of junk inside the house than there was in the backyard.

It was in the middle of July one sweltering summer when I remember inserting the key to the front door, but noticed it already open. I looked over my shoulder, bit my lower lip gently. There was an acrid stench in the air as I walked in to the house. The smell was just like what you’d find at Joe’s Bar & Grill during the summer months when they’d get behind in their garbage bill and their dumpster would morph into a holiday food feast for the city’s population of rats –which of late seemed to be multiplying like rabbits. There they were in rat heaven, lingering long enough at the wasteland of rotted food to urinate and leave their droppings everywhere. They seemed to arrive in shifts. Their smell was enough to singe nose hair and make you want to hurl.

I could hear a low humming drone when I took a few steps inside the house. Where the sound originated was not as important to me as the fact that it was present. As I recall I had the eerie feeling you get when you enter a dark room and realize there is another being there sharing the space with you, its intention of evil or good unknown.

I had been away for several weeks working for my uncle Ben, and trying to earn a few dollars for a used car I had my eye on at Smith’s Auto on Clairmont Avenue. My body ached from picking cotton all day and my fingertips looked like they had accidentally met the blade of a bean grinder. So I was really not in the mood for anything unusual.

Uncle had acres of cotton and profited nicely from each year’s harvest, but it was all taken in by hand as he was too damn cheap to invest in modern machinery. He was a Luddite from the get go –anything modern just made him groan. My bed and stereo were the only two possessions that I cared for at the time.

Why was it so dark in the house and why did it smell like vomit and sewage stewed for hours till it was soupy. I noticed a painting on the wall of Jesus in a red robe with words written across his chest but it was too dark to make out what they said. The longer I stared at the picture the more it seemed to change.

The closer I moved toward my bedroom door the louder I could hear the humming. It sounded like a fan with a weary motor. I stood in front of the door with my head turned slightly and eyes wincing. I could hear a subtle tapping that had no pattern, random taps like bored, wandering, fingertips on a tabletop.

I pressed my ear to the door. …tap … tap tap … bzzzzzzzzzz … tap tap. I could hear what sounded like muffled voices but could not make out anything of what was being said.

I slowly run my hand down the side of the door and reach for the knob. I feel vibrations and the incessant thumps and taps. My nose could not take the stench any longer and so I reached up and pinched my nostrils while I turn and walked into something that after 22 years I can still recollect as if it happened yesterday. In retrospect I never would have opened the door had I known what was awaiting my senses on the other side.

When I was nine years old some of the boys in the neighborhood trapped a rat in a Sears cardboard box out under the expressway on Morris Boulevard. They poked and prodded it for hours until it lay motionless and uncaring like a whore on her twelfth trick for the night. Eventually, they stabbed the rat through one eye with a coat hanger turned spear and then hung it from a tree branch in front of St. Matthew’s Church of the Holy Passion. It was Nathan’s idea really. His way of saying “Fuck you!,” to Father Briggs for what he’d done to him one snowy evening after mass. Nathan never talks about it. He just did shit all the time to unnerve the priest.

The dead rat swung there dripping blood and decaying on the morning I, not looking, plowed right into the rotted flesh. Three weeks later I swore I could still smell the hideous stench that oozed from it and had left an ugly rash on my face -setting our family doctor into a tizzy. But that same stench was now in my nostrils again.

When I told Nathan I had walked into “Brat” (a name coined by the gang in honor of the priest and the rodent) he just shook his head in dismay and said, “Sorry, that shouldn’t uh happened to ya, Briggs should’ve got that not you. Fuckin’ black crow bastard!”

Still, I smelled that stench for a long time. And here it was again to remind me of not only my past, with all it’s soiled laundry but of my present and future and the sheer hopelessness of my useless existence. I smelled inside of Brat.

I felt my heart racing as I slowly opened the door and …

“Henri! It’s me, sweetheart- your mother. Oh baby! You’re going to be okay.”

I could not move my head an inch because it was closed up with bandages just like a mummy’s head is. My eyes, however, darted from left to right and no doubt communicated the distress and fear I was feeling. I felt my heart pounding in my chest.

Where was I and why was there a priest in the room. There was a loud heart monitor connected to a child in the bed across from mine and the droning of the heart beat, audible as it was, reminded me of something in my dream but I could not make the connection.

I overheard my mother tell my uncle Ben that she just knew the salve that Missy Martin swore healed her own boy one day when he came down with that that god awful influenza was what brought me to life again.

In her excitement she reached three fingers into an old jar and they emerged with a pasty white cream that mother in her enthusiasm feverishly smeared on my exposed chest. In a flash there was a hideous smell in the air that also seemed to remind me of something I had thought of before but could not place it.

Reverend Nathan from Sacred Heart of Christ Church was holding my hand when I came to and repeated several times in what seemed like a few minutes that the accident was meant by God to happen to me to bring glory to Himself. Seems that my accident had brought about quite a stir at our church –which had undergone internal strife after Reverend Bratt’s expulsion over pedophilia.

In the weeks that were to follow I eventually came to hear the full story of what had happened to me.

I was standing on the corner of William and Morgan Avenue where a sizeable city construction project was underway. My last recollection was of dropping to my knee to pick up what I thought was a new lock and key that had fallen from the site. One of the workers above dropped a hammer just as I stood and tilted my head upward to see where the lock and key may have fallen from. I saw something from the corner of my eye. The hammer struck the side of my head and partially embedded itself, I remember seeing a bright flash of light and suddenly found myself standing in front of a door, turning a key, and kicking it.

In my dream I recall a heinous odor, a calibrated thumping sound and a mysterious door with something ominous and indefinable behind it that sucked the breathe out of me, left me speechless, numb and with only a memory to visit a thousand times over.

Confessions of a Coffee Snob

I am informed by those closest to me that I am a coffee snob. My suspicion is that I not only flaunt my penchant for a well brewed cup of java but also my apparent impatience for the lack of one. I confess. If wine connoisseurs can snobbishly natter of the joys of an aged California Pinot Noir then I am safe describing the smoky flavor of a freshly brewed espresso a la Starbucks. So, I dismiss my accuser’s diatribes as unadulterated jealously. They probably drink Folgers instant coffee or linger at Maxwell House’s last drop.

I wonder. Is it wrong of me to consider those whose intake of “coffee” consists of the pseudo-drink purchased at trucker frequented convenience stores from machines that spew brown tepid fluid. What comes out of these looks more like what you might get from a tea bag that’s been recycled one too many times?

What could possibly be inside of these wannabe soft drink dispensers turned one-stop cafes? Only God knows. I imagine age old hard rubber tubes, caked with java cholesterol that ooze out what is supposed to be coffee but in reality is hardly what the “Freshly Brewed Coffee!” sign lures the caffeine addict to believe.

Out of sheer desperation I gave one of these javachines a go one day last week. I stood before my mechanical coffee shop pop-eyed as it coughed, sputtered, and whizzed into a cheap paper cup. The only redeeming quality of such an act of desperation is my ability to qualify my criticism with age old experience. Amazingly, I sipped once and then apologized to the pavement when I baptized it with the remains. Life is simply too short to drink this stuff.

Recently I was in Huntsville, Alabama and in hot pursuit of a good cup of coffee. My sojourn there would last for several days and so it was critical that I find a supplier to meet my needs. In my caffeine wanderlust I roam the streets in search of a café. They know about rocket ships in Huntsville but I suspect that Starbucks has yet to impact this town.

I find a quaint shop that actually bears the French word café as part of its name. I’m in luck! Hooray! Brighter days ahead during my brief stay in rocket town! There really is a God in heaven!

I knew I was done for when with twisted face the waitress informs me,

“It takes us a while to make a latte.”

I glance around like a tourist gone mad. It’s early in the day. There are five people in this joint and no one fighting to get through the front door. Hmm. What gives? I muse that perhaps it takes so long because they are purist and grind their coffee beans by hand. I’ve nothing better to do so I sit down and wait. And wait. Oh, and … wait.

I was patient for an entire 22 minutes when the moment of truth finally arrived. I stared at the miniscule paper cup my “latte” was served up to me in.

Huh? For a moment I entertain the thought that perhaps my order was confused with someone else’s. Normally I would keep quiet, but this is a matter of life and death here.

“Oh, I’m really sorry, but I ordered a latte!”

I note that the waitress’ eyes navigate the room. She replies,

“Oh, but that’s what that is.”

I thought for a moment that I would momentarily define the elements of a classic latte but I could see her eyes already glazing over and I could smell what seemed like toast burning. She leaves. I sit with my arms crossed and stare downward.

“This is a latte?” I say to myself. Lips moving, no sound.

My lips pucker with frustration as my head sways to and fro. I reach for a plastic stirrer and poke the top of the drink. A latte is supposed to be a trinity of coffee, steamed milk and a head of froth. My investigation reveals to me that no such trio exists inside this paper cup.

I drink up and remind myself that at least I didn’t press a button for this cup of … well … this beverage. I appease myself with the thought that I’m not at a fast-food sweat shop where the coffee sits on a burner long enough to make java tootsie rolls.

It shouldn’t be this difficult to find a decent cup of coffee! But then again I am not in Seattle, the coffee capital of America where lattes and espressos are brewed up for you fresh right out in the open air in those adorable mobile cafés.

I wonder what the job scene looks like in Seattle. Hmm.

I zoomed to New Orleans last week just for the day. It was my one moment to feel like a trendy businessman on the move. A dear friend informed me that should I want a good cup of coffee that I should visit a place in the French Quarter. It had a French sounding name. The café doo something. My business in this city takes me less than an hour to process which gives me all day to wander New Orleans.

The Café Du Monde in New Orleans is a coffee lovers paradise. Think of it. A landmark café that’s opened 24-7 in the French Quarter of a sexy city that serves café au lait and the tastiest rectangular French doughnuts called beignets (pronounced bin-yays) that are served up hot and buried in a Mt. Everest pile of powdered sugar. I think I’m gonna like this place.

I don’t know about you but if I have to speak French to order my coffee, hell yeah, I’m in the right place.

It sure beats hollering “large coffee!!” into a drive-through speaker intercom.

“That’ll be a dollar twenty seven, drive around to the window.”

I sit and take in the wonderful scenery of an outdoor café in the French Quarter, my powdered sugar nose, lips and chin looking like Al Pacino’s cocaine covered face in Scarface. But this is okay because everyone else in this congregation is wearing the same tell-tale mask. I am no longer caffeine or sugar deprivated. This is pure ecstasy and I promise myself to return soon and have breakfast, lunch and dinner at the Café Du Monde.

At home I return to the safe haven of my espresso machine and coffee maker and have only myself to blame for a bad cup of java. I grind my beans, poke my finger in to make sure the grind is just right, pop in a filter, sit back, and think of how sad life would be without my coffee and without decent coffee shops where crowds gather to take in this drink of the gods.

So, am I a coffee snob? Well, sure. I can handle that.

Boy Scouts of the Bronx

Boy Scouts of the Bronx
July 4, 2004

In New York’s inner city of the 1970s a Puerto Rican kid growing up in the South Bronx actually had access to things like the Boy Scouts of America. But don’t let that fool you. What we called the “Scouts” bore little resemblance to the omnipresent posters or handbook covers of blond haired and blue eyed boys donning a freshness and hope to their appearance that seemed painful to observe for its unspoken exclusivity.

Our Troop 39 was privileged to earn the title of the poorest troop in the city. I doubt there was any validity to the designation but the label reflected certain aspects that were unique to our brand of scouting in America. We learned by heart the code of ethics every Scout memorizes and spews out to an adult in hopes of moving ahead in the club like atmosphere. But mainly we played basketball, traded baseball cards, and stayed off the streets for a few hours each Thursday night. We were definitely rough around the edges with no prospects for Boy Scout photo shoots on the horizon.

I didn’t even know our fearless leader’s full name. The best I can do is “Mr. Sam.” That’s what we all called him. He was a black man with a weakness for the bottle but he had a heart for helping kids on the street and in those days adults like that were a rare commodity in the South Bronx. We shared our Scout Master with Johnny Walker Red but we didn’t mind so long as he showed up for our weekly meetings.

I don’t have a storehouse of memories from my involvement in Scouting. Mainly it was something to do, a reference point for the future, or just a place somewhere in time.

I liked the idea of a uniform. It meant I belonged to something, a thing bigger than our square of the pavement on Southern Boulevard.

Harry’s Army and Navy. That was the place we purchased all our trinkets that were like passes into a clubhouse. At Harry’s you could find almost anything. Their window to the consumer was a smorgasbord of sports equipment, military surplus junk, and a wide assortment of the latest and greatest Chuck Taylor Converse shoes –the standard on the streets in those days.

I’m not sure why but it always seemed cold whenever we ventured on a camping trip. Maybe it was just me –never the outdoorsy type and yet never late to one of these disorganized excursions of ours.

Mr. Sam was no where to be found on the day we were to go to Ten Mile River for a weekend camping trip. Reverberation of “Where’s Mr. Sam?” were everywhere with, “He’s on the way” serving as a filler response to the inevitable. We all knew were Mr. Sam was, but hoped he would gather the strength to meet us.

Eventually we went in search of our Scout Master and found him without too much trouble. He was drinking and as I recall was less than sober when we went into the apartment and coerced him out the door to come take us camping. He was such a likeable man. Even in a drunken stupor and coming short of ruining our weekend you still loved Mr. Sam –bloodshot eyes, crackly sort of smile, slightly stooped and never verbose. We were hours late before we finally headed out.

When the time came to leave for Ten Mile River there was excitement in the air. Mr. Sam was there, a few other adults too, and all of us with our backpacks filled with enough junk food to feed a starving army. I stood there in my green uniform, my weighty backpack all ready, my sleeping bag tied to the base of an aluminum frame built into the tan colored canvas. We were going campin’ and nothing shy of a tornado in the Big Apple was going to stop us.

We were Troop 39 from the South Bronx and we were going to Ten Mile River for a camping weekend. Yes! Before we could leave however we had to make sure we could load everything in the van and two station wagons we were traveling in.

It always seemed cold whenever we went camping. It just seemed like I could always use another layer. I was the last one to pack in to our vehicle and upon inspection Mr. Sam said that it would be better if I just traveled with the other troop we were heading out with as we were running low on space. I think I groaned inside when he said this.

The “other troop” was a motley crew of rough and very angry teens many of which were members of gangs like The Young Skulls or The Nomads. They were familiar more with street fighting, drugs, sex, crime and hate than they were with the Boy Scout code of honor. I really didn’t want to travel with these guys but I wasn’t given any choice. The decision was nonnegotiable with our illustrious leader.

I knew I was done for when I ended up in the back seat of a Chevrolet station wagon pinned against a gang member that was determined to prove his superiority over me by an act of humiliation that proved only his cowardice against the backdrop of my innocence.

I squeezed into my judgment seat quietly and hoped my presence would not be noticed too much or that perchance my unwanted traveling companions would look upon me with such disdain that I would not be worth their attention. It was the one time in my life where I’m sure being ostracized would have been a welcomed blessing. Alas, however, my wish for invisibility never happened.

“Hey, are you Puerto Rican?” asked this snaggletooth bully turned Boy Scout.

I looked straight ahead and like a lamb to the slaughter answered quietly.

“Yes.”

In my heart however I rather think that had he asked if I were Chinese I would have nodded affirmatively. Instead I answered what I believe he wanted to hear –my ethnicity always being a toss-up between being an American or being Puerto Rican, my generation being given the task of melding two cultures into one but failing to come up with an identity that pleased either. But all this was lost to this wandering soul who most likely could not find Puerto Rico on a map but chose to align himself with an identity for himself that allowed his validation as a societal victim.

“Well, if you a Rican why you got that flag on your shirt?” There was just silence.

In retrospect the commonwealth status of the island of Puerto Rico and the legal right of all islanders to U.S. citizenship was the furthest thing from this angry young man’s mind. It angered him that I wore a patch of the United States flag on my shirt.
Should I tell him that it came with the outfit and that everyone who wore a Boy Scout uniform had a U.S. flag on their shirt? Would he believe me if I told him it was stitched on at a factory somewhere far away and that it wasn’t my fault it was on there? The words would have been wasted. I sat there in all my shameful stillness and did not reply.

“Oye! I said why you got that fuckin’ flag on your shirt if you a Rican!”

I stared straight ahead and could feel hot tears coming to my eyes. Tears I did not want them to witness but droplets that I could not hold back and refused to reach up and wipe away.

I did not realize that day that humiliation was about to be served up to me on a hot platter. My accuser took out a switchblade and grabbed at my arm. He looked at me with an anger and hatred known only to those who are convinced they have nothing to live for other than the preservation of their supposed self esteem as thugs and abusers of the innocent.

With the detail of an artisan he wielded the tip of his switchblade and began cutting away at the stitches that fastened my flag patch to my shirt. I sat there quietly and said nothing. I was outnumbered and could do nothing other than stretch my neck out in surrender and embarrassment.

He clipped only enough stitches to allow boney fingers to grasp the flag and angrily rip the patch off my shirt. Nothing more was said. I sat quietly and looked out the window at the passing trees and I tried so hard to think about other things, about the blueberry Pop Tarts in my backpack, about my two sisters at home, my parents, and the fact that soon I would be with the others and away from these monsters I was shackled to for hours.

I don’t remember much about the Ten Mile River apart from this experience. I did eat blueberry Pop Tarts though and when I returned home my proud Puerto Rican mother sewed the U.S. flag patch back on to my shirt. I don’t recall ever telling her how it managed to be torn off my shirt. It wasn’t the kind of thing a boy tells his mother.

It always seemed cold when we went on camping trips. Perhaps it was because the winds of change were blowing over all of us.

Never confuse the two

It's hard to imagine that I have allowed so much time to lapse before putting something out here to keep my faithful readers enticed and returning. Writing is serious business indeed! This week I hope to put some memoir pieces out here that I have struggled to write. I've no idea who will read these (well, I know one person who will). The personal disclosure scares me. We all have insecurities. In elementary school a classmate told me once that I looked Jewish. Imagine that! A scrawny, curly haired Puerto Rican from the South Bronx confused with a Goldberg or Feinstein. I was thrilled. Why? Simple. I didn't want to be Hispanic. To be Hispanic meant that I was related in some way to these loud, party loving, vociferous, hot-blooded and volatile "Ricans" that dominated my South Bronx neighborhood. Hell, I wanted to get away from them as quickly as possible. So, the thought of being perceived of as being Jewish, well, that was certainly something I could live with. That meant I was related to Moses, right? Cool beans.

Stay tuned! There's more to come. I promise. It may be that as I unfold more of myself to you and learn to release my identity and fears of disclosure that I will be closer to freedom. Sometimes I confuse who I am with what I do. Our culture does that to us you know.

"Hello, nice to meet you ... my name is Reinaldo ..."
"Oh, pleased to meet you, Reinaldo, name's Walter"
"Hi, Walter, great party, eh?"
"Yeah, man, its been a while since I got out."
"So, Reinaldo ... uh ... what do you do?"

The question is never "Who are you?" that would be asking too much, right? But instead we ask about vocation, assuming that that defines who we are. Not.

Hey, here's something for you. Next time you get introduced to someone, I dare you to ask them, "So, who are you?" I promise you'll get a grin and a quick, "Uh, excuse me?" Ha!

Rei

A few words on compassion and life

And so it is that a year into a new business venture I find myslef no better off than when I started. These days it seems as if angst is the bane of my existence and each day gives multiple births of frustration. I find sighing a momentary relief, a reminder that e-mails, voice mail, faxes, and day planners are not the fiber that makes for soulful living. Perhaps my breathing is a reminder that after all is said and done all we have left is the breath in our lungs. Do you find this despairing, reader? You shouldn't. Life is made up of all manner of twists and turns. Some seem to be expert navigators but most of us just ride the waves in hopes for understanding, connection, self awareness, and that "thing" we each search for. My hope? Well, it is this, that with evangelical fervor I will be relentless in finding the true meaning of compassion in the poetry of the commonplace among all the souls I call my friends. I want so to not simply be understood by others but to live in such a way that love, acceptance, grace, and passion are not simply terms that attempt to define some ideal we seek after but that instead these are incarnated in the things we hold dear to us and the things we are willing to lay our lives down for. There can be no peace without compassion and compassion comes only to those who can be quiet and who can listen. All the great sages and prophets have told us this already. Only those with all the answers reveal their true ignorance of the real issues and real questions.

Xenophobia

Okay, so I’m sitting in my car this morning and randomly reach for my Oxford paperback dictionary. I decide, this fine stormy morning, to read all of the entries for the letter “X.” Don’t ask why. I’ve no clue. But I read every single one, and there were 24 of them to be exact –which is rather interesting considering the fact that the Greek letter “Chi” is the twenty fourth in the Greek alphabet. (Do you think Oxford just happened to chance on that one? Hmm. I don’t think Oxford and cute ever partner for anything linguistic.) One word hits home this morning. I sit. Read. Play with the thoughts for a while. I took Greek in graduate school. So, when I find myself at “xenophobia” I begin to wonder.

A compound word … xenos for “stranger” or “foreigner” and phobos for “fear.”. A fear of foreigners.

Ah, a classic word for life in the southland of America! I’m Puerto Rican. I didn’t grow up down here in the southeast. In fact, I remember as a kid growing up in New York’s South Bronx (hey, maybe I can still claim to be a “southerner”) that a lot of my black friends, yes- black! I never called them “African-Americans”, would always brag about “goan-dah-oon-sah-uff” and it wasn’t until years later, no joke!, that I finally realized they were “going down South” for the summer. What did I know! The only south I knew back then were the directions my grades were going in Mr. Lester’s class at P.S. 39.. He asked the class one day what “Watergate” meant. I shot my hand up like I was at an auction and proudly answered “Oh, those are games people play in the water, like water volleyball and stuff!” I’m sure that’s when the first “Duh!” was uttered in America. We’re talking the 1970s here.

Well, it’s 2004 now and I live in Birmingham, Alabama now. The story behind how I arrived here is a rather interesting one. Xenophobia does thrive here still, but as in most places across our nation it is taylor made for the region. A missionary to the xenophobic I am not. But I am Hispanic and live in a locale where the Hispanic community is in a neophyte stage developmentally. Here in Alabama if you are “Hispanic” it means you are Mexican. You cut grass or take jobs from citizens who are starving forlack of work but never quite manage to get in line for a job. If you are Hispanic it means you are part of a “problem” that local politicians can use as campaign fodder to garner support from confused and scared citizens who may have never crossed the borderlands of whitewashed suburbia. If you are Hispanic you belong in the fast food industry, serving up taco and chimichangas with just enough of an accent to be cute and authentic.

Here’s a twist for you. I live in a town where a mayoral runoff pitted two business men who have been vociferous in their commitment to deal with the illegal immigration issue in our city. Every article in the newspaper has zeroed in on their promise to deal with “these people”and “this problem” should they be elected into office. Hooray! Finally, we have some men who will take up the charge and jettison these illegals back to their homeland where they can rejoin a culture of poverty and be out of our hair once and for all. The ironic thing about all this is that BOTH of these men own construction businesses. They have subcontractors they hire for specific and skilled construction labor tasks. I’ll give you one guess where they get their zealous-to-work laborers. Viva Mexico!

There is an injustice, xenophobia, and racism that systemically runs deep here in this place I have chosen to live. I’ll stay here though. I like the weather, the history here is grist for the mill, and waitresses don't get histrionic here when I ask for sweet tea. Plus, they could use a few good Puerto Ricans from the South Bronx here in this place. Maybe within time some Alabamians will come to learn, embrace, dialog and respond rather than serve up their sentiments by way of reaction and unadulterated xenophobia.

Here Comes Ivan

Well, it's Wednesday, September 15th, and our attention has now turned from the residual fear factor of 9/11 to a tropical storm, hurricane I think, by the name of Ivan that, even as I speak, is pounding on the Florida panhandle and is threatening to chomp its way up to us from Mobile, Alabama. So, last night I'm at my daughter's high school PTA meeting and in the midst of loudspeaker humor by the principal I hear talk of how there is not a battery left at Walmart.

Today, just minutes from where I have an office there is a news crew interviewing patrons at a local hardware store patiently waiting in line for a truck to come and deliver more batteries. Here in central Alabama whenever there is a threat of inclement weather you can be assured that there will be no milk, no bread, and no batteries left anywhere to purchase. I haven't purchased any of the above. Why? I'm not sure. I rather like seeing people scurry to Walmart and herd each other along as they follow the instructions of our local meteorologists -who I continue to clamour are in kahoots with the local grocery store chains! Well, it's a thought.

One local news room has offices directly across from a major grocery store. Recently they were joking about how they could see the multitudes rush to the doors after listening to a weather update. The whole scene is a statement of the media's incredible power to sway the public and capitalize on the fears of nervous types who most likely purchased half a ton of tissue paper and enough bottled water to fill 2 swimming pools in prep for the big Y2K scare. Remember that? The money that was made off of that one! Sheesh!

And get this, I turn to an online weather site to see what gives with Ivan. What am a treated to? Simple. A short weather update video brought to you by a major hardware/lumber company that decides to inform the public, during this threat of Ivan, how very much they have done to help in storm and disaster relief services. This is without a doubt pertinent info with disaster looming. Of course all through this we are treated to beautiful pictures of their company truck pulling out on to the road, dark clouds all about, to save lives and restore communities.

Yes, Ivan is coming! He's close! Almost here! Make sure you buy plenty of batteries, milk, and bread. And ... above all ... make sure you visit your local The Home Depot to satisfy all your needs in homecare and construction.

Remembering September 11

When the misery of September 11th struck I was an office manager for a magazine and was living in Birmingham, Alabama. I recall I arrived to work a few minutes late that morning and when I entered our editorial offices I noticed a large group of our staff huddled in a small conference room watching television.

I don't often remember specific thoughts I had at particular moments in my past but that morning I recalled that I felt a tinge of dread as I, for some odd reason, thought that the President of the United States had been shot. To this day I've no clue as to why I thought that.

There were enough people in the conference room where it would have been uncomfortable for me to try to squeeze in and see what the big deal was all about. So I stood outside the room and watched through a glass pane. I could definitely see that something was up in New York City.

I could see the twin towers and one of them was smoking away. How odd it all looked! I then thought "Oh, man! One of the towers was hit by an airplane! Sad!!!" I wasn't far from the truth. I still didn't realize that it was a terrorist attack. I will never forget the feeling of fear that gripped me when I saw the second plane bury itself into the other building. I knew then that things would never be quite the same in America again. When the buildings crumbled to the ground a part of America fell too. I think we realized that day that America, great a nation as it is, is vulnerable. We felt that morning things that many other people in many other countries feel on a regular basis. I thought all these things that morning.

I thought also of my sister in New York City, where, incidentally, I grew up. People were crying all around me, hugging each other, and editorial work for the magazine was out of the question for that day. I still remember what one of the editors did that morning of 9/11. She was a close friend and writing mentor of mine. She hugged me, crying, and quoted a passage out of the New Testament. It was from the Epistle of St. James and spoke about praying for one another.

"...pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The effective prayer of a righteous person can accomplish much."

I knew the passage. At the time I was a divinity school student studying for my graduate degree in theology. I felt pretty helpless that day in terms of ministry. I just listened a lot mainly and didn't offer much in the way of emotional sauve for anyone. People needed to cry. We often run from grief but grief is a part of what it means to be human.

Several years have already passed now since that day, but I remember that day like it was yesterday. A writer friend of mine in Indiana called my office that morning frantic. "Are you okay! Is everything okay with you and your family!!" She was crying.

Well, that's pretty much it for now.

Entering the world of Blogging

10 September 2004

I spoke with a friend today that mentioned blogging. Her name is Heather. She makes movies. I don't know any other film producers. I thought I would take up the challenge to record my thoughts here. There's so much to say! Where does a person even begin? Who reads all this anyway! Is this for me, for you? Who? I have always had a penchant for a word fitly spoken. I feel naked writing here in this cyber journal. I can't quite remember who it was that said this, I think maybe Walker Percy, that it is odd how we can talk to an individual and not feel the pressure of exposure like we feel when we are faced with having to address one hundred people all at once. What is the difference? Well, I am, I think, talking to millions here. Maybe not. It's more the potential of speaking to so many that makes me feel insecure. I am a man. Simple. I have many thoughts about many things. I have lots of stories to tell. Maybe some of them will be of interest to you and maybe some will not. My thanks to Heather for turning me on to this. I enjoyed the conversation today and walked away feeling heard. Thank you. Rare moment I will remember.