Arrested Development

The pregnant belly burst luminescent, Day-Glo mandarin, the arid landscape draped in amber, the Sierras radiating burgundy. The sky, quickly lightening, brings to life the bustling hormigas. 

Everyday on my way to work I can see the giant cross of Franco's grave, the religious symbol turned on its head, an enduring image of fascism in modern Spain. I see the tan, khaki, auburn shrubs that make up most of the earth in this desert environ, more akin to a Mexican valley than a German hinterland. I see the red tiles that mark the roofs of homes, the churches and steeples, the crumbling ruins of some war, windmills, forts, stables, all next to apt complexes and condos, bus stops and highways. 

Every morning I stop at the cafe on the way to my bus and get a cafe con leche, maybe a croissant, and watch night become day, watch the evening's slumber awaken as my bus meanders up two-lane roads to Cercedilla, my charming postcard pueblo. I suck in my breath as this massive charter bus tucks into a tunnel that's just large enough to accommodate just one vehicle this big at time, so other cars need to reverse at its approach. The past meets the present in ways it never intended to and I meet my future in this land that seems caught in an arrested development. Let the journey begin. 

Racy daydreams

Savory dreams, intertwined under celestial blankets,

Constellations, the metronome to our divine symphony,

As we harmonize melodious, as we writhe harmonious,

Crescendos reach feverish, savory dreams realized

Island life

It's been soooooooo relaxing, most days I've spent sipping my Presidente, playing Dominican-style dominoes for hours on end and getting the gist of what my Dominican counterparts are saying (it's the speed and dropped-off words that have me deciphering sentences).

My first full day I went to Hato del Yaque, a hood high on a hill on the outskirts of Santiago de los Caballeros at night. I met Leonela, my cousin-in-law's cousin, and she took me to her cousin Lucy's place out there. She and her fam live above a 99 cents store, the doorways to the bedrooms were curtains, with a ginormous tv on the livingroom floor that doesn't function unless you turn off the light. This is no-frills DR. We walked to her cousin Indiana's place, the home was candlelit, where she offered me spaghetti and tostones. The capacity for folks, despite their means, to be generous with what they have is something that stood out to me, I am grateful for everything offered to me. We walked a bit further on, passing by makeshift compounds, the asymmetrical, the cobbled together roofs/fences/steps/walls a mosaic of ingenuity. When we reached another family member's place I saw another type of home, there were two dogs, a couple, the male had a broken leg and the female had utters hanging about her ankles, running about a dirt and gravel yard, no door to the home, with random bits of trash and cages strewn about. Later I'd see chicks running around, hear pigs squealing loudly in the background, as we played dominoes. In many ways this was similar to what I saw in Bali, I remember using a squatting toilet in a compound when I was horseback riding on the beach; that compound had ducks, chickens, roosters, pigs, dogs, etc., running around in harmonious squalor. I say squalor but, in reality, that's a comparison to what we see in the US, relatively what they have here is actually pretty nice, I would learn, compared to what you see in the country.

We were making plans for the night. Leonela needed to head back home to get dressed, I needed to go back home to also get ready. Lucy came with me to accompany me so we took a concho (a dollar cab in the states, if you're not from the hood it means a cab that multiple people take at a standard fee that follows a route, for example, near me they have dollar cabs on Sutphin Blvd and Merrick Blvd) back home. It can be a scary thing for those uninitiated. Riding in the front, most conchos don't have seat belts, they're windshields are sometimes cracked and the cars creak, screech, lurch and belt forward; my uncle's late 70's Colt Vista would feel at home here and die a slow, painful death in la Republica. After getting ready, meeting up and getting a lift to Leonela's, I saw her place in El Ejido. It goes without saying that each place is humble and you see things that remind you how industrious some folks can be. I ate again. Mangu this time. My first plate and it was a mound of mulched platanos, topped with diced red onions and fried cheese. It was pretty good but the platanos were dry and it was SO much that there was no way I could finish it, but I gave it a herculean effort while watching novelas and Rise of the Planet of the Apes dubbed in Spanish with her fam. (Mangu is good but I like my platanos fried and sweet, platano maduros as the dish is typically called.)

We started and spent a good deal of the night at a place called Lovera Bar, which was also a hookah bar that wreaked of flavored tobacco, and danced bachata, merengue and whatever else they played that night, all the while sipping more Presidentes. It was pretty chill, but I thought the place a bit stiff for my liking. After a while I felt my head light from all the smoke and just wanted to head home, so we took a concho to El Monumento (Santiago's Monument, which is in a central location) and had a bite to eat. Joselito, the boyfriend of my cousin-in-law's mom, came by to pick us up and on the way to drop off the girls someone mentioned going to another bar to grab a drink. At that point I'd gotten my second wind and the thrill of a new adventure piqued my interest. I had no clue what I was in for.

The place was called La Hookah, also a hookah bar (it's funny that they like them so much, I haven't seen a single Middle Eastern person while here), and judging by the tigres (hood youths or really any youth that has a sharp look to them) outside the joint, I knew that I needed to stay sharp. The waiters were also the bouncers/security guards, large, musclebound men who could be seen all over the place. The dance floor was no more than 80 square feet of tiles and the salacious quality of the dancing could be likened to Freaknik circa the late nineties. All of this wasn't so bad, I've been to hood places back home and abroad and not much surprises me ...until they opened up the dance floor for a "stripper dance". I'm thinking it's gonna be a kind of burlesque thing, with the woman gyrating seductively for the crowd. That would be the opening sequence. This drop dead gorgeous woman, with skin like sandalwood, with serpentine curves, with the Amazonian confidence of a queen bee amid a hive of hornets, was a mongoose among cobras. Leonela, and many of the women, egged her on, egged me on, gave me money and called the stripper's handler over to make me next in being the object of her "attentions". It would suffice to say that I had a blast, but I was also worried for the stripper, the crowd getting rowdier as her clothes came off, as she straddled boys' faces (yup, you read that right) sans thong. The circle became an oval, the oval tightened as the brutes held the raucous crowd at bay. We left soon after the dance finished, Joselito and I dropping the girls off and heading to a late-night spot, that resembled an American cafe, and discussing the night. He said that spot made him uneasy, it's a low-class joint with a reputation for "ra-ta-ta-ta-ta", and that there were better places. I didn't doubt him, and I knew that going into but I guess, at the heart of my character, I'm an adventurer. Island life has been relaxing and tumultuous but, DR, I can get used to this.

"Man's mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions."

His name was Ozzie, like the muppet, and I knew him more for his class clown humor and chuckle than anything else. It was my final year of high school and I got stuck with Ms. Glusman for English, an octogenarian renowned for the jiggling jowl at her jaw and gruff approach. The class was a motley crew of misfits, thugs and jesters, with nary a single x-chromosome to be seen. I never expected to learn anything in that class, I figured if I go through the motions, read what I have to and hand in what's asked, I'll be fine. At some point midway through the semester, Ms. Glusman had us read Native Son by Richard Wright. I read it eagerly, having previously read Black Boy, and when the time came to discuss the end and what we had learned from the book, I thought I knew it all (life since has been very humbling). Ozzie, who had only opened his mouth most times to take a jab at Glusman, chimed in on the book when prompted about foreshadowing. He explained that the scene at the beginning of the book involving Bigger, the book's gargantuan protagonist, and a cornered rat was foreshadowing for what would occur between Bigger and the Chicago PD. I was humbled, my ego had dismissed this kid as just another numbskull.

It made a strong impression on me, the fact that this kid whom I had written off could be so insightful. It's led me to teaching and I'm a big advocate that the sky's the limit, even if your wings get clipped at birth. It's no secret that socioeconomic factors such as wealth, class and a parent's educational level all play a role (read Freakonomics, it will open your eyes). The reality is that if you get a crap hand, chances are you won't be getting the pot. That doesn't mean that, with education and strong motivation , you can't transcend your upbringing. That doesn't mean that your Einsteins, your Bruce Lees, your Malcolm X's aren't the same children I see in classrooms everyday.

It used to rankle me. I used to get into that argument, at least once a year, with my cousin Lucho. See, he's of the ilk that think that those same ghetto kids dreaming of doing something big or impactful are just indulging pipe dreams. I don't, everyone has potential, be it artistic, intellectual or physical. If I didn't think that these kids I see everyday can't silence the naysayers I wouldn't bother, but I see, I hear and I've come to love my little sixth grade muppets, all thanks to Ozzie.

Un 'Naco En España: Crazy Eyes

We chatted through OK Cupid way before I ever came to Madrid, in anticipation of my arrival. Despite a slew of messages, she asked me all the same questions in person that she had through messaging, something I find incredibly annoying. This cooky Casanova and I finally made plans to go out on a date in her rural town of Villa de Olmos, last minute I googled how to get out there.
After grabbing the 3:45 bus on a Sunday to the boondocks of Madrid, this was rolling hill after cultivated hill of farmland, I arrive in her one-bar town. (I was the only person that got off the bus and the fool in sight.) She traipsed out of the one bar and I could see in her eyes, as well as the cackle of her laughter, that this was gonna be an interesting date. I was broke at the time, like Dave Chapelle's character in Half Baked, but luckily all she wanted to do was go for a walk on a back road and chat. As we strolled down this gravel road I started to take her in, she was raven-haired, with bangs and medium-length tresses. She wore tight black pants, and had a great body from the hint of it, something that weighed into my decisions later, as well as a purple hoodie that looked restitched together but what was most telling, and unnerving, was her hysterical laugh.
She spoke in a near incomprehensible Spanish accent, so I had to pay attention extra well, and would burst into giggles at her own jokes, which weren't that funny from what I garnered. Case in point, she mentioned how she went on a date with a guy and didn't find him attractive once they met in person. The point of him coming out to her was to have sex and so she wasn't sure how to get rid of him. How did she get rid of him? She slept with him and kicked him out soon after. This announcement was followed by, you guessed it, cackles of glee (and my own nervous laughter).
Despite her being clearly off-kilter, I made a move and tried to kiss her. (I was thinking about the tight, black pants.) I was met with a "what the hell are you doing?", not the first time I've met blatant rejection so I took it in stride, maybe it wasn't the right timing. We continued conversing and she invited me back to her place where she shared a flat with her dad. I met her dad and his African girlfriend, a colorful character from the brief glimpse, and we talked, I showed her pics from my albums on my comp while I chewed on cardboard, day-old pizza she'd fed me. I thought, she brought me back to her crib, her pops just left, my bus leaves in an hour, this is it, this is the moment. She was sitting next to me, her left leg near my right hand, and I figured I'd stroke her calf, see how she reacts. She growled. I'm not making this up, canine sounds came out of her mouth and she told me to watch it, she bites.
Thirty minutes later I was out in the cold, watching the sun set on this sleepy, little farm town, waiting for the bus and thinking what the fuck was I doing there in the first place.

Kryptonite to my Superman

I remember when Superman first met his kryptonite. My dad had a stroke, or maybe it was a heart attack, the memory is hazy as I was still a teenager. When you're that age, ailments are still kind of an abstraction, as all ailments are, mortality isn't a concern of the young. The point was, I'd never seen my dad sick. Really sick. He'd always been a tall, strapping man (in my eyes), with thick forearms and thicker calves, to look at them you'd think he played basketball his entire life (sadly, I didn't inherit this legacy). When I saw him sprawled out in the hospital bed, a husk of his normal, vibrant self, I was reminded he's human. Not only human, old, his body betraying him in his moment of need. The thought of my dad passing away had never crossed my mind, not even for a fleeting second.

There was an episode of the Fresh Prince that made an impression, the one where Uncle Phil suffers a heart attack. Will can't even go into the room to see him, fearing the illusion of Uncle Phil as his Superman may be shattered. This was what came to mind when I saw him there and things certainly changed after that, not just in my mind but also tangibly. Soon after he stopped driving a car, his eyesight giving way to cataracts. His gait became a hobble, his flesh loosened into a wrinkly sweater, his long-winded stories became longer winded, somehow (instead of his Herculean calves I inherited this trait).

I won't have him forever, or anyone for that matter. When my pal Leo recently dealt with the passing of his sis, Brenna, I sometimes found it difficult to find consoling words for him (and was reminded that youth isn't a deterrent for an early demise). When my cousin Uli recently suffered the loss of his pooch, Chewie, whom he loved more than most humans, I again felt achingly speechless. I saw my dad laid out in the hospital today and was reminded that who knows when his time will come and it makes me wonder, what's worse: a sudden loss or the deterioration of an individual?

I suppose there's no right answer, everyone at the end of the day wishes for more time, there's never enough (even if my dad's most common phrase is "hay mas tiempo que vida"). I guess it's about enjoying the time you've got and holding on to those memories that bring a smile to your face. Every Superman has his kryptonite, right?