"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?