Story Roads

Inconsistent Optimism

2008-12-08T07:47:00.001-08:00

I can.
I know I can
I can paint wings
on dead lands
and they would not fall down by arid looks
I can turn over thunder
before it rushes head first
to crack your shadow
I control the sea at night,
the wind obeys me and acclaims me
I can reach the calm within a baby's cry
Or maybe, I can't...

Perhaps I get startled by the horizon's light,
and I'm afraid of the spirit of the sleepy caterpillar
in her cocoon in the forest
I feel distrust of the hook that is yet to catch something
in the blood of his dark lair
I fear silence of innocence
I run from disillusionment and the strength of victorious souls
Or maybe not...

There are times when I find the color of your creed,
the taste of your breath, the smell of your best moment
Have you not seen me beat depth?
I allow myself, if I want to, to grind malice
I know I can. I can.
I can reach the goal, and get there first,
demolish the confinement of a tired mind,
and quiet the cry of a wounded cloud
I know how to believe in me, and even in you
I know I can.
Don't I?

Photo: Van Cortland Park, Bronx, NY

Old Road

2008-12-08T07:12:00.000-08:00

It might just be that it is really busy other times, but on my last trip to DR, the Malecon didn't seem as lively as before. Later, I was told that other highways had made it easier to travel through the city. This is the impression I got:

Dear old road, you who elongated the city with your life
now walk through the cruel route of oblivion
touring, only in your memories, over the sun's footsteps
Broken avenue, you who were the way of peace
and resonant, folkloric alley of an exhausted people
now only offer an arid path
I can't find my trips through your warm soil,
which once laid in pieces of mirages,
of distant sceneries painted with lived delights;
a modern highway stole them
Little street of mine, take me again through the innocent lane,
that luminous trajectory lost in the darkness of maturity
If you don't fall asleep, I will pay a fare to go see you,
I would feel the saltpeter falling on your back by the seashore
I would take a stroll to where the secret of oppressed dreams dwell.
Foto: Malecón, Sto. Dgo., May 2008

Sad trip

2008-11-19T07:54:00.000-08:00

We are all used to the musicians, dancers, activists, and pretty much anyone with a cause, traveling through the New York City subway system, balancing from car to car, just to ask for a couple of coins, and sometimes, to demand them, if the crowd behaves particularly ungenerous. But sometimes, those kinds of situations take us completely by surprise.

The boy walked reluctantly from one end of the car to another, barely holding the Burger King cup with the tip of his fingers, with his left arm apathetic, extending it only enough to demonstrate what he was after, while, with his other hand, he held on carefully has he moved ahead.

He didn't look dirty; on the contrary, he looked like a well cared for kid, his head, with a recent haircut. His features suggested a Hispanic mix, a gentle tone that we can often identify. But it was obvious that he did not want to do what he was doing. Often, he would readjust a pair of sunglasses, that where so light, they could not hide his wounded pride, his attempts to hide his wish to disappear at that moment, or at least make time fly, so his degradation could be less painful, and at the same time, he would look around, within the eyes around him, for some kind of sign of reproach or compassion.

It was in that search of pupils that he noticed the eyes of another boy, around his same age, no older than nine, that could not hide his amusement upon seeing such sad display. He picked a lock of hair from his face, and readjusted in his seat, balancing, without noticing, his little legs which at the end, dangled a pair of brand new Crocs sandals.

Suffocated with his look, the other boy lifted his sunglasses and dried up his eyes. His childhood escaped with a couple of tears on his fist, and a couple more that he swallowed. Only at that moment did I look for the source of his pain, whose indifferent glance hovered a couple of feet above. It was a tíguere, dressed in sparkling new urban fashion.

He was playing a harmonica, or at least he tried...

...a tíguere, that did not seem to be able to identify the difference between necessity and shame of someone who is supposed to be a role model.

Photo: Internet

Translucent sense of belonging

2008-10-29T08:30:00.000-07:00

To me, the picture explains exactly a feeling of duality, the mixture of the dead with the living, new and old. The verses follow the same idea in the previous post; a couple of words that kept bugging me. The most beautiful thing about poetry is that you can take a small idea and inject such an amount of passion that it almost becomes tragic. This is what Melpomene whispered in my ear:

Yesterday I cried because I missed you;
silent sobs,
they ran through rocky torrents of anguish
that only highlight your atrocious injustice.

Founders the love that you once felt for me,
lost in time
That's what your internal voices told me
armed with technology's knife

They screamed, "you left, don't think of returning
unless it's to visit!"
fearing I would take their spot in the line
or tried to bite their piece of cake.

Yet, regardless of that, I stand by your door
sitting, even if it's closed
Every chance I get, I'll write you a verse
You don't have to thank me. Please, say no more.

Out of the hole

2008-10-29T07:34:00.000-07:00

"Daddy, tell me a story", the little girl asked. And he, who at that moment was stuck in a word in his crossword puzzle, decided to take a break and please his daughter.

Well, many years ago, a group of brothers were playing too far from home and one of them fell into a very deep hole. At first, the his siblings stayed by the edge to see if he was able to climb out. From time to time, in order to make sure that he was still alive, they would ask him to describe the interior of the strange place he had fallen into. The boy told them everything they could see. He could also hear the murmur of some voices which he could not understand at all. And while he went deeper into his abysmal confinement, one by one his brothers left the edge of the hole.

Meanwhile, the boy followed the voices until he found a series of really weird beings gathered in a very large room. It seemed like they were discussing what to do with the child, who in turn, tried to find some kind of meaning in their words, but all he could hear was "abish abish abish" The creatures decided to keep the boy, teach him their language and a couple of other things that perhaps he would not have learned on his mother's care. Oh, but how he missed her!

He missed the streets, the costumes, the air, the views, the mountains, the cities and even the countryside. An uncontrollable grief came over him whenever he thought of his mother and his brothers. When he grew up, he decided to go back to the hole, because by then, the organisms wouldn't try to stop him. He called for his brothers. But way up there, by the edge, there were only two left.

So he started to weave red, blue and black verses, filling them with passions, memories rinsed with nostalgia and sobs, with the image of his beautiful mother. He weaved a staircase with his rhymes and upon reaching the top, one of his brothers told him that he could go visit, but he could not stay. There were too many brothers already and the mother was very poor. He tried to explain to them that he had learned a lot of things which he could contribute, that he would be useful in society. But his brother simply said there were too many in line waiting for their mother to feed them and nobody would make a space for him and teach him how to live in a land that was now strange for him. Other brothers that were happy to see him, promised to go visit him on the edge of the hole.

"Did he see his mommy again?"

"Yes. He saw her, but just for a little while. She was even more beautiful than he remembered"

"And what was her name, Daddy?"

"Her name was Quisqueya."

Photo: a Manhattan park.

Amorphous self-image

2008-10-28T07:19:00.001-07:00

My apartment's furniture is not covered with plastic, but my Dominican balconies always have rocking chairs. My shelves are not busied with ceramic elephants, not one single keepsake from weddings, birthdays, baby showers or christenings; but I do have a small Taino statue. I don't have a giant family portrait in the living room, but my walls are colored with paintings from the countryside and works from Haitian paintbrushes. I did not live in Washington Heights, or Corona, or the neighborhood in New Jersey that Junot loves so much, but Gazcue and El Mirador del Sur remain undisturbed in my memory, just as they were so many years ago. So, why so much resistance?

It's been almost two years since the opening of the first Dominican bodega in my neighborhood and the owner still has doubts and answers me in English even though all I buy from him are green plantains, salami and calling cards with names like "Motoconcho", "La Taijetica", o "Santo Domingo Invita", and then continues a conversation full of Dominican isms with the gentleman that makes the sandwiches. I already lost count of all my fellow country people that act surprised when I tell them where I come from, or that blatantly tell me it's not true.

That's why I dare to say that Dominican identity in New York is not defined by 4 trips to the beauty shop a week, nor hair straightening, pants that split you in half by the waist and that take half an hour to put on, nor the black caldero in the kitchen, the little doilies on the furniture, nor the unmistakable cibaeño accent.

Only if you are a famous Dominican, does your country forgive that you might represent other cultures in theater, or that you barely speak Spanish, or that you shine in jazz instead of merengue or bachata... or that your accent cannot be identified.

What's more surprising is that, coming from a country where more than 70 percent considers themselves mestizo (indio, indiecito, indio claro, indio oscuro, morenito, trigueño, mulato, lavao, javao, etc.), people still doubt my origin. And the numbers, I must confess, left me perplexed... that is, until I noticed that only 11 percent of Dominicans considers themselves as black.

Foto: Internet

Fuzzy notion

2008-09-19T20:59:00.002-07:00

I have a broken idea
that I can't bring out,
that is choking me
with the same hungry sluggishness
with which I follow it, motionless, through a spiral;
nauseous vertigo of my thoughts
Winds
that shake order and coherence,
gusts of balanced passion
mixing with the cruel absence
of a pain
that is essential for me to tell you stories.

Photo: Photoshop Composite

A bee was enough

2008-09-19T20:59:00.001-07:00

There were no less than thirty kids, none of them older than eight. Their little voices inundated the entire train car, like the buzzing of thousands of bees. Their unmistakable summer camp attire did not hide their different personalities. The loud ones sat in a corner, three or four girls and a couple of boys surrounded the naughty one in the group, the humble ones stayed standing, and two quiet boys sat in front of me with their two faces plunged in boredom.

Two pairs of big and tired eyes stumped on stains on the floor, or let themselves deviate from their own thoughts, silencing the racket of their fellow campers, and the train's roars. So, witnessing such a sad picture, I could concentrate no longer in the music hanging from my ears, that until that stop, had been able to take me out, too, from all the mayhem in the New York subway system.

It was an unfortunate little bee the one that woke us all up. She landed on a young lady's back that was standing right next to the two kids. Their eyes opened like flowers in blossom and a mixture of fear and excitement began to stick to them in the shape of little thorns much like the rear end of the ill fated little insect.

The bee started to evade the hands that tried to shoo it, the kids followed it with their eyes, and a shower of accusing fingers moved in surges as if they were guided by a powerful radar. A blow sent it to the floor and a young man, who up until that point looked like he was too concerned with his own good looks, stepped on it. Almost immediately the doors opened and three or four adults ordered the kids to exit in a line. My two little friends did not look so sleepy anymore.

Photo: Photoshop composite.

Apolinar, Egghead!

2008-09-19T20:58:00.001-07:00

I don't think it's necessary to explain why the others called Apolinar an "egghead", although I don't know if anyone ever said it to his face. This is because he was significantly taller than the rest of the kids in the class. He was an extremely misbehaved carajito, with an excellent ingenuity when it came to causing trouble.

Apolinar, a feared bully, intimidated the rest of the class with his bulging eyes and prominent forehead. A powerful look, almost hypnotizing, would force the rest of the boys to pester the new teacher, and after that, he would tell on them. He was always in some sort of trouble and did not hesitate in any attempt to humiliate the teacher.

One of those days, Apolinar and a group of kids started to throw paper balls at the teacher. One of them fell on top of the desk of the girl in front of him. She was about to give it back, fearing that the teacher would see it on her desk. But, when Apolinar extended his arm, the girl changed her mind and threw the ball at the teacher with such good aim that it hit square in the middle of her head. With a fury never seen before, she yelled...

¡APOLINAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!

There was only silence, everyone waited for Apolinar to tell on the girl. But surprisingly enough, he remained quiet, he did not utter a single word. A boy next to him was about to intervene when Apolinar stopped him and said. "We don't tell on girls".

Photo: Internet.

To the little border dweller

2008-09-19T20:57:00.000-07:00

Your parents cry broken veins
blood of revolutions and greed
hunger of peace among abusive rats
that gnaw, sooty, your patriotic wings

Uncontrollable weeping that echoes
under the grime of your filthy batey
simulating the pain of innocent souls
spouting sharp sobs, buzzing

Twenty two times you broke my heart
and thirty times more I made you feel it
with an evil trick from a shadowy tyrant
who crimson dyed a Dajabón river

Dirty prieto, scary cocola witch
I love you and traffic you, I help you and corrupt you
I hate you and I pity you, my poor little ebony man
from infertile soil, from a sad farmer land

Will your sadness end tomorrow? I doubt it
Forgiveness is hidden in money
The remedy is not in herbs, not in incense
And it's not in these scribbles that I shout of you.

Photo: Internet

Walking without a voice

2008-09-19T20:56:00.000-07:00

Right after learning how to read and write, I was tormented, for days, by the constant question of whether speaking was really that necessary or not. And shy people will understand perfectly well; even more, if they love literature. It is precisely that combination, one of the causes of my discontent with the place where I live. I resent it, because it stole my voice, the little that I had.

Guilty or not, I never forgave it for the radical change my life took when I stepped out of that plane, just as I started to figure out the trick about sociability; a tool that laid forgotten, perhaps in a small cavity within my umbilical cord, and whose mechanisms I barely had begun to learn when I left.

It was this place which amputated my literary knowledge, stepping on its remains, which I still find myself picking up, blindly. No other place made me feel less, especially during those days when I used my little brother as a shield in the kids section of the public library, because that was the only place I would find books in English I could understand and he (according to me, then) justified my presence in that section, whose intimidating collection whispered to me continuously that I wouldn't be going through that in Santo Domingo.

I often remembered, wrapped in frustration, that day when Marcelle, Licina, her little brother and I went to the library in the Ozama Fortress because we had to work on a school project in sixth grade. We strolled all through the Colonial City and arrived at the fortress savoring a taste of freedom because, although we did plan to finish the work, we exaggerated the time we needed so we could take a walk through the old neighborhood and explore the tower in that first military instalation in the New World.

It was there, up on the top, that a Miami elementary teacher stopped us, and asked us to explain the importance of a monument so precious for us, while he recorded our answers on video for his students, a group of gringuitos that were learning Spanish. So we told him everything we knew about that monument of so much historical value.

That was a memory that kept dissipating amid the routine of my new life. I was swept in silence while I tried to decipher stories intended for third or fourth grade kids, trying to understand a culture that boiled within my adolescent thoughts, a broth of aversion, just by thinking about what Marcelle and Licina were probably reading at that moment.

I barely had a whisper of my real voice when I slowly, stopped going to the library, concentrating myself instead in the homeworks of my new language. It wasn't until three years after my arrival that I could take a literature class in Spanish for natives and I began to feel a soft muttering, telling me that perhaps not everything was lost, that I would not remain, forever, with my language crippled.

Pic: (1) Word, (2) Internet.

Shyness

2008-09-09T07:40:00.000-07:00

Why did you learn to read
if it only served to help you hide even more?
Or perhaps,
to remain inert,
rubbing your thoughts on yourself.
Why do you restrain your ideas
and shout them out on paper?
I don’t know how to see
the affection in your helpless poses,
with your eyes sinking in drops of silence
your voice
fasting
diluting the hopes that one day
you will have confidence to speak
without fear.

And when I least expect it
you surprise me tearing out your vigor,
at a fast, loud pace
in front of any unaware soul
whom you got used to your peace and stillness.
Tell me, be open with me,
Is that it? Is that what it is to be introverted?

Gloomy stillness

2008-09-05T13:21:00.000-07:00

That painful cloud that swaddles you, fickly;
that essence spawned in your first abode:
your amniotic dive into an insoluble cosmos,
was from the first day your docile partner

And you loved her, gave yourself to her, sold your soul
She walked with you, a specimen feared by all crowds
Like an Igor you walked her throughout your existence, calmly
Without awakening vices, without lulling virtues.

Don’t say that you haven’t made peace with her yet.
after you freed her upon reaching your adulthood
Don’t pretend that her absence no longer exhausts you
I know how good a friend solitude was to you.

Welcome dwellers, from the country to the city

2008-09-05T13:02:00.000-07:00

There is nothing better, if you live away from your country, to find one day, by chance, a favorite childhood product that you thought only was sold in your land. It has happened to me on various occasions. I don’t quite remember when was the first time I found a red Country Club; but I must confess the soda tasted like glory. Later found out that Dominicans in Washington Heights had decided to bring every kind of home products so the ones here felt like they never left the island.

However, I think everything has its limits. This is why I couldn’t resist taking this picture in front of a hardware store in this peculiar neighborhood. And I ask you, what on earth are Dominicans doing with urinals in New York City?

The last time I saw one of these receptacles, I was no older than 9. It was during one of those detested "vacations" to the country in Nagua. The trip through the old road (if you can call it that), was hell, and there was a point on the way where the amount of mosquitoes was such, that visibility was significantly reduced from inside the vehicle. All right, perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit, but while my brother and cousins went to ride horses and explore in the rice and cacao fields, I had to stay in walking around the house because only if I was in constant movement (according to my aunt Marola), I could reduce the amount of mosquitoes that devoured me on a daily basis.

Later, at night, the aunts would rub every type of cream and remedies to alleviate the itching, but whose powerful and unpleasant smells, and, the raindrops drilling on the zinc roof, kept me awake most of the night, looking at the urinal under the adjacent bed and debating whether I should leave the protection of the mosquito net to go pee. And even if I didn’t, every morning I found in one of the corners of the net a mosquito sated with my blood, while I hated every second of my existence and wondered how on earth had that beast gone in to have me like a feast.

After all, I thought that the purpose of urinals was to save yourself a trip to the latrine, which usually was placed outside the house, so it was very convenient in the old days or in very remote places to have a urinal in the room and avoid going outside to do what you needed to do. But now, no matter how much I think about it, I can’t find an explanation for this.

Perhaps, there are Dominicans in Washington Heights that still don’t realize that they no longer live in the country? Then again, let’s not even ask that question.

Touch of fire

2008-09-05T12:39:00.000-07:00

A sweet and salty memory tried to sneak away from me, without my consent, while I lost for just one second, my thoughts, with my eyes glued to an old photo from el Colegio Santa Clara. But I stepped on it just as it tried to escape, like playful kittens do. It was a brief recollection, perhaps that’s why it thought I wouldn’t notice its absence, but those types of things are very difficult to forget.

Well, I was in seventh grade, 7B, to be exact and it was a very typical day. I asked permission to go to the bathroom, something that I rarely had the need to do. The teacher gave his okay and I left the room. The bathroom wasn’t too close by, so the short walk let me appreciate the beautiful garden, the Virgin’s mural and the silence of the school while everyone else was in class. The sound of chalks on blackboards grew each time I passed in front of another classroom’s door throughout one of the halls. I went down the stairs hurrying the pace, mostly because I hadn’t run into any nuns, especially those inquisitive ones that want to reproach all your sins even before you commit them.

When I got to the bathroom, I noticed it was the hiding place of two girls skipping class. I didn’t think too much of it, after all, I was going to do my thing as soon as possible and try to return without running into anyone. Trust me; I was done in no more than two minutes. But it so happens that at the same time as I was leaving, the other two girls decided to do the same without imagining that there was a nun, the worst of all, right behind the door.

It was inevitable. By the time she opened the door, the three of us where in line, and without making a single question, three times she raised her wrinkled, bony and demon hand, and three whacks warmed our backs in such a way that it felt like our skin was torn off. It would have been useless to make any type of objection. In case you don’t know, nuns are always right. Upon noticing that she had given a whack too many, she yelled at the other two girls for causing my unjust punishment, and hit them again.

After that incident, I tried not to go to the bathroom during class time.

I wanted to be like you

2008-09-02T18:54:00.001-07:00

Friend,
a long time ago, I wanted to be like you,
to roam life just by pure desire,
without my future planned with a laborious hustle;
that your docile fire served as my shelter.

And...
I left,
without the teacher,
whom I also wanted to be like,
to raise intellects covered with tenderness,
to mold a thousand thoughts without censorship,
to shelter what’s yours and defend what’s mine.

I left, abandoning a land
that I always loved to be in,
forgetting rivers of naive desires
that dissipated in the air, after biting the hooks
of that enormous city that traps me in time.

I wanted to be just like you one day
and I left you, country, helpless,
like a treacherous sidekick.
And still you forgive me; you love me, and hug me
if I extend my hand, which you never reject
while I blindly search for what has not aged.

I search,
in the rubble
of a disdained childhood, of lifeless transcendence,
for feats full of juvenile passion,
and escape from the emptiness that corrodes, hostile,
and has picked at, with time, the faith over my shoulders.

Friend,
a long time ago, I wanted to be just like you
and my days went by, I got lost in time,
surrounded by another tongue and a penurious folklore,
give me, if you can, the life that I beg for.

A conversation with time

2008-09-02T18:53:00.001-07:00

A few days ago, I interviewed a key collaborator for my book. It happens to be a person whom my family visited very often, but only for a couple of years, almost two decades ago. I don’t know where I found the courage to dial his number and ask this man to tell me stories that he perhaps might not remember.

My voice didn’t tremble. The words didn’t hide from me like they usually do. They were all there, in line, ready for me to use them, and present with exceptional clarity my humble request; a few minutes to remember things of the past.

First, a woman answered. I explained to her what I was looking for. She answered, excited, that yes, he would talk to me, that they would remember, of course. I waited, looking forward to the time she told me to call again. Upon hearing his voice, my first impression was that he sounded younger than what I had imagined. Papi had told me that despite his age, the man moved like a gazelle, but I never thought that even in his voice he would maintain such vitality.

His tales brought me back to that time. They dropped me back again in his house, near the beach. The entrance was marked by a giant fish on the highway. I was there again, in his backyard, looking at all the fish tanks filled with species of all different colors, and the chinola trees, the smell of sea, and the stability of a life without worries. Those memories remained very clear.

I went back to that time in school, when a fourth grade classmate fascinated a group of us, whispering stories about Francisco Alberto Caamaño Deñó. My friend, who was also named Francisco Alberto, in his honor, never knew about my visits to Claudio Caamaño’s house, the only survivor of the revolution, he never knew about that book that I would look through in hiding with all the pictures from the captured and the body of the revolution heroe.

It’s because Francisco seemed so happy and proud, with his brown hair and his big eyes talking about the caudillo. I would stare at him and imagine that big-cheeked kid fighting in the mountains, defending President Juan Bosch who had been overthrown with a coup by the CIA’s puppets in DR. I saw it all, him bursting in Santo Domingo’s streets, dressed in green while President Lyndon Johnson peed in his pajamas, dreaming about another Fidel Castro, another communist country in the Caribbean, and saw him stand up, scared, to send a military operation to kill that mosquito who was buzzing in his ear.

The kid would tell, without really knowing the meaning of communism, putting an imaginary machine gun on his shoulder, how his Caamaño fought in the mountains, dodging bullets, carrying the injured, fighting the gringos, bravely.

Claudio is history and he was there, that’s why the visits to his house were so special. And the story is more fascinating because the topic was not included in school texts, it was like a legend. And it was not until about 12 years ago that a brief piece was included in the school curriculum.

Claudio told me everything I needed to know, he answered every question without any hesitation and from time to time, he would interrupt me to remind me the respect and admiration he felt towards my father. We talked about history, about politics, about governments. It was a very revealing conversation, one that he carried in part, driving back from the capital to his house in the country.

He shared one hour with me; one hour that was enough to reconnect a lost link, squeezed by time, stepped on by an ocean, crumpled by my lack of knowledge of many things that have happened since we left. It was a really, really liberating hour.

Once upon a time... and don't misbehave!

2008-09-02T18:50:00.000-07:00

Talking about racism and stories (a topic that I’ll leave for later), we came to the tale of Chinchilín, a story that our aunt Tati would tell us when we were kids. Dissecting the story, like we should never do, I was distracted by the ephemeral idea that aside from being a grotesque account, perhaps it is not the best way to teach kids not to open the door to strangers.

In this country (where it has been debated if it is appropriate for kids to read Hansel and Gretel), the small tale would probably be banned from school libraries and would cause anger in the same parents that forbade their children to take a peek at the covers of the Harry Potter series. But for Dominicans, it is simply another boogieman story.

Chinchilín, for those of you who don’t know him, is a cannibal, a serial killer. According to the story as I remember it, there was a woman that had ten kids, and before going to work told her eldest daughter to watch the other nine. When the doorbell rang, the smallest one of all went to open the door and it just happened to be Chinchilín on the other side.

When the mother returned, noticing that one child was missing, she got so angry with her daughter that she buried her alive in the backyard. In that same spot, there grew a pepper tree. And without any remorse, she asked one of her other children to go get her a pepper so she could use it to cook. When he took the pepper, the kid heard this song coming from within the tree:

Little brother, little brother,
please don’t pull out my hair,
my mom buried me
because a child was missing.
Chinchilín opened the door,
Chinchilín took him,
it was Chinchilín’s fault
that my mom buried me.

The boy told his mom that the tree just sang to him, but incredulous, the woman kept sending other kids who one by one came back with the same story. That’s when the father came home and upon asking what all the commotion was about, he went to investigate himself. When he pulled the pepper, there was the song again. And the man was so furious, that he chopped his wife into pieces, seasoned her meat and cooked it.

Up until that point the story was pretty scary, but everything turned to laughter when aunt Tati would near the end. It so happens that the dad was such a good cook, that the aroma of his dish brought a couple of his neighbors over asking what that delicious smell was:

My neighbor, where’s the wife?

She went to the fields looking for beans.

Jumn, it smells like seasoned meat.

Would you like some?

I don’t ask and I don’t stare, but if someone offers me, I take it.

When she told us that the neighbors ate the mom, there would come all the gestures of disgust and the laughs for how the poor neighbors were tricked by the dad-killer-chef. And when they went back to the house, the father told them they had eaten his wife…

Aaaaaagghhhhh! The neighbors vomited, said our aunt.

And from then on, it was all bursts of laughter.

If a little music were enough

2008-09-02T18:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it its good when someone tells you how things look from another perspective. That's the reason why I decided to comment about the Dominican Republic's 2008 Human Development Report, revealed by the United Nations program that shares the name. I saw the video the other day and I was immediately angry with the results, although, I don't know why.

There were not a whole lot of new or illuminating details; the document simply highlighted what everyone over there knows. People with power don't have much interest in reducing poverty in the country, or strengthening the sectors less represented. The idea that anybody can reach his dream just by working hard is simply a myth, and the country's problem is not a lack of resources, but bad administration.

My younger brother, who was visiting that night, reproached me for my resentment with the news, according to him, it's the same old story. Yes, I know, but still, it's aggravating. This is why I say that you need someone to tell you the truth to your face, like a friend that loves you. You need someone that can let the forgotten know that if they unite, they would become an overwhelming force. There is a lack of patriotism, like the one which can erase the ambition of those in command that only step on the ones below. Of course, there are some that contribute to educate the people, but it's still not enough. You need someone to shake you up, to wake you even if it is by slapping your face a couple of times. You no longer fly below the radar; you can't hide small, below the Atlantic Ocean, above the Caribbean Sea, nor between the Mona Canal and Haiti. Stick your head out and listen to the world's opinion of you. Don't settle for mediocrity.

It's hard, for Dominicans to accept comments like this one. The first reaction would always be to go on the defensive. And I use myself as an example. After listening to the video, my little brother said that the music used in the report was not the most appropriate to be presenting news of that kind. Knowing that he was right, I tried to convince him that a merengue típico was the best way to get to the people; that you needed to combine the message with a music that can bring people together. He would have used a more dramatic music, one that would highlight the severity of the results, or a more somber tone in search of a less pusillanimous response. But, that's our music, I defended foolishly.

Yes, another tone was needed. That's precisely what I've been trying to say in my recent posts, a merenguito típico becomes just as harmful as choosing tigueraje to mobilize the masses. In the end, you got the same problem, a whole lot of ignorant people, who know that the situation is unfair, who feel unsatisfied daily but who cannot even start to organize themselves in order to demand the rights they deserve.

Meanwhile, those in power keep filling their pockets.

The day when your old friends come back

2008-09-02T06:52:00.000-07:00

Hidden between a couple of books in the Spanish history section of a Barnes and Noble, I found a hardcover that had no business being there. The cover was familiar, and little by little I began to understand my strange attraction to the book. Obviously, I new the title and the author, but there was something in the cover that I had seen before.

That's when I saw myself again as a ten-year-old, back in Buenos Aires, Mirador del Sur. I was going down the stairs because, by pure chance, I had seen the mailman from the balcony. Aside from the excitement of seeing an actual mailman, I wanted to see if there was something in the mailbox for us. Back then, in the Dominican Republic, the postal service was, how should I say it? Imperceptible. I went down quickly and I found a neighbor on the way. "They left you a package", she said. I couldn't believe it. That's what the commercial had said, if you registered your club, they would send you a book and they could even call you to be on the television show, Tobogán. How exciting!

I followed all their instructions and included the names of the members, name and address of the club. We were, Los Vecinos, 11 in total, most of us lived in the same building and a couple in nearby houses. Every afternoon we played in the parking lot all type of games, although kickball was really our favorite pastime. But from time to time, we would set up for our parents, poetry readings, singing and even plays for only ten cents per person, a fee that we almost never got. We were the perfect group for the show, and I was so sure they were going to call us someday.

But I never imagined that they would fulfill their promise: an ID for each member, and a book. I remember it perfectly, I hurried up the stairs and opened the package; a dirty old brown cover, torn on the edges. There it was; the book on the shelf was exactly the same, José Marti's La Edad de Oro, white cover with the lady and the baby, the girl behind, the same illustrations, the same design in the page numbers. Yes, it's the same one, now all my memories come back.

And just like that, lost in time in one of the store's hallways, I relived the afternoons we sat to study the Tobogán magazines that they assigned to us after I got the call and was told the date we should go to Rahintel's studios. We had to learn several topics from the old children encyclopedia and face another club. When we got there, the other group laughed at us, they were much bigger, some bullies from Haina. And when the taping began, the host also made fun of our name, "Los Vecinos, aha, and where did you leave Milly and Jocelyn?

Oh but the beating they got! Out of the eight questions, they only answered two. And we went home with the prize. Each one got a bag of candy and some sneakers from an unknown brand, but it was just as exciting as getting a pair of the most famous sneakers.

I searched my memory for the whereabouts of that book, but I couldn't find it. I just know I couldn't bring it when we moved to the US. I objected, but I couldn't bring it. So, a couple of days before the trip, I ran to the little mall in Independencia Avenue and made copies of my favorite parts, the stories Meñique, Bebé y el señor Don Pomposo, and the poem Los Zapaticos de Rosa, and hid them between a pair of pants.

I examined the book for a while. I had searched for it a long time ago, but none of the editions that I found brought the memories that I was searching for, instinctively. I couldn't rationalize a reason to buy it...

... except that my son might want to read it one day.

When a minute feels eternal

2008-08-28T20:59:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, when several things (no matter how small they are) go wrong in the same day, you accumulate a feeling of despair, even though you know very well that it's not that bad.

So, what better way to get rid of that one minute of despair than this:

One minute
Enormous mountains smashed into rocky roads
that wound your feet
and consume all your strength,
that won’t allow a single moment for genuine pleasure,
become your only path to walk.
The pressure that pushes your adventure won’t ease
and you won’t free yourself from your heavy load,
a barrel lined with insecure emotions
and torture.
Not one light recharges your hope
along that pessimistic
and somber,
impregnable,
and impeccably black route
that with its own nails scrapes your bravery.
A violent loneliness takes hold of you
and crumples your voice, stealing your breath.
But you go on
without hearing any movement,
you go on,
bludgeoned by waves of fatigue
and an uncertainty that wraps around you
fiercely.
I can hear you
keep walking.
The sound of each of your steps deafen me
and very soon,
that chance that now punishes you
will bring you to my hand,
will lift you swiftly
where, from the transparent peak, you will see another destiny.

Speech is great; but silence is greater

2008-08-28T20:46:00.001-07:00

Many of my American friends don’t find it at all surprising if two strangers don’t say hello even if they see each other every morning in the train station, or work in the same office in different departments, and even, that they don’t expect a cordial hi, if by any chance they stumble upon each other in the supermarket, in a mall, or in the company’s hallway. After all, they don’t know each other, they are not in the least, responsible to start any kind of conversation. Or, are they?

That’s what I was thinking while I traveled on Broadway Avenue, on the Bx7 bus, heading home. The topic didn't come to me suddenly, I got it after hearing a conversation between two ladies, which began on the bus stop. The women, who seemed in their forties, gave each other the ok to talk with a simple gesture of impatience because the bus wouldn’t arrive; blenched lips that echoed the desire to complain, that was all.

But what surprised me the most, was the level which the conversation reached. One of the ladies, apparently felt comfortable enough to reveal details about her personal life that would surprise anyone unfamiliar with Dominican customs, and perhaps, Hispanic customs in general.

The women sat in front of me, so it was impossible not to hear what they were saying. One woman told the other that she had welcomed a friend to her house, one that had recently arrived from Santo Domingo, who was driving her crazy. The guy ate everything in her fridge, and had spent every penny he brought (around three thousand dollars) on a casino in Atlantic City. He had left his wife on the island, and called her to ask for money because, "things are hard over here." Meanwhile, he kept partying without any intention to look for a job, because from what I understood, the friend planned to outstay his visa.

The lady, who was spilling the story of her bad luck to a complete stranger, continued saying that she felt committed to cook for her friend, because she considered him a guest, but that the situation was worsening, and as an example, she said that the day before, she found him cooking, filling the whole house with a smell of oil, a stench, like she said.

She hadn't finish the phrase when another lady, who identified herself with her Dominican accent, interrupted saying that people in DR think that they can come here to "empty the fridge" while "you kill yourself working." Another woman, sitting on the other side of the bus also stuck her nose in, and said that you cannot go to the Dominican Republic because your family members and friends are always waiting for their presents and if they don't get them, they hardly pay attention to you.

"Unjú", yelled another woman sitting further in front.

Every time the hostess revealed another detail about her undesirable guest, the woman next to her cried out, "¡Aaaaay mi madre!", and I don't think she was just following along, she was really into it.

After listing all her guest's faults, the lady confessed that she was afraid to ask him to leave because then, all Santo Domingo would hear that she didn't want to offer a helping hand, that her reputation would be tarnished and that nobody would care about the truth because by the time she could go back, it would be too late.

"Ay sí", said the one in front, "You better get ready because they're going to sweep the floor with you, they did it to me."

"¡Aaaay Dios Padre!", someone said.

But the lady answers that she has no choice but to kick him out, because she's starting to worry, after all, "he's a man, and I have a daughter." Someone asked where she had met this person.

"Oh, he was a friend in el liceo".

"You mean, high school?"

"Yeah, it's been yeeeeeeeeears since I last saw him."

Aside from the fact that it was very disturbing that these women made all those generalizations about our people, in a filled bus, I just couldn't stop thinking that she must be crazy, and that people like her are the reason why my American friends don't like to talk to strangers.

The next day, on the same bus stop, another lady tried to start another conversation, this time with me, but that's another story.

Plantains and tigueraje

2008-08-28T09:39:00.000-07:00

The other day my mom told me not to give the kid plantains too often because he could turn dumb. I laughed a lot. It has been a while since I heard a phrase like that one, I think I hadn't heard it since grade school, when we used to tease the kids that didn't know the answers by telling them they ate a lot of plantains.

That's precisely what came to my mind when I stumbled upon the blog of a Dominican television host who was complaining in his post, because somebody was criticizing his poor grammar skills. He pointed out in his critic, faults completely unrelated to the use of language, while at the same time, showered his paragraphs with a disgusting amount of stupid mistakes and careless disregard. Believe me, I tried to forget the topic, but I couldn't.

From what I have seen in each of my trips to the island (and to Upper Manhattan), a great chunk of the television content in my country is jam-packed with hosts that shamelessly abandon our language's delight. This negligence has spread in such a way that several websites, with an extremely high visitor rate, opt for the use of "tigueraje" a street slang saturated with intentional mistakes, that confuse that part of their readers who lack or have had limited education, and makes them believe that those words are correct; a phenomenon that is emulated in the content of certain television programs that only serve to perpetuate ignorance and hinder the chances of progress for the people.

I'm not saying that Dominicans need to change the way they talk. All countries have their own accents, but it's not the norm in other places, to mutilate the language like we have been doing for so long. That's the reason why I am saddened when I meet a Dominican in this city, that without knowing where I come from tries to speak his version of "correct Spanish" simply because he cannot identify my Dominican accent (which has been crippled by all the years in this country), and carries on, putting an "s" where it doesn't go and omitting it from its propper place, adding endings in words that don't have any, and making up a couple of verbs. And when I say that I come from the same land, he immediately changes course and forgets about the rules. "A pue', pero tu no parese dominicaaaaana."

Maybe I don't look Dominican, but it still bothers me. And it bothers me even more when I meet people from other countries that tell me the same thing, all because of the bad reputation created by the Dominicans in New York, simply because that "tigueraje" is in. The most annoying thing is that in the island, that's not the norm. In fact, as a kid, it was always stressed in school that there is a correct way of expressing yourself among strangers and adults. And in the streets, you wouldn't be surprised if someone was thought of as a plantain-eating-countryman if he didn't speak correctly.

However, even in the rural areas there was a respect for language. My grandfather always said, "I come from the countryside, but I'm not a countryman", this is an idea that we have been losing little by little, at least within most of the Dominican community in New York. I'm not against "tígueres" and their slang, they are very entertaining many times, but they shouldn't pass their vocabulary as our way of speaking, with cheap excuses like "that's the way Dominicans speak." Some of them even say it with pride, without realizing that, it is simply a reflection of their laziness when it comes to education; a proof that they accept themselves and like themselves as ignorant fools, forgetting the tradition and legacy of our great Dominican intellectuals. But, tigueraje is easier.

And yes, my kid and I will continue eating plenty of mangú.

Waking up with Adrián

2008-08-20T06:53:00.000-07:00

Twinkling morning, a voice calls
sleepy trudge to a colorful world
you can hear a tear slide off the bed
opening the light of two seeker eyes

A constrained melody escapes
through the door ajar of the naive lair
an impatient whimper traps me fluttered
and pulls me, tosses me, and shakes me, sleepy

But then I open the door of the vocal sweetie
and my fatigue turns into a pleasant smell
when upon seeing me he marches like a playful soldier
fleeing from my arms as a gleeful bullfighter

I no longer worry about senseless time,
I don't care about the hours that escape relentless
The happiness of my young life seems worthless
when compared to starting the day with my dear Adrián

There is no more proof that I have enjoyed the weekend, that is why these verses are for my kid, and for all those mothers who work too early too see their children wake up.

Caonabo lost

2008-08-19T08:48:00.001-07:00

Carry me, Caonabo... and I would hang by his neck without making the aborigine move a single inch, that's how strong my Caonabo was.

The last time I went back to my old home, one of my plans was to go see Caonabo's statue, in the Mirador del Sur Park. I felt more or less, that I owed it to him, for letting me play on his shoulders so many times. That day, we were in a big hurry, and the heat was unbearable, but I kept telling myself it was going to be worth it.

As a kid, it was always the same routine: Nilda and Tati walked us to the park. We would cross the Cayetano Germosén Avenue, went up the stairs and after sliding down a small hill on top of a couple of dry royal palm leaves, the first stop always had to be Caonabo's statue, which was hidden in a corner near a small garden. I found him silent, with a gaze immersed in yearning and eternal thoughts; with his eyes sealed by great misfortunes. Upon my arrival, due to a lingering desire to free him from his past, I would tell him a childhood anecdote.

Sitting on his lap, while Tati and Nilda hurried me so we could go ride the little train, I imagined the great chief telling me stories about ships, misery, gold and wars, about Columbus and poor Anacaona. The light that escaped from the sun sought shelter on his shoulders and sometimes, I would confess a hidden suffering over his strong muscles; a couple of secrets to his hard ears.

That was why I was so eager to see him again, after more than 18 years, in his same spot and prove that my memory did not deceive me, that he was as tall as I remember him, that he was still shiny and strong and that I would be able to take a picture of him with Adrián, so I could tell him that was the statue where his mommy played. But I could not find him. I did not know if he had been moved or removed or if I just didn't see him. We walked a lot and I didn't see him.

And borrowing a couple of lines from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, I ask that if by any chance you see him: Please be kind to me. Don't leave me so sad. Write to me immediately; tell me that ~~the little prince~~ Caonabo has come back...

From "One five three" to "Ooo-un fah-e tree"

2008-08-19T07:03:00.000-07:00

It was early in the morning. It started to rain outside and it was still dark. I hurried because the taxi was already waiting for me and at that moment, I accepted the fact that my conversations with the driver that for almost three months takes me to work, actually entertain me. This time we would talk about the leftist movement of the seventies in the Dominican Republic. But before we went into that, I told him that the morning before, I could not get a hold of him and had to call the base. "Who drove you?" he asked. And I told him that it was a friend of his, I didn't remember his name. He was number 54. "Ah, fah-e-for. Yes, I know him."

A grin overtook my face while I remembered all the other times he referred himself as "Ooo-un fah-e tree". In a country where nobody wants to be a number, I think taxi drivers are the only ones that prefer it that way, at least among them. A few weeks ago, a group of them gathered in a New York restaurant. "Ooo-un fah-e tree" told me that many of his comrades where there and he mentioned them all with their base codes. I don't doubt that most of them don't even know their real names or find it strange to say them when all day they communicate using their numerical pseudonyms.

But that is not the only thing that awakens my curiosity, it's the way they claim those numbers, liberating each digit from its previous identity just by a different intonation, so ONE FIVE THREE becomes OOO-UN FAH-E TREE; a driver who travels the New York streets trapped in the silence of his cabin, looking at the world flutter hastily through the glass, that probes immediately his passenger disposition to talk about politics, history or Dominican culture and that longs for those rebellious youthful times in his land when the nation just started to look for its own identity, after the dictatorial slavery and the appearance of fervent political movements, like the leftist, for example, that branded their chest like hot iron, with an irreversible patriotism.

The high price of switched off lights

2008-08-19T06:32:00.001-07:00

If we talk about saving money in electric consumption, the Dominican Republic must be one of the nations that most contributes to a healthy environment. And now that president Leonel Fernández has a total of 10 million energy saver lightbulbs, all ready to distribute in poor neighborhoods, perhaps, we'll top the list. I say this because headlines are constantly stamped with stories about the lengthy blackouts in all parts of the country, that can last more than 20 hours, and all their repercussions. In fact, this is the neverending problem that our nation, in spite of developing well in other areas, cannot find a way to overcome.

However, the president thought it was really timely to launch his plan, which according to him, will allow an investment of 18.5 million dollars in those same neighborhoods. The pictures of the ceremony reminded me of those same events that as a kid I used to tag along with my dad, during a opening ceremony of some kind of community center where the least boring part was when they cut the ribbon in front of a row of hungry photographers and then everybody forgot about it; or when, at some environmental protection event early in the morning, the politicians kneeled down, planted their little tree, smiled for the picture, and went home back to sleep. I think we just found the solution to the economic crisis in the country, and in the least expected place. So, lets all turn the lights, maybe we could save enough to fix the water shortage problem and the high cost of food.

Honoring the Dominican street vendors

2008-08-15T21:32:00.000-07:00

When a heat wave comes our way, everyone is on the alert.The fire hydrants expel gushes of water in almost every corner, streams and trickles sprout out of every park, cooling centers open to the elderly and those without air conditioners, and there is a worried anchor in every New York newscast telling people to please drink a lot of water.

The other day, waiting at a bus stop, a man eager to get home, late at night, complained loudly that he was paying all his sins with the bus’s tardiness because he felt the air was too hot and humid.

Heat, perpetual partner of the Dominican on the island, is not a less fierce monster on the other side of the ocean; it’s simply the daily routine. If you don’t believe me, just ask any street vendor.

These people resist, vigorous, the hottest sun, the most burning breeze, the thickest humidity, all for a measly $5,000 pesos (US $146.00) twice a week, selling newspapers, cell phone cables, calling cards, fruits, anything. And after seeing with my own eyes that when you go to a supermarket over there, the prices are almost the same as here, it frightens me to think about what else these people need to do to put some food on the table, and with what energy, after spending the hottest hours of the day baking themselves alive.

In their shoes, the man waiting for the bus wouldn’t think about paying all his sins in this lifetime, he would swear to be living in hell itself.

Yamasá is no longer about a fart

2008-08-13T08:15:00.000-07:00

One of my colleagues is from Yamasá, Dominican Republic, and at the beginning of each conversation about that town, I can't help but laugh. I'm not making fun of it. Yamasá can boast about many things. The area, sliced by the Ozama River, is one of the biggest cocoa exporters in the country and it's home to one of the most important taíno crafts producers, the Guillén brothers. I could go on, but it's not about that. The name makes me laugh simply because it's soaked in a childhood memory that's impossible to rub out.

When darkness began to seize the sky, and we were called for dinner, annoyed, we interrupted our kickball game with the rest of the neighbors, always gestating the idea that after eating, we could return to finish. But way too often, the lights would go out and all our hope faded away with the black out. The mid-eighties weren't a time of inverter filled towns, and the gasoline shortage made the generators seem like a muted decoration.

Those were the moments you would look for activities that could be done under the glow of a candlelight or a gas lamp. Those dim nights were the masters of card games, a-thousand-piece puzzles, domino matches, charades in the dining room, (where Tati always ended up running to the bathroom because her bladder surprised her after so much laughter), and my favorite, reading the eighth volume of the Enciclopedia Dominicana. The poetic anthology contains multiple artistic expressions; a display of the lyric and folkloric quality of our country. Scattered in its pages, an interest in rhymes and verses devoured me, and Juan Antonio Alix's El Follón de Yamasá satisfied that desire, fully. Papi would stand in the middle of the living room with the book in his hands, and adding a few sound effects, he would start telling the story of that fart someone let out inside a Yamasá church.

A interlaced web of laughter would form between my brother and I during the entire story because, in case you forgot, to kids, just the word "fart" (wind, peo or whatever you call it) is reason enough to guffaw.

After all the time that passed, Yamasá is no longer all about a fart. It grew up, like we all did. But I still have that eighth volume, the only one that still remains of our encyclopedia, lined with the same cover that I put years ago, and maybe not only to protect it, but to also guard over all those moments that always ended with the famous follón which left us on the floor, dying with laughter.

Natural Habitat

2008-08-11T07:30:00.001-07:00

For quite a while, someone's been telling me to start a blog, but the idea didn't appeal to me that much. What would I write about? And why? That was until I saw a show about lions in captivity that can't be taken back to their natural habitat. And I told myself, "that has to be me, and there must be someone else feeling the same way". Your family leaves your country when you are barely an teenager, and they immerse you in a world that is not your own. Time passes without the chance to go back and you get used to the caged life of listening to a weird language, a culture that you cannot understand, longing all the time for those things you left behind, with the emptiness of what once belonged to you and doesn't anymore. Institutions try to uproot you subtly, but you grow up without reaching full assimilation.

When you return, many years later, just visiting, your streets are still yours, the air still feels yours, the smell is the same as before. There's a few more people, but you can find the old way home. You feel like your recovering everything you lost, until you realize that you couldn't survive if you had to live there. You lost the most important things, and you missed history. It's like starting to watch a movie, stopping it halfway and start watching the second half of another movie. You don't know either language very well, at least not as well as you should. So the only thing you can do is search, in order to catch up, for those books you should have already read, and learn about your country's authors, and read the news, travel more, sort of like a rehabilitation so you can return, if you can someday, to your natural habitat.