The Palace of Justice

 The Palace  of Justice

In 1995 I traveled as part of a delegation to Cuba celebrating Mobile and Havana becoming sister cities. As this was a thaw in the Cuban-American relations, we were being hosted like celebrities. 

When I expressed some interest in going to a courthouse, the guide made it happen. The next day as we entered the courthouse the attendant refused me entry. I was in shorts. "He can't come in here. This is the palace of justice." He was very angry at my insolence. The guide argued the counterpoint, that we were some sort of hotshots. The attendant stood firm.

At some point, the Chief Justice of the Cuban Supreme Court came down and arbitrated the situation, siding with powerpolitik. "Let him in," he said. 

He assigned me a chaperone, a young black lady. She showed me the courtroom, explained to me their system,  and eventually we witnessed a trial. It was, I thought, friendly enough. We shared our thoughts on each other's systems. I was relaxed and unfiltered with her. 

Perhaps too much. At some point I must have betrayed the fact that I thought she was a secretary. "You do understand that I am the second highest ranking judicial officer of the Republic of Cuba?," she told me. I was embarrassed and chagrined. 

She was gracious, accepting my apologies as we passed a pleasant day kibbitzing about the fate of the cashier accused of having intentionally left a skylight unlocked so that someone could steal money out of her till. 

That day is a constant: The attendant at the gate - In this case the literal attendant but euphemistically also the universal attendants of all court systems  - saw his role as a sacred duty, whatever frailties it might have, imagined by me or not; and, I need to be vigilant about the self-inflicted traps of bias, be that about other systems or the stranger in my midst.

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Bad Bunny

About 2 years ago I traveled to Puerto Rico for the funeral of my stepmother. It went as expected, lots of crying and grief, a wake, funeral procession, burial, a couple of days of emotional heavy lifting. 

Afterwards most of us ended up at my sister's house. It was the typical extended family. My sad and morose sisters were sequestered in quiet places throughout the house while the rest of us just tried to endure the pall. 

The adults played the requisite dominoes out on the porch. Music played. My nieces and nephews, many of them here just for this occasion, squatted out on the lawn, catching up with their cousins.

They hijacked the music. My brother and I groussed. We salsa classicists have been at war with what we deem to be modern crap: reggaton, rap, etc. Bad Bunny! It just seemed like the latest perversion. But It was a losing battle. They weren't dilettants. They sang along to all the songs. It filled them with joy and you couldn't help but think it was a good thing.

I didn't walk away with any appreciation for his music. In fact, still not a big fan. I keep meaning to buy the album and give it a fair shake but I just haven't gotten around to it. 

But in the interim I've been watching his progression as a bona fide Puerto Rican hero, a true ambassador of our culture. And he's done it on his own terms with the utmost levels of professionalism and gentility. I think of him as our Taylor Swift.