Monday, November 28, 2016

A Cuban Flashback

A CUBAN FLASHBACK
(In November, 1998, I went to Cuba as part of the delegation that was to include the Mayor of Mobile. We went there to celebrate the 479th year of the
founding of the village originally called San Cristobal de la Habana. I was asked by the magazine Business Alabama to write a story and to gauge any changes I may have witnessed during my trip three years earlier. In light of the recent passing of Fidel Castro, I thought it worth posting. I've taken out the hyperlinks to other sources and the images of Cuba and Cuban art that decorated the original piece. )

Imagine a policy that would not allow us to trade with a neighboring state whose people number greater than the combined populations of Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana, a state with nearly eleven million, literally captive, goods-starved consumers. Cuba, an island that is geographically larger than all of the other Caribbean islands combined, is the same length as the state of Florida, sits at its doorstep and shares much history with this region.

Iberville, the founder of Mobile, is buried in Havana. Cuba's first Governor, Hernando de Soto, traveled near Mobile on his way to discover the Mississippi.
The port cities of Mobile and Havana enjoyed extensive trading relationships for more than two centuries. Many Mobilians remember childhood visits to Cuban resorts. Yet, we don't trade with it. Instead, we are engaged in an unsubtle war spawned by forty years of mutual hostility.

There are, however, some hopeful signs that the US may heed the Pope's exhortation to "change, change, change" our policy towards Cuba. There are now seven US/Cuban Sister Cities relationships. Mobile takes pride in being the first.

The Mobile-La Habana Society was formed in 1993 after City of Mobile Archivist Jay Higginbotham traveled to Havana and its ecumenical choir Shalom accepted his reciprocal invitation to sing here. The relationship was broadened in 1994 when Mayor Mike Dow and a large delegation of Mobilians visited Havana to exchange formalities.

The society has hosted more than fifteen Cuban groups here, and has sent at least twenty groups there. Many Cuban dignitaries have visited here, including
the Deputy United Nations Minister and the Chief of the Cuban Interests Section. (Based in Washington, D.C., and Havana, each country's "Interests Section"
serves as de facto embassy for the two countries who officially do not have diplomatic relations. The chief of the Interest Section is the equivalent of an
ambassador.)

On a recent trip by the Society to Cuba in November, 1998 twenty one Mobile journalists, city officials, academics, businesspeople, and lawyers traveled
there to visit and to deliver humanitarian aid to churches and synagogues. The most recent trip in 2001 was a trip by medical professionals who visited there
and hope to exchange personnel and ideas.

During the 1998 trip, Daphne minister Rev. William Fontaine, Alabama delivered a sermon at the Martin Luther King Center. Higginbotham, gave a speech to the
delegates of the Sixth Annual Ibero-Americano Solidarity Conference at the National Assembly Hall, the venue where Fidel Castro gives his marathon orations. Higginbotham's remarks were immediately followed by those of Ricardo Alarcon de Quesada, President of the National Assembly of People's Power and touted by some to be Castro's successor.

The United States Chamber of Commerce has organized Americans for Humanitarian Trade with Cuba, a powerful lobbying group consisting of the most conservative voices in business. President Clinton had eased restrictions on travel to Cuba and the amount of money relatives could send there.

"The debate to end the embargo is no longer if, but when. The President's recommendations must be followed by the far reaching, positive results of lifting the Cuban embargo," the Chamber's President announced. USA Engage was organized and has behind it the collective might of high-powered US firms such as Archer Daniels Midland, Caterpillar, and others.

In the United Nations 143 countries have gone on record as asking the US to end the embargo and even 24 top Republicans have officially asked President Clinton to reevaluate he policy. Cuba boasts of some important natural resources such as cobalt, nickel, iron ore, copper, manganese, salt, timber, silica, and petroleum. Tourism has now surpassed Sugar as the island's economic mainstay and has been touted by the Cubans as the "heart of the economy".

No wonder. Cuba has significant natural resources - pristine beaches, artificial reefs, exotic flora and fauna and a history of tourism.  Cuban tourism had been so developed that by the 1940s 275,000 tourists visited the island, almost three fourths of them from the United States. Immediately prior to The Cuban Revolution its tourism industry was the most advanced in the area, accounting for a third of the Carribean's market share. Of course, the number of visitors to the island fell precipitously during the 60s and 70s.

But, in 1982 the Cuban government recognized tourism as a potential area for exploitation. Driven no doubt by the looming personal crisis brought on by the breakup of the Soviet Union, in 1992 they prioritized it as an essential element of the country's economic plan.

The economic crisis had worsened in Cuba, its capacity for importation reduced some 73 per cent from the previous three years, a 35 per cent loss of GDP. They began developing economic arrangements with foreigners in order to exploit their formidable natural resources, and to help jumpstart their other developing basic industries.

It was a propitious decision. The number of visitors to the island doubled during the decade of the 80s and tourism began to rival sugar, minerals and biotechnology as a prime source of revenue. The rate of growth for the tourism industry now has it doubling its numbers every five years. (how to get there)

In 1992, 460,000 persons visited the island bringing an influx of cash to the tune of about $530 million. In order to harness this beast the Cuban government has entered into development ventures with Spanish, Mexican, Canadian and other European companies. When you stay at a hotel in Cuba it is often partially owned or managed by a foreign company. This may be why senior level executives from US airlines, hotels, and financial service companies have recently traveled as guests of the Cuban government on what are called "familiarization tours".

Are the Cubans really turning it around? By 1994 the Cubans hoped that they had righted the overturned canoe that was their economy with a reported reversal of the precipitous downward trend, a slight in economic growth. In 1995, the GDP increased by 2.5% and by 7.8% in 1996. Export earnings rose an estimated 40% in 1996 to $2.1 billion. Imports rose for the second straight year, growing by an estimated 26% to $3.5 billion.

A short flight from Cancun, Cuba. A few inconsistencies mark the terrain as foreign. But, it's your typical, busy, modern and beautiful airport terminal. It's brand-spanking-new. Before there had been two dismal hangers. Our first trip, a five-hour landlubber hell boat ride from the Keys had ended with an interminable wait at Hemmingway Marina.  Cuban Customs couldn't figure out what to do with us. This time, the boat traveling as part of our
group is forced to follow procedure and report to Havana harbor.

At the airport our bags are now inspected by x-ray and the Customs inspection is cursory. The terminal is packed. Police presence is ubiquitous, as expected. I saw him spot me. He was a city block away and made a beeline for me. Courteous and overly gracious the elderly uniformed man inspects my passport and bags, even my wallet, as we discuss the purpose of my trip.

It wasn't until I got to Cancun that I considered the issue of a laptop, thanks to a huge sign there that lists every electrical device known to man as being prohibited. My laptop and digital cameras had passed baggage inspection and were now on my back. The officer, obviously still suspicious, is nonetheless
mollified. "Have a pleasant stay in our country, sir."

Cuba is like the Puerto Rico of my youth. The terminal is packed, tourists coming in and going out and Cubans there to pick up relatives. Outside, there is a line of taxis like the one we just left in Mexico. Efficiently, briskly, we had been guided to a cab, our bags in tow. But, thanks to the Cuban grapevine, our friend was there to pick us up.

We crammed our bags into every nook and cranny of Danis' 1949 Chevy and piled in. He was proud of having his carrito and at the inventiveness with which the car has been kept alive. He laughed, derisively pointing out the bicycle light that served as a dashboard indicator.  He knew we are used to better but he was grateful for what he had and we were grateful that he had come to get us. Reminiscing, here again, we were in Havana.

Twenty minutes into our arrival, however, we were under a street light on the side of the road in an urban part of Havana going through an interrogation that was both ludicrous and scary. We had come twelve days after the Cuban authorities announced that they were cracking down and their presence was ubiquitous.

While the crime rate in Cuba is amazingly low, the visibility of the jineteras (loosely speaking, prostitutes) and the possibility that there might be a perception that crime and drug use are increasing spawned a crackdown. (Jineterismo) The police officers believed our friend was a botero (gypsy cab) someone who refuses to pay the private licensing fee that is part of the new economic agenda.

We get stopped near the university. Danis goes out to speak with the police, leaving me instructions not to say anything. "They're going to arrest him," his wife says. "Why?" I ask. I have fallen into a cultural sinkhole. Ever since the Pope's visit the Cuban authorities have been cracking down and their presence is everywhere. Articles like Havana at 3 a.m., (Esquire, May, 1995), detailing the sexual antics of tourists and jineteras probably didn't help the situation either.

Botero, like Jinetera is an epithet. A botero is, literally, someone who persons a boat. In the old days little boats would carry passengers, plying point-to-point along Havana harbor. In addition, to the illegal botero there are private cabs that are authorized to drive Cubans along certain routes, much like the publico (jitney) in Puerto Rico. Getting a cab in the non tourist parts of Havana can turn out to be an ordeal. Except for the cars that are marked as taxis, it's hard to know who is legal and who is not.

If you're in a tourist area take a regular cab. There's always some Cuban that is willing to take the risk of driving you around but on our last trip the police were stopping everyone. One of our drivers was stopped and we spent an hour at the local police station while they questioned him. If you're on the outskirts, it's really dicey. Some cars will pick you up but will not take you to a tourist section because they are afraid of getting picked up by the police.

In 1996, the government announced an increase in taxes on much of Cuba's cottage industry. Consequently, the number of legally registered self-employed workers dropped and that is another reason for the crackdown. The penalty for illegal cab activity is a fine and possibly the loss of the vehicle. We spent another hour trying to convince them that he truly is a friend that we have known for years.

The police in Cuba do not enjoy the respect that our police get. As part of the state apparatus, they are viewed with suspicion and they, in turn, appear to view everyone as a malefactor. Tourists are treated deferentially by the police. This also breeds discontent since many Cubans feel that tourists are gorging themselves while they are facing privation.

Mistrust and hatred for the police is also partially wrapped up in the issue of racism. Understanding the issue and treatment of racism is really much more difficult in Cuba. There, too, it is not condoned. And, the population - while officially 60 per cent white - is highly mixed. You will see couples and families comprising every possible genetic combination. But racism is endemic there. It comes up in every conversation and in every context.

Havanans also appear to have a rural bias that translates into racism, especially against those from Oriente Province. Because no one wants the job, policemen are recruited from the countryside. Service with the police can also supplant conscription. As a result, many of the police are rural, undereducated, boorish and, ofttimes, black. A Cuban, innocent or guilty, will brazenly confront a policeman. The level of discourse can be quite unnerving.

I left the discussion, partly because I didn't believe we could make any headway with the officer's intransigence and partly because I believed that my friend was going to get pummeled. But, he finally talked us out of our problem and we were on our way to get a room.

We had made out reservations over the internet but hadn't made any deposit or heard back from them. We got to the Nacional and indeed we had the reservations we had made through the internet. At least that went right.

We take our friend out for a beer and we got ripped off. We are bummed and went home early.

Cubans have their needs administered by the state. They live on poorly rationed essentials and meager fixed salaries.("En Cuba No Falta Nada" is the name of a salsa song that disparages Fidel Castro's assertion that no one in Cuba is lacking anything.) There is a brisk black market trade in the cash crops of cigars, music and art. Everyone lives by their wits, engaging in some form of legal or illegal scheme.

When the bottom fell out of the Cuban economy many of those scams developed into officially condoned activities. The free trade that has survived the state economy is small potatoes stuff like renting rooms, gypsy cabs, artisan work, and private restaurants (paladares), all now begrudgingly regulated as part of economic reform.

In 1994, the government introduced farmer's markets at which state and private farmers can sell above-quota production at market prices. There are also open air fairs (ferias) where artists sell art, music, food and tourist items. Downtown's Plaza de Armas, where one of these is located, and the surrounding area, has really changed.

The downtown area is full of shops that actually have things in them. The restaurants are doing a brisk tourist trade. Before, it was really difficult to find much for sale anywhere. The quantity and the quality of things for sale has drastically increased. It is now full of goods and there is a lot of the high grade art for which the Cubans have traditionally enjoyed a reputation.

The party scene in Cuba had been vibrant. Drawn by the opportunity to see some of the world's premiere salsa groups, the discos had been packed and the bacchanal was in full throttle. Now, after a period of closures, they operate under severe scrutiny and absurd strictures.

I asked my dance companion what had happened to change things in such a short time. "In Cuba," she says, "things are always changing, if you come back
tomorrow it will be different." Because it is a one-party state, the Cuban government can institute changes rapidly. It is the average citizen who must constantly compensate for every dip and turn and, like the Ginger Rogers quip, do it backwards and in high heels.

At Estadio Latino-Americano (Latin-American stadium) to see a baseball game, I spoke at length with an older man who worked in the sugar cane industry before his retirement. He is very pro-state, but not uncritical. He has lived under both systems, was a militant at one time and seems to be rooted pragmatically. He acknowledges the strides made by Castro's pragmatism, but sees a further need to break out of socialism's intrinsic restrictions.

It is a moribund system and must adapt further, he notes. "We used to harvest with ox carts and harvest was x. Now we have all sorts of resources and can't do it," he said. He thinks its because the managers now don't have the incentive. Old system managers got part of the crop. He is also bitter about Angola's cost in economic terms and in the loss of two million men. The money spent on the expansion of revolution was a lost opportunity to rebuild Cuba. Fidel Castro is a hero to him but he also recognizes that Fidel has been there a long time and above criticism. "He has made terrible mistakes that if anyone else made they would be gone."

The rental of rooms is now licensed and regulated. I stayed with a nice middle-aged Cuban couple and their son. At one time she and her family did very well because the three of them were well employed. She recounts the suffering of the "Special Period", the time during the economic crisis of the early nineties. But, she can see that things are getting better.

She rents out the room to supplement her salary which has been cut since she became disabled. She explains the complicated daily process of making ends meet. "We spend most of our time trying to figure out honest ways to make a living, " she said. Nowhere is the complexity of their situation more evident than the maddening currency situation under which Cuba lives. The government and the average citizen must compensate for and plan on a constantly shifting playing
field.

In a supposedly classless society, there exist two parallel economies (Cuban and Tourist) with two interrelated monetary currencies. If I go to the ball game with a Cuban she would, theoretically, pay a peso and I would pay a dollar. The contradictions are heightened by the fact that the official currency, the Cuban Peso, is worth a fraction of the other official currency, the U.S. Dollar. (The Convertible was introduced a few years ago and it has an exchange rate of 1:1 to the dollar. Mostly, however, trade is done in dollars.)

In planning her household our landlady must balance what she will receive for rations, what will be available at the farmer's market, at what price, and the two different and fluctuating exchange rates. "We get confused," she admits. But the confusion, double talk and contradiction is not limited to the Cuban side of the equation.

Basing their actions on the old-fashioned notion that relations between the citizens of countries can't be a bad thing, the Mobile-La Habana Society has nonetheless had to deal with some old world realpolitik . On his initial trip to Havana Higginbotham had extended an invitation to his Havana host Mayor Pedro Chavez to visit Mobile. That invitation was subsequently sabotaged by the US authorities. The 1994 trip by Dow was questioned by our authorities, causing some of the more jittery participants to drop out.

In 1993 the Bishop of Havana's Methodist Church was allowed to visit Mobile but Havana's Chamber of Commerce President was denied a visa. Our state department felt his visit was "not quite routine". And, in 1998 an embarrassed Fernando Perez, First Secretary of the Cuban Interests Section, would come from
Washington, D.C. to Mobile to personally protocol Mike Dow concerning the Mayor's upcoming visit and the Cuban decision to withdraw their invitation to him.

The US Treasury Department, it seems, had forewarned the Cubans that "Fully Hosted" visits by groups meant what the regulations said they meant, that the members of the group would be required to have all of their needs paid for by the Cuban government. The Mobile group would be carefully watched. The Cubans had just seen their friends from the Port of Jacksonville embarrassed by the imposition of sanctions.

They did not want that to happen to Dow and they weren't anxious to be caught in the middle of another fracas. The mayor understood. In fact, he was so
appreciative of their efforts that he invited Fernando de Remerez, the current head of the Cuban Interests Section, to Mobile. He will visit on April 5 and 6.

Understandably, the Cubans do not premise their plans as somehow contingent on the survival of any one personality. They act only on the assumption that their
country will be here for the long haul and that what they must do is work at improving all facets of their economy.

It is a multi-front war and towards that end, they have aggressively sought to foster relationships with the ports of Jacksonville and Mobile. These offer the comforts of proximity, size and modernity and the political tranquility that Miami and Tampa lack. In the past four years Perez has traveled extensively to Mobile, a sign that the cash-strapped Cubans consider Mobile an important touchstone in their campaign to normalize relations between the two countries. "We will never forget that you were the first. You will always hold a special place for us."


Thursday, October 27, 2016

MY MOTHER WASN’T PERFECT



MY MOTHER WASN’T PERFECT

When Carlos was a little boy he would hear the different Mami war stories and he got the impression that my mother was an unpleasant or bad person or that I didn't like her. I had to tell him otherwise but the real shame is that he didn’t ever really get to know her and that describing her accurately is just about impossible as she’s hard to pin down and oh so hard to categorize. For a speak-her-mind, simple, straight ahead person, she was amazingly complex and a quirky combination of so many contradictions; a complete paradox.

Our entire Mendez family line is full of brutally honest and plain speakers. My mother’s children get that from her. We sit around and get a perverse chuckle out of some of the preposterous things she would say or do. They may sound like negatives, but that’s just how our family rolls and to us these anecdotes complete the picture of a woman we dearly loved.

She was flamboyant, given to hysterics and melodrama and was a strong-willed personality with no subtleties to her. It’s tempting to ascribe this behavior to the fact that she was the baby of thirteen children and was, therefore, a brat. But that would be overlooking the fact that every member of the Mendez clan is this way. It probably had something to do with the fact that she had immigrated from Puerto Rico to the cold reality of New York City burdened with me, a forty-day old infant, speaking no English and having no real skills except those of a farm girl.

And it was from there that she began a life that was, in general, worthy of a soap opera: she agonized about having the scarlet letter of a twice-divorced woman who had married a much older man for convenience; that he was an alcoholic and would constantly and openly flaunt her regrets and life choices and the lose of her “true love”, her first husband; that she lived in fear of her second husband, my father; her kids constantly and chronically sick - one struck down with polio at the celebration of his fifth birthday, a campaign of sorrow that lasted a decade’s worth or treatments and rehabilitation; and then there was the constant bickering with her family over the child she had given away to her sister. 

And there was lots more.

So maybe it’s no surprise that she brooked no nonsense or interference and that if she was right, It didn’t matter what you said, you would just have to get the fuck out of her way. That was my mother and this was only one of the traits that made her remarkable and something her children inherited from her.

She was conservative, prudish, and proper and, her judgmental nature made her acutely sensitive to and ashamed of the mistakes that chronicled her life. But she was on the polar end of the tight-assed spectrum. She was very outwardly and outlandishly bawdy and profane. I think she was an atheist but she was charismatic in the sense that whatever religion she might have had it was personal to her and certainly nothing to gab or pontificate about. Amazingly clairvoyant, she practiced a roll-her-own combination of Christianity and Santeria that dove-tailed with her well-grounded sense of in-your-face righteousness, common sense, indignation, and a definite personal sense of morality.

When I told her that I had to go to church and couldn’t be ready for the beach, she wasn’t having it. “You can go to confession.” “But what if I die before Friday?” She shot through church dogma. “You think God is going to send you to Hell because your mother made you miss church? Those are rules these pendejos make to keep people in line. Get in the car. We’re going to the fucking beach.”

Apart from her normal salty language, when truly upset or angry her profanity was honed down to a razor’s edge. In typical Spanish fashion she would invoke sacrilegious imagery. It wasn't normal cursing. It was time to clear out of her way. It was a maldición, designed to invoke the full wrath of the Lord. “I shit on the crack of the cunt of that whore, the Blessed Virgin Mary.”

She was practical in her politics too. She, of course, loved Kennedy and Eisenhower but apart from that she was almost indifferent to it. “What can you do for me?” was her formula. She had probably been raised PDP (the Puerto Rican version of the Democratic Party) but, here, she was, like her husband, a Republican and returning to the island later in life, they were solid PNP (Republican). I joined her after college and had difficulty getting a job. She marched off to her Senator and threatened him with the loss of the six votes in her household.

During that same time, the giant newspaper/television conglomerate went on strike. The union and the Puerto Rican Socialist Party picketed the giant facility. To circumvent the lockout, helicopters flew the newspaper out each day. We woke one day to hear that the helicopters had been destroyed that night. I was surprised to hear Mami’s response; “Good. You can’t mess with people’s livelihood.”

We all have lots of favorite memories. Some of them - like making sure you went out in clean underwear lest she be embarrassed if you were in a car accident - were right out of the Yiddish Mom Manual. But others were 100 per cent over-the-top Irma stuff: When I practiced maneuvers for hours making faces and trying to fool the mirror like they did in the cartoons, She wouldn’t just command me to stop. She’d have a faux panic attack. “OOOOEY, No,” she’d mock scream, moaning and supplicating that I cease lest my face be frozen in that grimace FOR EVER and she die of a broken heart!

Or prohibiting us from drinking out of the tap in the bathroom because it was connected to the toilet and, besides, “You don’t know who’s washed their balls in there.” She would tell us to eat our onions so we get a hard on (trust me, it’s funnier in Spanish as it rhymes.) When she cooked she’d have us fighting over the chicken neck - which she called the bicho (Puerto Rican for dick)- and we would all zealously compete for this grandest of prizes.

She was very racist. She took great pride in being a “Mendez” and the fact that they were all white-skinned and fair haired, “Castilian” don’t you know. (Dark-skinned, her pet name for me was “negrito”.) But she didn’t spare “Americans.” She thought them dirty, their women whores of easy virtue. And, of course, she had come from a prim and proper old world agrarian culture and had landed in some of the hardest ghettos in this country, so that’s what she knew and nothing could ever change her mind, even years later when she moved to Florida.

She had been a peasant girl but was probably one of the wiser, wariest persons that I knew and yet, her ignorance was at times monumental. She could be horribly brutish and cruel or amazingly tender and considerate with a temper that was mercurial, both hot and cold. And tactless; I bought her a Christmas present bracelet. I couldn’t have been 12 or 13, maybe even younger but she threw it back at me, said it was the wrong color. It was silver and she wanted a gold one.

One of the running crises in our lives was the old man drinking and going off to spend his check and not coming home. One Saturday, he came home and she was ironing, steaming mad. He was in a cheerful mood, buzzed and so drunk he could hardly stand up. He came over to her to give her a kiss and she stuck the iron out. He was so drunk he walked right into it. She held it there until the pain registered. He finally recoiled but not before she left a full imprint of that iron on his chest.

When my sister got a divorce, she waged a pretty hateful vendetta against her ex-husband, talking crap to his children with whom she now lived and even physically defacing the family photo album by cutting him out of every photo. “Mom,” I would kid her, “you just made him that much more pronounced.” She’d just launch into one of her character assassinations. He had been exorcized from the family and was never rehabilitated even after his death.

While my mother was no shrinking violet, to the outside world her persona was completely different. Her demeanor in public was nowhere indicative of who she was. She was a chunky, but slight, not tall, but pert, little person. Her voice was very demure, soft-spoken, especially if it was in English because she lacked confidence there so she wasn’t her normal pushy self.

She had had a pretty rough life and was grateful to be here so she was obsequious to things “American” as the place that had given her and, most importantly, her children, an opportunity to prosper. She had dedicated her life to them and put up with all manner of abuse for them. She was their champion. The last thing in the world one would ever want to do would be to mess with her kids.

We were at the Medical Center in Jersey City,  there because I was sick. We queued in the charity line and then got into another line. While we were standing in this line, this rather tall “White” lady came up, pushed me aside and said “get out of the way you little spic.” My mom didn’t miss a beat. She reached up behind her, slid up her back and at the nape grabbed a handful of hair, dragged her down to eye level and smashed her fist into her face, her glasses disintegrating.

When my mother got angry she lost all ability to speak in English. The only thing that came out of her mouth was her trademark profanities “I will kill you motherfucker. I will split your fucking face!!!!” She continued pounding on this lady while the whole charity ward erupted into Third World bedlam; Puerto Ricans, Blacks and every other ethnic group in the world, an operatic chorus screaming “Kill the Bitch!.” It took forever to calm down my mother down. That puta had touched me.

While my mother was hugely moralistic, she was also very Machiavellian. We went to court. My mother made me lie. I forget what the lie was, but I remember being forced to tell some sort of lie, probably, that my mother never touched her, and now that I’m a lawyer. I realize that the judge probably didn’t buy it. But it was also obvious that the woman had hit me first and had been a racist; so my mother walked. I’m sure that in my mother’s eyes the woman was lucky that the only thing that had happened to her was a few bruises.

She was spontaneous, uncannily perceptive and clairvoyant. Because we are very family oriented and living in a place where we hardly knew other, our family was almost tribal. We socialized within our group on just about every weekend and usually it would be at the nicer home of some other family member since we lived in a tiny apartment. But one weekend, for whatever reason, we were in Hoboken with all the aunts and uncles jammed into the living room. As she was getting ready to leave Tia Blanca looked in her purse and couldn’t find her wallet. My mother - her only hesitation was asking Tia if she “was sure” - confronted one of my cousins.

He was in his late twenties, early thirties but she snatched him up out of the sofa by his collar and said “Come here.” She slammed him up against the wall right over the spot where he had been sitting and told him to give the wallet back. We were stunned. Everyone in the room was incredulous. She had no proof that he’d done anything or that the wallet was truly missing. But my mother, in an instant, had decided that he had taken my aunt’s wallet. She didn’t back down. She said “give back the wallet or I’ll split your face. You better give it back.”

He looked at her. He started crying. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the wallet, gave it to her and ran out of the room. We sat there marveling at her. That was my mother. She could be brutal and she was hard to understand and she was so often right.

One Friday night I had finally convinced Mami to let me go to a CYO-sponsored basketball keep-the-inner city kids-off-the-streets event. She made me take Eggy. We stopped at the five and ten and I got caught shoplifting. They brought us to the manager’s office and from there made us go to our parish and give confession. But, not to worry, I told Eggy, we’re still good on the time table. We’re getting home at the right time. Mami doesn’t need to know. I coached him all the way back and assured him everything would be okay.

There she was. Waiting for us at the top of the landing. We froze in our tracks. Eggy’s eyes - he was always the most nervous and melodramatic of any of us - dilated like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. “Someone told me,” she said....(We were isolated. We lived on the top floor of a walk-up tenement. We didn’t know any neighbors. We didn’t have a phone. It could never have happened.)....that you two got caught shoplifting at the five and ten.”

Eggy collapsed. He started blubbering. “It was Junior!” I didn’t have time to think. “Eggy, Eggy, don’t listen to her, she’s just making that shit up.” But by then, I had confirmed what up to that point was just a wild thought of hers.

It was so hard to convince her even when she was wrong.

The weather in Jersey City can be brutal. In the winter we would hide in the halls from the cold and in the summer it was respite from the heat. Mostly we would hang out, read comics, play cards or chess. My mother was a very suspicious person. She had some sort of demons. I suspect something very bad happened to her as a young girl, and certainly horrible things seemed to follow her throughout her life. And, since we lived in a ghetto she was always vigilant, keeping tabs on us and mostly in a kind, caring, and benign way.

But this day she was being suspicious of what we were doing. She came out two or three times and kept opening the door very quickly like she was going to catch us doing something. Finally, she called me upstairs and asked me: “What are you two doing over there, sucking each other’s dicks?” 

All I could do was just look at her. I don’t know how old I was, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t know - the chicken neck thing aside - that people did that. But that was something she had contrived in her mind. I didn’t know what to say. I just said “no” and walked off but I couldn’t figure out how she had arrived at that in her mind. I went out there and Walter asked me what she had asked me. I made something up.

We were not truly poor, at least by the standards of my friends. We had two parents. The “old man” had a great job. But he frittered a lot of it away on drinking and we had a large family; money management was, as is demographically typical, not the best. At Christmas, they’d go to the Pep Boys and gorge on toys for us, all on horribly predatory credit rates. They’d finance this and that the same way. They were always badgered by creditors and we moved constantly.

But she worked her ass off to make sure we had everything we needed. She would cover as best she could her inabilities to make it all happen. If we went to a restaurant and we wanted to try the shrimp she would tell us that we wouldn’t like it rather than we couldn’t afford it. And she shielded me especially because, as the step child, I was usually last in line for things and only begrudgingly given that.

I joke often that my mom sold our souls to the Catholic Church and it’s true. She and all of her siblings were Protestants but she wanted her kids to have a good education and their schools were the best. She went to the nuns at St Mary’s, probably because it was only a block away and struck the bargain; educate them and they’re yours. That’s how we became of the one true faith.

Our school had found itself foundering in a “neighborhood in transition”. What was once an Irish, Polish, and Italian community was now turning “urban” and, typically, we were in the vanguard wave of invading Puerto Ricans. The school was in its first wave of transition too. Parents who had moved away still sent their kids to their alma mater. In those days teens all dressed to the nines. We knew the latest haircuts (like the Peter Gunn or the Water fall), shoe styles (Thom McAnn, Floresheim), and what fashion was cutting edge. Everyone wanted to be the first with the latest. 

My mom, who was a world class seamstress would, at least twice a year, take in extra work so she could take me down to Rubenstein’s, the fanciest clothing store in Jersey City. She’d toil well into the night sewing cheerleader uniforms or wedding dresses to make sure I could compete with my classmates.

I discounted it when my mother became terminal. It was an impossibility. Unfathomable. She was a rock. No way. Here was this lady we had witnessed go through every tempest, weathered but unbeaten. The one who inspired us to our greatness. Who gave every one of us the confidence that we were special. “You were born,” she'd remind me, on Easter Sunday. And, even though it is a movable feast and never falls on the same date (mine did on my tenth birthday but will never again), “your father, too, was born on Easter Sunday. How special is that?” And, she'd say, I was born under the veil. Oh yeah, and on the day of your birth there were 16 earthquakes in PR! She never missed a beat. We were the stars in her heaven. And we believed it.

When she died, I still refused to believe it. I left her there on her death bed and never acknowledged her passing. Still don’t. I didn’t go to the funeral and don’t have a clue where she is buried. But that’s irrelevant. She gave each of us strong portions of everything she had.

(Ed Note: This is a postscript to a piece I wrote for my daughter-in-law for Mother’s Day about two years ago. I had intended to take parts of that and incorporate into this but didn’t want to tarnish what had been a special gift to Krista. So, if you’re interested in reading the original piece - yeah, I know, this is already “War and Peace” length - click here.)


Tuesday, March 15, 2016

THE PLAYA

THE PLAYA

They started out as friends, a connection that had blossomed into love. Neither status - not "Friend", not "Lover" - seemed to be diminished by the sometimes competing demands of the other. She was a trouper, accommodating in all of the things that they did together, and especially so in bed. She had rescued him from a terminal midlife crisis and even though he didn't need any more reason to love her, their torrid lovemaking made it all the sweeter. The sex was the icing on a really rich cake of emotion and desire and he took all manner of opportunity to make it happen: In a closet. In the car under an overpass. On the interstate with the flashers on. In the office on a desk, on the floor, or wherever the situation presented itself. It was guerrilla love and it was exciting. And, after years of stolen moments, here they were on their honeymoon and it was like a fantasy.

A five-star resort with pristine and idyllic beaches, cabanas and cabin boys, jet skis and sailboats, lounge chairs and chaises, fancy drinks, a casino. A tropical paradise and, now, he conspired, a morning to remember; something that would really set the last days of their holiday off. She did not complain when he nudged her and whispered "Hey, let's go down to the beach and watch the sunset. It will be an adventure." Even under normal circumstances he wasn't much of a sleeper. But she was. And here? She knew the exact scope of the "adventure" and had every reason in the world to be tired. They had, their traveling companion noted, fucked just about every twenty minutes of the trip. And "God damn it," she could have said, "I'm sunburned!" But, no, she grabbed a blanket and gamely trudged off with him to the beach, down to the surf to one of the many hammocks that the hotel had set up in the coconut grove.

"Damn," he thought when they got there, "it's cold." Ensconced in the huge rope hammock, cocooned in their blanket, they used each other's warmth as a shield and as an excuse to become entwined in their excellent quest. They marveled at the tropics, at the wondrous setting of this beautiful beach, listened to the surf, waited for the dawn. They dozed off and when he awoke he nudged her, nuzzled her, scraped his teeth on the fur of her nape, caressed her, squeezed her, snuggled her, cupped and spooned her, rocked her with his torso back from her torpor until she responded and they were locked in full passion.

Then she got startled. "What was that?" The coconut tree had creaked above them and she was now  centered on the darkness above. "It's nothing," he assured her, anxious to continue. "There's something up there," she said. She was a country girl, she reminded him. She knew when there was something in a tree. "I tell you there's something up there." "It's just a limb creaking," he offered. "On a coconut tree?" "Are you stupid?" flashed across her smirking countenance. "Well, they're just like regular trees. Limbs get old, dry out and fall to the ground." He persisted, whispering in her ear again that it was "nothing" and raked his teeth along her lobes. "It's just a dry limb getting ready to fall off." 

She capitulated. 

They returned to their lovemaking.

But, they were being watched.

Maybe it was their lovemaking that pulled the voyeur into the mix. He must have gotten so enthused by their lust that he peered out too far. Or, maybe, he had been caught up there by surprise when they had chosen his hammock and he hadn't had a chance to get away. But, for whatever reason, he was up there looking down on their private moments when the limb broke with a loud snap and down on them he fell.

They heard the limbs breaking. And since they were on their backs they were looking up at the source of the commotion - up there in the void. They could tell by the noise and the crashing that it was more than just some small animal and certainly not just the tree ridding itself of an old useless appendage. It took seconds but it seemed like years for him to fall onto the hammock and when he did it was, mercifully, over before they could react with more than just their ear-piercing yowls. 

They clutched each other in a giant fetal position.

A five-foot-long two-hundred-pound iguana hit the hammock. They had seen these characters just hanging around the grounds, almost as large as an alligator but so languid that they had to stare at them just to see if they moved. 

Yet, here he was - IN A FUCKING TREE! - but now maneuvering along the hammock ropes at the speed of light. He hit the hammock at their feet. A paw - if that's what you call that thing with those razor-sharp Manchu talons - deftly found an area for leverage somewhere below their legs. At the same time his other limb dug in along the side of the hammock and, again, somehow avoided hitting them. 

He balanced the sling so it didn't overturn. He hissed as he nimbly went like some Olympic gymnast all the way around their cowering hulks, his tail swishing over their heads as he pushed off somewhere over their ducked heads, hissed at them again just to let them know he was pissed, jumped into the brush and scurried off.

They sat there horrified. In all of their years together, they never held each other tighter nor needed the security of each other's arms more. Then the dawn appeared as if to reassure them. They looked at each other and shook their heads in amazement. They kissed in an almost platonic way. As friends. For comfort. They fell back down on the hammock. She nestled into his arms. They waited for the warmth of the sun and the rest of their days.