Category Archive: Uncategorized
Damn, summer must be here!
Shafiq Husayn- Cheeba feat. Bilal
courtesy of okayplayer.com
Final Push…
lil’ mama’s prayer – lil mama & bloc party
“Hang on in there, and make sure that you focus hard on the’writing thing’ – it will unlock or lock up everything in the world of academia…remember step-by-step, little-by-little each waking moment – only the whole at the very start in your mind, at the absolute end on the paper.”
-A good friend
see you after May 6th…
sly and the family stone- que sera, sera
Yeah, I’d say that about sums it up…
headed to philly
Chinatown bus: $12
Bag of used books: $rent money
Good whiskey: $40
1 Philly cheesesteak “wit’ “(cheesewiz): $7
The company of good friends: Priceless!
One of the most amazing men I know (2002)
el carretero- Buena Vista Social Club (click to play)
I am what time, circumstance, history, have made of me, certainly, but I am also, much more than that. So are we all.
– James A. Baldwin
Krs One “Outta Here”
Taking it back…
Old School…
——————-> Where has the time gone…
The Death of Little…
Little’s world is made of static and chaos
Inability to control any, all or one
Little grew, made that fear real, blind to the passing of the tide
Little’s only safeguard is asking often, “Where do I put my eyes? Do I let my mind follow?”
Only Little constantly forgets his magic question
Clouds break
Little squints, making out an outline ahead
Big grabs Little’s hand
They walk
Is Big to give Little that which Little had no way to find?
A deal is struck
Life for Death
Awareness of each passing moment
Time to pay the Price of the Ticket
Little washes away in water and wind
He goes quietly, flashing a toothy smile
Made real but not as he began
Big continues on with Little’s gift
All he accrued through action and experience
Two to one
Much better odds
Truth Telling: James Baldwin
“I think the other reason, and perhaps the most important reason I am throwing these suggestions out to you tonight, is that in this country, every black man born in this country, until this present moment is born into country, which assures him, in as many ways as it can find, that he is not worth the dirt he walks on. Every negro boy and every negro girl born in this country, until this very moment undergoes the agony of trying to find in the body politic, in the body social, outside himself or herself some image of himself of herself which is not demeaning. Now, many indeed have survived, and at an incalculable cost. Many more have perished and are perishing every day. If you tell a child, and do your best to prove to the child that he is not worth life, it is entirely possible that sooner or later the child begins to believe it.”
- James Baldwin (June, 1963)
For Jared…
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This innocent country set you down in a ghetto in which, in fact, it intended that you should perish. Let me spell out precisely what I mean by that, for the heart of the matter is here, and the root of my dispute with my country. You were born where you were born, and faced the future that you faced because you were black and for no other reason. The limits of your ambition were, thus, expected to be set forever. You were born into a society which spelled out with brutal clarity, and in as many ways as possible, that you were a worthless human being. You were not expected to aspire to excellence: you were expected to make peace with mediocrity. Wherever you have turned, James, in your short time on this earth , you have been told where you could go and what you could do (and how you could do it) and where you could do it and whom you could marry. I know that your countrymen do not agree with me about this, and I hear them saying “You exaggerate.” They do not know Harlem, and I do. So do you. Take no one’s word for anything, including mine—but trust your experience. Know whence you came. If you know whence your came, there is really no limit to where you can go. The details and symbols of your life have been deliberately constructed to make you believe what white people say about you. Please try to remember that what that believe, as well as what they do and cause you to endure, does not testify to your inferiority but to their inhumanity and fear. Please try to be clear, dear James, though the storm which rages about your youthful head today, about the reality which lies behind the words acceptance and integration. There is no reason for you to try to become like white people and there is no basis whatever for their impertinent assumption that they must accept you. The really terrible thing, old buddy, is that you must accept them. And I mean that very seriously. You must accept them and accept them with love. For these innocent people have no other hope. They are, in effect, still trapped in a history which they do not understand; and until they understand it, they cannot be released from it. They have had to believe for so many years, and for innumerable reasons, that black men are inferior to white men. Many of them, indeed, know better, but, as you will discover, people find it very difficult to act on what they know. To act is to be committed, and to be committed is to be in danger. In this case, the danger, in the minds of most white Americans, is the loss of identity. Try to imagine how you would feel if you woke up one morning to find the sun shinning and all the stars aflame. You would be frightened because it is our of the order of nature. Any upheaval in the universe is terrifying because it so profoundly attacks one’s sense of one’s own reality. Well, the black man has functioned in the white man’s world as a fixed star, as an immovable pillar: and as he moves out of his place, heaven and earth are shaken to their foundations. You, don’t be afraid. I said that it was intended that you should perish in the ghetto, perish by never being allowed to go behind the white man’s definitions, by never being allowed to spell your proper name. You have, and many of us have, defeated this intention; and, by a terrible law, a terrible paradox, those innocents who believed that your imprisonment made them safe are losing their grasp of reality. But these men are your brothers—your lost, younger brothers. And if the word integration means anything, this is what it means: that we, with love, shall force our brothers to see themselves as they are, to cease fleeing from reality and begin to change it. For this is your home, my friend, do not be driven from it; great men have done great things here, and will again, and we can make America what America must become. It will be hard, James, but you come from sturdy, peasant stock, men who picked cotton and dammed rivers and built railroads, and in the teeth of the most terrifying odds, achieved and unassailable and monumental dignity. You come from a long line of poets, some of the greatest poets since Homer. One of them said, The very time I thought I was lost, My dungeon shook and my chains fell off.
You know, and I know, that the country is celebrating one hundred years of freedom one hundred years too soon. We cannot be free until they are free. God bless you, James, and Godspeed.
Your uncle,
James
( An extended excerpt from: MY DUNGEON SHOOK: LETTER TO MY NEPHEW ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE EMANICIPATION. – James Baldwin)
28 with a bullet (Por Graciella)
Never Can Say Goodbye- Jackson 5 (Click to Play)
28 with a bullet
The past shifts, anchor to buoy as the tide rises
Releasing memories lost so long they were thought to be myth
Looking back I now realize your last breath was a gift
It was hard to see it, sentado en el piso de la cocina
World fading to black, I set to work gathering all the 40 year old children
Making arrangements left no time for feeling
Howling till I was hoarse would come later
At a non-existent god on the 59th street bridge
In the middle of a rainstorm no less
Hell of a way to mourn
No longer blame myself for not saving you
It was you that saved me
Taking me in when no one else would
Sharing what little warmth you had in those years of perpetual winter
Held me tight
Your why I love the way women really smell
I hit that cocina linoleum hard
Took you in my arms
Didn’t know CPR but hell if I wasn’t going to learn it on the spot
Still feel the flitter of hope produced when it seemed you’d breathe once more
Ripped me to shreds a moment later
No more
Abuela smells
Sock filtered coffee from the deli across the street
Arroz con salchicha
Catching you watching Benny Hill when you thought we were all asleep
Translating sitcoms
“Chunda’ Storms”
Excursions to the check cashing place followed by the botanica
Buying tampons with food stamps at 11 years old, eclipsing any shame I would ever feel
Teaching me to be sharp with my tongue
Anyone in the bodega who dared speculate as to why you needed them got set straight wit’ the quickness
No more of so many lessons passed on through speech, song, and chancleta
Surfacing so fast I barely have time to catch some before they float away.
Your last breath did not take the warmth with it
A gift to me
Final demonstration of your strength beyond death
For that I’m forever grateful
Wish you could see the man I’ve become
Fearless within 3 feet of you, I now tower above 6
Been places not seen in my wildest imagination
Experienced heartache, made foolish mistakes, looked fear in the eye without blinking
Have been mastered by fear, made to run, run, and run
Risen again, trying once more, owning my fear, making it part of me
It’s taken longer between falling and standing since you’ve gone
I’m sure you expected that
I rise again
On my own two feet
One day your gift will be be given to my sons and daughters
In word and deed (no chancleta!)
They’ll know of strength & sacrifice made by Abuela
How Papi became Papi
I’m more you in becoming more myself
Yet it makes something different
I imagine the pride you’d feel inside if you were to see me
Not perfect but pretty damn good
Yours nonetheless
28 with a bullet
Go Hard (2009)
Jay-Z (feat. Santigold) “Brooklyn Go Hard”
Fuego, fire, turn it higher
Nunca repeating each moment fleeting
Seize it in ten digits
Experience, memory, touch
Firm hand constant through all
No paro de aguantar till’ I cant hold no more
Knocked down, get up
Otro dia espero para hacerlo de nuevo
Learn/Move/Dodge/Weave/Plunge/Face/Hold/Learn
Whats some see as “la misma cosa” wasn’t the, couldn’t be, same as before.
New reality based on those of old
Reconfigured to fit a new day
Just like you
Steady, Steady, Steady
Keep it moving para siempre
Fuego/Flame, firm and flexible
Dont Spread Yourself Too Thin (Trotsky)
Dear Comrades:
You complain that you have not been able to read even one-tenth of the books that interest you, and ask how to rationally allot your time. This is a very difficult question, because in the long run each person must make such a decision according to his particular needs and interests. It should be said however, that the extent to which a person is able to keep up with the current literature, whether scientific, political, or otherwise, depends not only on the judicious allotment of one’s time but also on the individual’s previous training. In regard to your specific reference to “party youth,” I can only advise them not to hurry, not to spread themselves thin, not to skip from one topic to another, and not to pass on to a second book until the first has been properly read, thought over, and mastered. I remember that when I myself belonged to the category of “youth,” I too felt that there just wasn’t enough time. Even in prison, when I did nothing but read, it seemed that one couldn’t get enough done in a day. In the ideological sphere, just as in the economic arena, the phase of primitive accumulation is the most difficult and troublesome. And only after certain basic elements of knowledge and particularly elements of theoretical skill (method) have been precisely mastered and have become, so to speak, part of the flesh and blood of one’s intellectual activity, does it be. come easier to keep up with the literature not only in areas one is familiar with, but in adjacent and even more remote fields of knowledge, because method, in the final analysis, is universal. It is better to read one book and read it well; it is better to master a little bit at a time and master it thoroughly. Only in this way will your powers of mental comprehension extend themselves naturally. Thought will gradually gain confidence in itself and grow more productive. With these preliminaries in mind, it will not be difficult to rationally allot your time; and then, the transition from one pursuit to another will be to a certain extent pleasurable.
With comradely greetings,
L. Trotsky
May 29, 1923
(A letter to the Kiev comrades. From Pravda, May 31, 1923. Translated for this volume from Collected Works, Vol. 2 1, by Marilyn Vogt. From: Problems of Every Day Life by Leon Trotsky)
Hope and a Promise (2003)
Graciella, ya esta. Ahora lo hago para mi.
[audio http://justinorodriguez.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/16-common-man.mp3 |bg=ffffff|righticon=ffffff]
Common Man-David Ruffin
David Ruffin took the words right out of the mouth of the girl of my dreams, wherever and whenever she might be…
NYU OCCUPATION BEGINS!
www.takebacknyu.com
Gemelas
Two, always two… y que pasa cuando there’s just one
Whats the other to do
Could never replace you
You were the strong one
The one who was to do with less so the others may have more
Sin ti it seems the whole world’s come undone
I remember entering the funeral home
Pense que A was you
I went to you, seeking comfort, hugs and love
When I looked up at your face, I saw it was not you
It was she, she who did not know/love/care for the stranger at her knees
I remember the stories you told me of the evil step sisters, those who never cared…
Never once thought for a minute your gemela could be among those over there
Gathered in the corner with their bochinche brooches
Chisme scarves securely fastened
You never once took A’s name in vain, her secret safe till you boarded your plane
But it didn’t go back to from whence you came
Death mirrored life
To the cemetery you went
To join the man who you heaped curses upon the last decade of life
Oh so far from the street strewn with moon where you entered the world
From the rock filled river where you grew of age
I waited for A to stop the proceedings
Yelling out that your place lay deep within the land of the lord
Next to the mother whose failed heart you inherited without a word
You often told me you would have given anything to remain in her fold
I rose to my knees as she shoved me away
I couldn’t help but want to say
She would have done better, she would’ve done exactly as you asked
Nothing would have stopped her… she would have fought
Con every ounce her four ten frame could muster
Till it was set right
I didn’t
The day left me numb
Every step we took moved us farther from her wishes
I’ll take her back one day, to her mother
Past places of which she spoke, faded long ago
Putting to rest the hopes and dreams carried there and back again
What she could not do herself, and her hermana gemela would not do, her querido gemelos would set right
Our little niño’s and niña’s at our side, we’ll set her up for some long overdue rest
As we walk away and say our goodbyes, mi hija Graciella will fall and scrape her knee
Scooping her up for care and comfort,
My mind will arrive the song I’ve been waiting my whole life to sing
“El Baile del Penguino”
Soothing her and I both, it does its best to wash the hurt away…
Martin Luther King Day
MLK Jr.: Struggling Not to Lose Him
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvnpyS430dg&eurl=http://socialistworker.org/]
Courtesy of: www.slepton.com
Nina Simone- Why the King of Love is Dead (Nina’s song about MLK’s assasination)
[audio http://justinorodriguez.files.wordpress.com/2009/01/1-10-why_-the-king-of-love-is-dead-unedited-version1.mp3 |bg=ffffff|righticon=ffffff]
To Be Young Gifted Black (Live) – Nina Simone
Listen to this live recording and hear why Nina Simone is who she is. Amazing…
Nina Simone – To Be Young Gifted Black (Live)
[audio http://justinorodriguez.files.wordpress.com/2009/01/nina-simone-11-to-be-young-gifted-black-live.mp3 |bg=ffffff|righticon=ffffff]
Laura Lopez Castro – No Es Por Ser Ni Por Estar
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GA3Lm0kl1vI]
*This one is Courtesy of my main man Jared. You can check his blog out here.*
New Beginnings
This is a nook in my new place in BK. This is the first time I have been able to afford to live on my own in New York! Boy am I beginning to enjoy it. I’ll have to make some adjustments budget and lifewise but I think it will end up working out just fine! Process and Progress!!!
Invisible (2008)
Invisibility, let me explain, gives one a slightly different sense of time, your never quite on the beat. Sometimes your ahead and sometimes behind. Instead of the swift and imperceptible flowing of time, you are aware of it’s nodes, those points where time stands still or from which it leaps ahead. And you slip into the breaks and look around.
-Ralph Ellison, “Invisible Man”
Dream a little dream for me (2008)
“The truth is, it’s just you.”
El Yunque (2006)
Te Estraño…
Spaces of hope…
Those who control the present control the past. Those who control the past control the future. The rub is, many of us have daily experiences that challenge the hegemony of those who aim to control our past/present/future. Therein lies the space where history is made.
-One part George Orwell One part Me
Jose James(2008)
I saw the dreamer raise his hand, into a world of possibilities…..
Two Cousins (2003)
I decided to begin scanning some black and white pictures taken long ago. These are two of my cousins, Bonnie and Ileah.
Things are good.
Walked 4 blocks from the crib today, set up shop in a café and set to work on a response regarding the relationship between capitalism and slavery. What follows is finishing up a presentation on Trotsky’s “History of the Russian Revolution, (Book II). I finally feel like I’m getting into the flow of things.
Puppy….
Even I am not immune!
Tunnels…
Looking out… Didn’t expect myself to stare back.
Our City
Ravenswood Housing Projects, 2003
Our city
I miss you
We need you
Children lose hope
Parents eyes hold no light
The time is here
Seeds sown long ago in glass filled streets
Stretch up higher than skyscrapers
Searching for a sliver of sunlight
Shaking off a slight case of urban blight
Beautiful
Viewed by others through broken mirrors
Seeing only scars and sin
In truth all they know is love life and pain
Much too young
Time for saviors has come and gone
Questions that set them in motion
Look now in the dirt beneath their feet
Between overturned garbage cans they feel for their roots
Gives them strength
Flowing from the ground below
Black and Brown gold worth more than any commodity
Take whats theirs from fists clenched tight
Futures determined by nothing but inent
Tell them
Consent not required
Dissent grabbed not asked for
Keys to the city within arms reach
Their city
Beating hearts trapped by more than just ribcages
No more
They rise
Feeding the city on a night darker than the blackout
Giving it the fire it requires
Grandparents remember Parents forgot Youth remind
Its our time
We need you
Our city
The Met…
A wonderful time reacquainting myself with the met… Not bad for a rainy Wednesday!
Q-Tip: The Renaissance Album Preview @ Knitting Factory
Amazing! With cameos by DJ Spinna, Busta Rhymes, and The flip Mode squad (I didn’t mention Consequence becuse that cat is attached to Q-tip at the hip 24/7!)! Everyone was super political and spent quite a bit of time in between spitting some of the best hiop hop I have heard live in years talking about the ecnonomic crisis and the upcoming elections. All in all the best free show I have ever been to. Period.
Broadway
On my way to NYU…
Two images from the heights…
These two are from a from a while back…
Great night after a long day!
Whats better than delicious Chino-Latino food and good wine? Getting to know a cool person plus delicious Chino-Latino food and good wine!
El domingo pasado en la casa de Quyen, Dao, y Pedro
Alot of fun! It always good to recoonect with good friends and see how big Quyen is getting.
Nostrand ave.
Late Night Subway
Fulton at night
Ok my way home last night from a wonderful labor day BBQ, it sunk in that my summer was over. It wasn’t till just now that I realized what else that night brought to a close.
Isabellas Birthday present…
I made her a giant poster of this and framed it for her sixth birthday. She loved it and wanted help hanging it in her room. She told me she’d get to it right after she finished playing with her friends at her birthday party. What an amazing little person! This fall she starts mambo classes in the BX. I can’t wait.
Tio Damian @ work…
Two blocks from my new apt. One of the rare times he doesent have a smile on his face.
RED HOOK SATURDAY
Enjoying getting to know my new surroundings.
Day 1… (Real Talk)
Ya tu sabe...
I will finish my seminar paper on the Pacto Militar Campesino by 4pm Sunday. Ill let you know how it goes!
On my way to Bk…
Loving life and tingling with anticipation at all that awaits this fall….
Time to put it behind…
Time for all if it to be set down.
All the never could, should have but didn’t.
Move on, your not them. They can’t touch you anymore.
Remove their fingers from your brain, loosen their hold on your heart.
Tight grip doesn’t allow it to beat a full beat.
Time to set yourself free.
All that’s left is to start to walk and away you go…..
So step out of the cage with your head held high, knowing that everything that lies before you shall be built with your own two hands.
I congratulate you Justino, for the man you are today. Do your best and stay true to yourself. That in itself will be more than enough by anyone’s standards.
Friday night (Back in the day)
Graciella held court every friday on the brown rug. she had lived in this apartment in the projects ever since their place in Bushwick burned down. The city relocated Abuela and her family to the Ravenswood projects in Astoria. It was there after a few decades that she began to reknit the family that remained with her friday gatherings. My brother and I lived there with her, witness to thall the random going ons of our family. It was kind of like the land of the broken toys, but for real.
Bosco was always the first to arrive. Named after that old chocolate drink popular back in the day, he was just one of Abuelitas many sons who had lost his way. He would make the trek over from his home in brooklyn to the projects by bicycle. It was a journey to welcome in the weekend with all the others who would arrive throughout the day. At three thirty on the dot, he would ride up to the kitchen window on a skinny little road bike that looked like it was just driven out of the bike store showroom. Of course the bike was older than me, but Bosco always took good care of things so that they tended to last well past their expiration date. He carried with him a double magnum of pink chablis, the kind so cheap the liquor store didn’t even bother storing it behind thier bulletproof glass. “Justin or Jared, one of you come get the back door.”, came the usual greeting. We lived on the first floor of the projects so he would always peek his head in to see if we were hiding from him. Though living on the first floor was a boon when shoplifters came calling to peddle their wares, it was not good for reasons such as Bosco or the occasional stray bullet that found its way around the neighborhood. Why in the world he didn’t use the front entrance is beyond my comprehension. His bicycle could have had him there in ten seconds flat. Once he spotted my brother or I it was too late. Within seconds he had jedi mind tricked us into getting the door with the treat of letting us walk his bike down the hallway and into the apartment. Next came hugs and kisses, the placing of the chablis in the freezer to chill, the moving of a chair from the kitchen onto the rug… Then and only then would he complete his arrival by stripping down to his wife-beater and acid washed jeans to regale my grandmother with the events of the passing week.
Bosco had been a master craftsman, a tool and die maker by trade, good with his hands. Things fell apart for him after two failed marriages and a few bouts of alcoholism, the only inheritance a Benitez could count on. All I ever saw him make was a case for his cigarettes using masking tape. I didn’t know such things could be made of masking tape. Every Friday I would watch as he meticulously repaired his case with few well placed pieces of tape, reinforcing the bottom that had frayed through the friction created riding over the Queensboro bridge. As an adolescent Bosco had been one of abuelas six children who were parceled out to relatives after her first husbands death. Money was tight and there was no way she could support six children on a garment workers salary, much less attract a new husband. He went to grandma Fefa, his fathers mother. Decades later after trying and failing to start a family of his own, he returned to live and care for Fefa. A perfect storm of his latest wifes abandonment concided with Fefa’s first stroke. His story always began the same, “These fucking home care attendants don’t know shit. They treat Fefa as if she was a rag doll with no idea of what was going on around her. I’d rather do it myself than god forbid she get hurt.” Abuela would generally respond with some sort of insult towards home care attendants that seemed more directed at calming Bosco down than at home care attendants generally. His complaining usually went on for about half an hour until he realized that Abuela was no longer listening because a rerun of her favorite detective show, “Hunter” had begun.
Bosco’s attention then turned to his sneakers. Homeboy was obsessed with them. They were the whitest champion brand hightop’s I have ever seen. Bosco had previously and religiously rocked a pair of crispy Chuck Taylors. He often struggled to keep them clean enough so as not be upset about their less than pristine condition. When he was introduced to the wonders of synthetic materials that the eighties sneaker boom produced, there was no looking back. While “Hunter” played in the backround, both sneakers were plopped on the kitchen table and treated to the most vigorous scrubbing by toothbrush you could ever imagine. Dirt had no chance against Bosco and his toothbrush.
Much like his sneakers, every aspect of Bosco’s appearance was meticulously cared for. He would do hundreds of jumping jacks and hip twists every afternoon to maintain his figure, not stopping even on his friday visits. He did them with such a fervor that it scared the crap out of abuela, distracting her from her tv shows. My brother and I would watch him carefully trim his mustache over the bathroom sink, using scissors borrowed from our neighbors every Friday evening. We sat on the toilet as he went through his routine, working a miniature comb he had through his stache’, trimming a little here and a little there along the way. Once done with his grooming regimen, Bosco would return to his spot on the rug and pull from his bag whatever book he was reading that week along. Also appearing from this bag was a tattered dictionary whose cover had been given the same masking tape treatment as all of Boscos other prize possessions. Bosco and his bag were the Puerto Rican version of “Felix the Cat”.
This dude was one of the most voracious readers I have ever met in my life. Every week he had a new book out from the library, constantly writing down every word he didn’t know to be looked up at a future date. He would troll the new arrivals sections at our housing projects local branch of the NYPL, searching for whatever new hot novel was out to read. He was a mystery and suspense type of guy, the one who imagined himself A gumshoe embroiled in a web of intrigue, escaping danger at the last moment with his life and the love of a good woman. He would spend the rest of the afternoon in that chair on the rug, sipping Chablis on ice, his attention alternating between the world of his novel and the running commentary he and my grandmother kept up through whatever rerun was on television. By the time he got too drunk to read anymore, he was well lubricated for the evening activities.
The doorbell rings. It’s uncle Henry. He bears a striking resemblance to Bosco. They both carry the Benitez curse of what appear at first sight to be large wing like protrusions where ears should be. It turns out they just have big ears, a fate that awaited me upon hitting puberty.
Henry was considered a big dog amongst those who took part in Abuelas Friday gatherings. He drank rum pulled from one of the higher shelves in the liquor store, paid for with money earned as a foreman in the garment district. The steady paycheck he garnered gave him alot of juice in my family. I had always thought he drank rum so he could catch up to uncle Bosco quicker. Bosco had a five hour head start, a luxury afforded to him by his unemployment and skill with a ten speed. Henry had his own keys to my grandmothers place and was able to let himself in. Several stints in the navy had seen his arms become peppered with tattoos of mermaids and eagles. These were invisible to those at his workplace but much like Bosco, his arrival at abuelas came along with the requisite stripping down to his wifebeater and pants. He loved to tell the story about where he got each tattoo. The stories were essential as the tattoos were now so faded that the memories were all that remained to explain the dark blotches on his arms. After serving himself a drink, he sat on the living room couch. The tv was turned off momentarily as abuela began de-briefing Henry on his week.
“Mijo, how was your week?”
“The same old bullshit ma’ , aint nothing changed from last week.”
“Bueno, such is life.”
Just like that, the tv was turned back on and Henry and Bosco began their usual banter about nothing and everything. Bosco complained about the home health care attendant and Henry compained about how his wife Gladys had joined some pentecostal church and was slowly funneling their savings into the church offers. Where it gets interesting is when Henry begins to complain about the fact that his sister in law, Hilda is moving in with them. Bosco sits there, nodding his head knowingly at Henry. My brother and I are sitting on the floor pretending to watch tv, all the while listening intently to their conversation.
You see, Henry isn’t really mad that his sister in law is moving in with his family. Actually, they had been sleeping together for over 5 years, since her husband fell into a coma and became an invalid. Things became more serious when his wife decided to get hitched to the Pentecostal church and moved to the couch. Never one to make a scene, Henry “massaged” the situation so that it was Gladys that begged Henry to allow her sister to come live with them, arguing that it was what good Christians were supposed to do. Henry, being the devout catholic he was, preferred to live in sin day by day than get divorced, “reluctantly” agreed to the whole thing. The complaining between Henry and Bosco goes on until more people arrive and the discussion expands.
My uncle David and cousin David Andrew were staying with us at the time. David had been clean a year after a decade long love affair with cocaine and its cousin crack. His wife Marilyn was not able to make the transition as smoothly and ended up in a psychiatric facility on Staten Island. Their home fell apart shortly after and the two Davids were taken in by abuela. Unemployed and with no palce to go, they slept on the nasty ass rug, where many others who abuela has sheltered have made their home during their intermittent periods of hardship.
Tio David fancied himself our resident comedian. He had taken a few classes in his twenties at the laugh factory in the city. He never missed an opportunity to perform material/bust balls. On friday nights at the house we were a captive audience. It not that he wasn’t funny, he was actually hilarious. The problem was his humor was that of our family. It mostly consisted of touching the most tender, vulnerable parts of people and exposing them for the world, or at least the family, to see. It was extreme yet not the most brutal form of the way my family had to demonstrate affection. Also, a year off cocaine still made him an irritable prick.
He started in on the easiest target, uncle Bosco’s sneakers. Though sharp witted, Bosco was not match for him in his drunken state. David made the rounds to uncle Henry and the topic switched to pentecostalism. This was a bit more difficult as Henry would occasionally throw David a couple of dollars to aid his job search. David was careful to make the jokes seem about my aunt Gladys and her religious beliefs when they were really about Henry’s need to appear together on the surface, when the reality of his life was as distant from perfect as could be. The performance continued until abuela tired and began to kick people out so she could sleep. For the last ten years the living room doubled as her bedroom.
Years earlier Abuela kicked my abuelo out of the apartment not for his drug dealing, but for his attempt to bring one of his girlfriends around the house. Ever since then, she slept on the couch and did not venture far from it, other than to occasionally bathe or change the remote in her batteries. The Davids unrolled the blanket they slept on. Henry called a cab. Bosco readied his bike, hoping he would sober up before arriving at the Queensboro bridge, lest he make the move he had been contemplating for years and jump in the east river. “Until next week mijos”
The Rug (Back in the day)
She broke my thumb. It was like someone hit the pause button on a broke ass VCR. For a moment, there was some static and a glitch in the playback, then the movie continued on. It, like everything else, never worked they way it was supposed to. If I wanted to stop this one, I was going to have to get out of my seat and do it myself. For whatever reason, I decided to let it play through till then end. I saw her swing the racquet but never really believed she would ever hit me with it. Looking back i was a schmuck for that. Human beings are capable of some pretty amazing and despicable shit. Thank you abuelita for the heads up on that one. The next thing I remember is seeing my brother Jared fluidly pick my grandmother up, throw her on the couch, and begin to scream in her face. I remember being so worried for him, as he stood there screaming at her, restraining himself from choking her to death. She looked like a scolded child, sulking mightily, yet still defiant.
Reeling from the pain of having my thumb broken in three places, I began to look at things in the home I shared with abuela and Jared. We were in the living room, which is where all the magic happened in my house. My eyes came to the rug that covered the floor. At some point in its life long long ago, it must have been a deep chocolate. Who orders a brown wall to wall carpet in the projects will forever exist beyond my realm of understanding. Years of getting stepped on my dirty boots, cigarette ashes, spilt drinks, and plenty of vomit and excrement from several species had turned it into the nasty ass rug I had known and loved. It had a smell that was simultaneously repulsed and comforted. I would sleep on it during the summer, as the only fan we had was kept in the living room. Its odor would creep into my nostrils and put me right to sleep. That rug was a repository of memories for so much of my family history. Grandpa held a gun to my mothers head on that rug, as it captured a pretty significant amount of my urine as I watched on at ten years old. Grandpa also poured a box of cereal on my Grandmas head there, his closing remarks in a pretty heated exchange between them. I walked in on my mom during one of her few short visits to the house, buck naked and coked out of her gourd, in the middle of a fuckfest with her boyfriend in the middle of the rug. She at least had the decency to put a blanket down. I don’t think anyone would have thought too highly of her bare-backing on the rug alone. When I entered the living room, she flew up off the floor, picked up the closest thing she could grab, a broom, and began smashing light bulbs around the house. It got pretty dark in there sometimes. All these thoughts went careening around in my head until I was able to snap back to reality.
I still had a pretty serious situation to deal with. My brother was about to choke my grandmother to death if I didn’t stop him, not to mention my thumb was about the size of a small child’s head and beginning to seriously hurt. I yelled at my brother to take me to the emergency room, which pulled is attention away from my grandmother long enough for us to get out of there before anything serious happened. I don’ think I mentioned what precipitated her swinging a racquet at me earlier, but it all began because I was scheduled to play in the biggest tennis tournament of my life the next day. Coming up playing tennis in the schoolyard program across the street from the projects where I grew up as a young kid, I had gotten good enough to play in the “Mayors Cup”, an event for the best high school players in the city. My grandmother was being a pain in the ass as usual, chipping away at me for hours, mocking me half in jest, telling me I wouldn’t get very far. The last straw came when she announced that not only would she not be coming to watch me play, she also wouldn’t be giving my brother and I train fare for the subway to get there. You see, we hadn’t gotten her coffee from the diner across the street the the previous day, and so she was going to teach us a lesson. As you might have guessed, people do not take lightly to being taught lessons in my family, so we stole her remote control. Now, for a woman who spent the last 30 years of her life living on a couch in front of the TV, this was a capital offense. She did give us trainfare to go the hospital, which was nice enough considering the circumstances.
Things didn’t shape up too bad in the aftermath of that event. I ended up in a cast for 6 weeks, getting alot of sympathy from friends as I watched them compete in the tournament. My grandmothers remote took a swim in the east river and her coffee delivery service was suspended for a few months. My brother has yet another emotional scar to add to the collection. When compared with some of the other things that went down in that living room, things ended splendidly. Every time I tell people stories about my childhood all I can really think about is the rug. The “chocolate rug”. The shit rug. My families rug. I never knew it as the “chocolate” rug but I caught myself describing it to someone that way when telling them a story. So many people have bled, shed tears, slept, and been impacted by what has taken place on that rug. Safe from the wonders and the horrors I experienced in that home, the rug doesn’t quite smell like shit to me anymore. I actually yearn for its dirty smell, being one of the only things that could put me right to sleep. Retelling these stories are like my rewind button that doesn’t quite work right. I am content with this as I’m not quite sure if I could work one that functioned properly anyway
Jared (2002)
An old favorite. I will be posting work I have made over the past few years. Ill put one or two up every few days or so in between blog postings.
In honor of moleskinerie’s 1st anniversary I thought I would up the Ante and begin to upload my favorite moleskine covers and collages that I have done over the last 4 years.
One a days…
Well I figured since I am taking a one a day vitamin and a one a day pro-biotic to recolonize my tummy with the right kind of bacterial flora (still reeling from my Bolivia trip) I might as well begina sentence a day journal. I will be joining it with a daily reflection right here by the suggestion of Leo over at Zen Habits.
Today was a good day. I completed my applications to Yale and Northwestern. I also had a very good political discussion with someone and a good dinner to reconnect with my brother. Tomorrow I’m hopefully going to begin to get my tooth fixed! Wish me luck……
Its a New Year!
Overall, when looking at the balance sheets it’s been a good one. I have accomplished more this year than I ever thought possible. I am really happy and feel lucky to have the amazing people that are my friends and family. I feel ready for the year that awaits. I can only hope it is as fruitful as the one behind me.
Grad School Application Process….
Little bit of procrastination instead of working on my writing sample goes a long way!
I still love technology…
I have had a new addition to the family. Its name, the asus eee (easy to learn easy to use easy to play!). With a 7 inch screen, word processing on open office, and weighing in at under 2 pounds this just made bringing around a laptop for work 12 million times easier. I love it already!
Good Enough….
My GRE scores!:
Verbal: 640
Quantitative: 600
Oig! I was sick and did not do as well as I would have liked. But the score is good enough if I don’t have the time to take it again. Is it my best? Clearly the answer is no. Is it enough? Yes! I’m pretty disappointed about my score but one thing I am trying to learn is how to be ok with accepting that things aren’t always going to be a complete reflection of my abilities. given the time and how shitty I felt, it was fine.
Goals for this week:
1) U.S. 17-45: Complete Paper #2 (4 pages)
2) Complete Research Proposal (4 Pages)
3) Read the “German Ideology”
4) Read: “In Defense of October”
5) Complete the Next draft of your Statement of Purpose
I’ll let you know how it goes!
Taking the GRE tday @ 12:30…
Wish me luck! I’ll update everyone on how I do later today!
The B.S. contained within obtaining a B.A. @ CCNY
I am sitting in my Art & Education class as my professor lectures us on how it is the failure of Professors and students alike that students at CCNY have “poor writing skills”. I was floored as she hammered away at this issue. According to her, students such as us are destined to become the next crop of public school teachers, thus exposing a new generation of students to “poor speaking and writing”. I came into class as she was just warming up so I settled in, listened for a bit, and intervened to ask a simple question. “Why is it that students arrive @ CCNY with poor writing skills?” She paused for a moment and then aksed me why I thought this was the case. I mentioned that I felt it was completely unrealistic to expect an English professor @ CCNY to be able to help a student develop college level writing skills in a semester, especially when students are really not taught how to read at an appropriate grade level in High School. One of the only white students actually spoke before me and railed about how professors are lazy and that at her previous SUNY (State University of New York- Better funded, suburban, more middle class, and mostly white) school the standards were much higher. She was shocked at how “lax” they were here. I asked why is it that high schools in urban areas of NYC are less funded than suburban schools? I also wondered out loud, “Is it a coincidence that these schools are predominantly filled with poor students of color and subject to racism? I argued that many of these “deficiencies” begin because of an overall educational institution that is failing its students. It’s not the students, the professors, or the parents that don’t care, but an institution that is not actually set up to teach students (especially poor and students of color) the basic academic skills that they need to survive in college and definitely not any typre of critical thinking skills. Overworked teachers, underfunded schools, and testing oriented curriculum all come together to “leave behind” most students and deflect the blame everywhere but its most deserving recipients, those who control and run the institutions. Ugh, we really need a students movement along with a new civil rights movement to begin to challenge this stuff!
What herniating my disc this summer has brought me this fall…
1) Motivated me to apply for health insurance (it kicked in this august and is valid for a year!)
2) Forced me to use what meager funds I have to buy the bookbag I will have for the next 10 years. I present to you the awesomest Backpack ever!
The North Face Surge (Lame name I know!)
Jared Shot a new Pic of me tonight…
Kinda Like it…..
