Lengua Franca

In the beginning, I spoke no language. I don’t mean that when I was born, I couldn’t speak—nobody can. Rather, I mean that when the time came when everybody expected I should say something, I didn’t. For months, people thought I was retarded, that all I’d ever do would be cry and mumble and cry some more when nobody understood. But I was a crafty little sucker. My mom and I figured a way to communicate with signs and nods and looks and grunts. She says that I showed enough curiosity and responded appropriately to stimuli, so she figured I was just going to take my time. She waited.

At a time when other parents would show their kids off when they said “mama” or “papa” or any of a myriad dumb monosyllabical repetitions of something they didn’t really understand, I stayed quiet. My mother didn’t begin to worry until I was almost potty trained, but said not a word.

Then, one day, I started talking in full sentences. I went to bed one night without a word and woke up in the morning and said something along the lines of “good morning, mom; what’s for breakfast?” She had the sense to say nothing more than “cereal and milk. Go sit at the table and I’ll bring it to you.” Later, she’d tell me how happy she was, but that morning, she told that little boy nothing for fear of embarrassing him into silence.

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In the middle, there was the war. I’m almost sick and tired of how all my stories have the war in them, but wars are pernicious, ubiquitous, insidious, intrusive things that tend to get all up in your business and wreak havoc with your social life, especially when you’re just old enough to join society on your own. Those were the days when I was supposed to “go out and play,” and many kids did. But my parents, being the revolutionaries that they were, were involved in all that clandestine shit democratically-inclined, socially-responsible people do when under a foreign-imposed dictatorship—so they feared for their kids. That meant limited “go out and play” time. We even had “people” (ain’t it funny how some people “have” people?) who drove us to and from school.

Those were boring days.

I spent nights teaching myself German from a book. Now, if you speak German, which I don’t, you’ll understand how funny it would sound if you never heard it before but tried to read it aloud from a book. Well, my dad told me to stop. He was pretty successful and well-liked, so a friend of his high up in government arranged for me to go to the University of East Berlin (was there only one? Why did we just call it “the” University of East Berlin?). This was after the war, and we weren’t hiding no mo’, no mo’…

Then they suggested, politely and sweetly, like people often offer when showing you the barrel and quietly unzipping, would I want to go to the University of Moscow instead? But I’d have to wear olive only. Too old to go unnoticed; too young to go into the army; I would join the army and go abroad. Untrustworthy people have a habit of not trusting anyone, so they take other people’s kids hostage to ensure loyalty. Hell, when you’ve killed enough people, you just don’t know who’ll want to kill you, so you take steps… and that sometimes means stepping on poor fools’ toes. I was that toe.

Two weeks later, I was in San Francisco.

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You’d think July would be a warm month, and it mostly is. But when you come from the tropics, just about anything north of South Beach is worthy of a light jacket. It was 50 degrees in San Francisco. I was freezing!

Whatever language you speak, you can find a karaoke bar somewhere in San Francisco playing your very own version of I Left My Heart (In San Francisco). If you’re lucky, they’ll even have imported beer, from your homeland. Cold!

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Everybody Speaks Spanish in America—and if not, they should. Twenty years, my dad lived in the United States, and never needed English. Many people oppose this view thinking that they can legislate what people do with their tongues—and that works about as well as telling people what to do with what God put between their legs. Even—or rather, specially—in America, one cannot force someone else to speak a language that would be beneficial to all. I think everybody should speak English, but then I also think everybody should speak Arabic, Chinese, French, Spanish and Russian. In the United States, you have the perfect right to be as much an inconvenience to everybody else as your tax dollars allow. Contrary to popular opinion, this is a good thing. Ultimately, the ramifications are far more positive than negative, in my humble opinion.

I never needed English, either. But I craved it. I hungered after it like it was a twisty doughnut right out of the oil, dripping in sugary goodness at four o’clock at the local Korean guy’s shop. It was like a cigarette after an eight-hour drive down the coast with my mom and my ex-wife. There is something far beyond the doughnut and the cigarette about each experience, and if you don’t know it, I won’t waste your time explaining it.

I learned English because I had no choice. It took three months. I have been madly in love with the language ever since. Only half-humorously, I’d dare say everybody should learn to make love with their tongue, and every tongue is different—if you catch my drift. I love oblique, multi-lingual humor caused by poor translations.

And I write in English, and my Spanish-speaking friends ask “why?” And I write in Spanish, and my English-speaking friends say “uh?” And when I can, I throw in one or two phrases from other languages I picked up. It is in the nature of English to be open, welcoming of other languages, ideas, the very essence of other languages. At a time when others fight to keep their “cultural” identity and “purity” of their language, it’s reassuring to see American English saying: “Bring me your tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to be free..."

Miguel

Miguel

My little friend Melinama made herself into a character from South Park. I have always wanted to kill Kenny--I mean, be in South Park, so I copied her, shamelessly and without honor.

But at least I told you I did.

so there!

:-P

So, yeah, this is how I see me in my head--a little less green, perhaps...

So if you find me around the school yard, say hello!

Siempre Hay Una Primera Vez.

Ok… here goes.

First, an explanation: I don’t know you people—what’s more, you don’t know me. Nothing I tell you here means anything to anybody but me, but somehow just typing it here makes me feel better. So I will cry my fucking eyes out and type, and write, until I can cry no more and my fingers can type no more. Because this was going to be a sappy, romantic, tender story of two kids falling in love after waiting and saving themselves for love, and finding each other one day… and living happily ever after.

But there is no ever after. Or there is…there is a hell and one can only crawl out of it by clawing one’s fingers on the searing walls and burning all the way to the bone till one is out. But I am overly dramatic so I can feel better.

Here is the real story, the one no one knows, the one I never told.

Sexual abuse runs in my family. People who were hurt as kids hurt each other and their children, perpetuating hatred, and self-hatred, and more than hatred, self-disgust, which is different and more bloody.

My father took advantage of my mother, and thus began a family. She was 16 and he was 27. She was a desperate girl trying to get out of the house, and out she got. But this isn’t their story.

My father liked to touch my brother’s and my body, us naked, sitting on his lap. He didn’t think much of it, and neither did we. Eventually, we told him to stop, and eventually we forgot all about it. I was about 8 when we stopped him—and don’t even know how it was that we stopped him… only that one day we said “no more” and it was no more. But this is not his story.

But my younger siblings weren’t so lucky. They couldn’t tell him to stop. He went too far, at least with my sister. He hurt her more than anybody I know has hurt anybody else, and I know people who have killed. There were dark years, when she wished she were dead, or she acted like it—but God Himself might have had a plan for her, for she is saved. He gave her a Pearl, for she is dearly paid for, and a savior—a little bit of Heaven that defied death to stay with us—a blessing, a miracle that fit on the palm of my hand when she was born and weighed but a pound and a half if she held her breath. And parent and child have saved each other. They’ve made a single heart out of their broken hearts and it is strong and keeps them going. But this is not their story.

This is my story, and I am guilty.

I see my past like most people see their future: ghostly images, ideas, shadows in the dark—patchy, broken, edgeless, indistinct. That I could swear to see clearly, there are only three days I see like people tell me they see their past. The rest are but dreams that come and go and leave me in peace most of the time. I always wondered why my past was so tenuous, intangible, and then I thought that it was (like my dreams) deniable and forgettable, and perhaps that was the point. Little by little, the dreams come back and knowing I can face them and facing them I understand. I understand I knew. I knew and chose not to know. I saw and closed my eyes. I hid in church and prayed on Sunday and Wednesday and Thursday and Sunday. I read the Bible from cover to cover, and then started again. By fifth grade, I had read it three times, neatly commenting on the margins in a pen of different color every time—to keep me busy. And I studied, science, math, history, whatever, poetry, anything, something, keeping busy… tiring myself so I could sleep deeply enough that I would not wake up in the middle of the night. And I forgot—and I didn’t have to think of it anymore. But I knew. I knew. I know.

He is dead now, and with him died my chance to get rid of this. I’ll take it to my grave, and if the pain is all I have to pay it will be lightly paid. But this ends here. Every kiss I give my children, every hug, a gentle caress, whatever, a little voice inside my head tells me to be careful. I live with them as if a camera were watching and a judge whose power I cannot contradict will judge my every touch upon them.

But this is not their story. If they never know of the sins of my father—or mine—then I will not have lived in vain.

I say this only so the rest will make sense. And now the story of my first time. Read it now and tell me how sweet and sappy and romantic and tender it may sound, knowing what I have always known. I could not simply lie and say that waiting felt right and so I waited. I could not say simply that I was busy and so there was no time. I would be lying if I said anything but this: I touched no human before she touched me because I loathed the feel of human flesh upon my flesh. The smell, the taste, the idea. I craved it, but I could not bear it. She doesn’t know the story, and I will never tell her, but I will always love her for this, and one day, hopefully, my children might know that I still love her, though they won’t know why.

We met in school. She is a year younger than me, but we were in the same grade because I was held a grade because of the language when I moved to the United States. By sophomore grade, we were good friends. By senior year, we were Friends, the six of us, and though we were all to go to Prom together, I danced with her and she with me. Remember “Take My Breath Away”? I do. We danced all night, selfishly leaving our respective dates alone until it was time to go home. We didn’t kiss, but I was in love. She loved me, too, but we didn’t talk about it then.

And then we went to college, too far to visit, except when we went home. One summer, I came home and didn’t go back to school. I was 19 and she was 18, and she came to visit and we went bowling and held hands, and talked until four in the morning. She drove me home and we stayed in the car, talking more. Then it was time for me to go home, and she said “kiss me,” and I said “I can’t” and meant it. She thought I didn’t like her, and unable to explain I just repeated “I can’t” and she saw I meant it. I saw it in her eyes long before I felt it on my lips, but she kissed me. And I kissed her, and we started dating. She was going to school locally, so she’d pick me up on Friday night and I’d spend the weekend with her till Sunday. One weekend blended into the next and the next and before I knew it I was 20 and she was 19, and we were happy just kissing.

We had been dating a year, and everybody thought we were sleeping together, and we got tired of saying we weren’t, so we just didn’t say, but we didn’t. We held hands and hugged and kissed and I forgot how I didn’t like that. We slept together, hugging all night and touching. She taught me what intimacy meant. And then we decided to do it.

This is one of the three days.

It was crisp, and bright, and wonderful. It was a Saturday night. We had gone to dinner and to the movies, and held hands, and kissed. Spandau Ballet was playing in the background, which gave us plenty of time to undress each other (with the lights off, of course).

That night I knew a kind of love I hadn’t known before. It was wonderful. A year later, we were married, she was pregnant (yes, they happened in the wrong order, but we were getting married anyway, so it was ok by us). We stayed together as long as we could, but it turned out we were always better friends than lovers. Eventually, we split up. But we are friends, better now than before. And I am grateful for her love. And I love her now more than ever before, because she’s given me two children. And what if it didn’t work out? You don’t have to stay together to be great together. It is best this way.

Still, I must say that it would have been better to wait. There was nothing wrong with what happened—on the contrary, I don’t know how I could have gotten past the problems I had had it not been for her. I never had to figure it out, so I won’t start guessing now. Still, there was a certain childishness to our intimacy I can only understand now, in retrospect, seeing it from the maturity of knowing what a relationship is. I mean, Spandau Ballet? But seriously, we each had a lot to work through and we hadn’t. We did the best we could and I hope to God things worked for the best—but I can’t help but feel they might have been better if we’d known each other better. Financial security is never guaranteed, nor is stability in life, but it cannot be denied that both improve as one matures, physically and emotionally.

I am eternally grateful for my children, and so I cannot for a moment wish things had been different, lest they not be with me today. Nonetheless, knowing how my life went after, I think it might have been better for my children to have arrived when we had our first apartment, when we were both working steadily, when things were just running more smoothly. I still wish they had come when we were past the holding hands or “getting to know your body” stages. I wish they had come when we were ready for them to come. Of course, many will say that just because we were having sex it didn’t mean we had to have children…and that is true. But we were young, and more often than not it happens. Even if we hadn’t had the children, I do not feel I reached the level of emotional maturity required to care for anybody other than me until I reached 25. Perhaps others reach it sooner—good for them. Let them have sex. Let them have children. It is their decision. If I knew then what I know now, my children would have a better father—in my own humble opinion, and then again, whose opinion matters on this but mine?

Yes, I know this is overly dramatic. No, I don’t care. Yes, thank you for reading it. Yes, your comments are welcome: God knows I’m more than willing to question my opinion when confronted with better ones… just make sure they’re better ones.

Now I’m tired of crying and remembering and it’s late and I have to get some sleep. If this needs editing, I’ll do that later.

I’m just out of energy.

Tenemos Papa!

with due credit to the folks @ monty python.

(The door flies open and Cardinal Ximinez of Spain (Palin) enters, flanked by two junior cardinals. Cardinal Biggles (Jones) has goggles pushed over his forehead. Cardinal Fang (Gilliam) is just Cardinal Fang)

Ximinez:
NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!Our chief weapon is surprise...surprise and fear...fear and surprise....
Our two weapons are fear and surprise... and ruthless efficiency....
Our three weapons are fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency...
and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope....
Our four... no...
Amongst our weapons... Amongst our weaponry...
are such elements as fear, surprise...
I'll come in again.

(Exit and exeunt)

Chapman:
I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.

(JARRING CHORD)

(The cardinals burst in)

Ximinez:
NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!
Amongst our weaponry are such diverse elements as: fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope, and nice red uniforms - Oh damn!
(To Cardinal Biggles)
I can't say it - you'll have to say it.

Biggles:
What?

Ximinez:
You'll have to say the bit about 'Our chief weapons are...'

Biggles:
(rather horrified):
I couldn't do that...

(Ximinez bundles the cardinals outside again)

Chapman: I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.

(JARRING CHORD)

(The cardinals enter)

Biggles:
Er... Nobody... um...

Ximinez:
Expects...

Biggles:
Expects... Nobody expects the... um...
the Spanish... um...

Ximinez:
Inquisition.

Biggles:
I know, I know! Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. In fact, those who do expect –

Ximinez:
Our chief weapons are...

Biggles:
Our chief weapons are... um... er...

Ximinez:
Surprise...

Biggles:
Surprise and...

Ximinez:
Okay, stop. Stop. Stop there - stop there.
Stop. Phew! Ah!... our chief weapons are surprise... blah blah blah. Cardinal, read the charges.

Fang:
You are hereby charged that you did on diverse dates commit heresy against the Holy Church.
'My old man said follow the...'

Biggles:
That's enough.
(To Cleveland)
Now, how do you plead?

Cleveland:
We're innocent.

Ximinez:
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Superimposed caption:
DIABOLICAL LAUGHTER

Biggles:
We'll soon change your mind about that!

Superimposed caption:
DIABOLICAL ACTING

Ximinez:
Fear, surprise, and a most ruthless –
(controls himself with a supreme effort)
Ooooh! Now, Cardinal - the rack!

(Biggles produces a plastic-coated dish-drying rack. Ximinez looks at it and clenches his teeth in an effort not to lose control. He hums heavily to cover his anger)

Ximinez:
You... Right! Tie her down.

(Fang and Biggles make a pathetic attempt to tie her on to the drying rack)

Ximinez:
Right! How do you plead?

Cleveland:
Innocent.

Ximinez:
Ha! Right! Cardinal, give the rack.
Oh dear... give the rack a turn.

(Biggles stands their awkwardly and shrugs his shoulders)

Biggles:
I...

Ximinez:
(gritting his teeth)
I know, I know you can't. I didn't want to say anything. I just wanted to try and ignore your crass mistake.

Biggles:
I...

Ximinez:
It makes it all seem so stupid.

Biggles:
Shall I...?

Ximinez:
No, just pretend for God's sake. Ha! Ha! Ha!

(Biggles turns an imaginary handle on the side of the dish-rack)

(Cut to them torturing a dear old lady,
Marjorie Wilde).

Ximinez:
Now, old woman - you are accused of heresy on three counts - heresy by thought, heresy by word, heresy by deed, and heresy by action - four counts. Do you confess?

Wilde:
I don't understand what I'm accused of.

Ximinez:
Ha! Then we shall make you understand! Biggles! Fetch...THE SOFT CUSHIONS!

(JARRING CHORD)

(Biggles holds out two ordinary modern household cushions)

Biggles:
Here they are, lord.

Ximinez:
Now, old lady - you have one last chance.
Confess the heinous sin of heresy, reject the works of the ungodly - two last chances.
And you shall be free - three last chances.
You have three last chances, the nature of which I have divulged in my previous utterance.

Wilde:
I don't know what you're talking about.

Ximinez:
Right! If that's the way you want it - Cardinal! Poke her with the soft cushions!

(Biggles carries out this rather pathetic torture)

Ximinez:
Confess! Confess! Confess!

Biggles:
It doesn't seem to be hurting her, lord.

Ximinez:
Have you got all the stuffing up one end?

Biggles:
Yes, lord.

Ximinez:
(angrily hurling away the cushions)
Hm! She is made of harder stuff! Cardinal Fang! Fetch...THE COMFY CHAIR!

(JARRING CHORD)

(Zoom into Fang's horrified face)

Fang:
(terrified)
The...Comfy Chair?

(Biggles pushes in a really plush comfy chair)

Ximinez:
So you think you are strong because you can survive the soft cushions. Well, we shall see. Biggles! Put her in the Comfy Chair!

(They roughly push her into the Comfy Chair)

Ximinez:
(with a cruel leer)
Now - you will stay in the Comfy Chair until lunch time, with only a cup of coffee at eleven.
(aside, to Biggles)
Is that really all it is?

Biggles:
Yes, lord.

Ximinez:
I see. I suppose we make it worse by shouting a lot, do we? Confess, woman.
Confess! Confess!
Confess! Confess!

Biggles:
I confess!

Ximinez:
Not you!

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

(Incluido aqui en honor a mi hermano)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

En nombre del padre, del hijo...

I do not remember the details of this story; I just don't feel like doing the research. If you want, look them up. It'll do you good.

Many centuries ago, after the Christians had unsuccessfully attempted to take the holy land on a number of occasions, and the Turk had taken Constantinople, they set out one more time. The Christians now gathered an army to take not the holy land, but Constantinople. The Infidel had taken European land and that cannot be allowed. So, off they went.

Now, Constantinople, currently Istanbul, was populated by both Muslims and Christians, both of similar ethnic stock. Just looking at their faces, you couldn’t tell one group from the other. So, when the Christians (white, armored, heavily armed, God-fearing folk looking out only for God’s best interest) got there, they set up a siege, like was so common in those days. Inside, a war started between the Christians, who wanted to throw the gates open, and the Muslim, who thought (rightly enough) their lives were in danger.

Time went by, as often does when there’s nothing to watch on t.v. and there’s a hostile army at the front gates, especially if your neighbor’s also trying to kill you. Eventually, the Christians inside the city won, and threw open the gates to welcome their “saviors.” But the saviors came in to find a bunch of brown people oddly dressed—some of whom claimed to be Christian. Well, everybody knows Christians have fair skin, light eyes, and questionable personal hygiene (or they did then), so they threw all the brown folk into pens.

The #2 guy at the time, having successfully gathered up all the little brown ones, came to the #1 guy and told him (I paraphrase): “we got ‘em. What now?”

The #1 guy thought about this for a while, realizing how difficult it would be to separate them, and feed them in the meantime. So, in his infinite, divinely-inspired wisdom, he told the #2 guy (I paraphrase): “Kill them all. God will recognize his own.”

So they did.

Things haven’t gotten much better since.

UPDATE: goes to show you how little I know. This is actually from the Albigensian Crusade, and the poor fools allegedly murdered by order of the papal envoy were French, from Bezier. Turns out it was Christians against Christians. How odd!

Life, at the end.

Life, at the end,
Might seem a long and bumpy road.
Or it might seem
A crazy, twisted maze.
Or a question
Left unanswered
To the end.

Life, at the end,
Might feel cold
Like a lonely winter night.
Or maybe wet
Like a hot summer night
Spent
With unwanted company.

Life, at the end,
Might seem undone,
But then the doing
Is at an end
And all that’s left
Is the life lived.

Life is just life
Until the end
And sighs count
More than breaths
Though fewer.

Life is a hand outstretched
That, at its end, is reached,
A welcome back, a hug.
And all I want from life
When it should choose to end
Is but a smile into
The life that’s next.