Now, keep this in mind. Debbie was not punished for having sex with me before marriage and getting pregnant. She was punished for MARRYING me, for marrying outside the religion, for marrying an infidel. If she had decided not to marry me, have a bastard child, be a "bebbimama" and me be the "bebbidaddy", she would not have been punished so. This is why I have a grudge against the Jehovah's Witnesses. The right thing to do was to get married, give the boy a name, and build a family. And she was punished for it. I hate hypocracy.
After Debbie and I told her parents she was pregnant, she had to go before the Elders of her congregation to decide her punishment for having "sinned against Jehovah". Her congregation was in Beacon, New York. As an "unbeliever", I had to wait in the parking lot while she was on trial for having loved me and giving herself to me. After about an hour, she returned, sat quietly in the car for a few minutes, and began to weep profusely. She was "disfellowed" for one year. This is the quivalent of being shunned. She could not participate in any Kingdom Hall activities, and none of her friends were allowed to speak to her. Technically, even her parents were supposed to shun her, but they did not go that far.
I demanded to know what happened. (work in progress; more to come)
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
32. A Man as an Island
I know I said I'd tell the story of how Debbie was punished for doing the right thing and marrying me. But I am so profoundly melancholic that I need to let it out.
I miss her so. I sit here in silence. I watch TV and have no one to discuss the show with. I miss her questions. I miss her comments. I miss her smile.
I watch the sun go down and it has no meaning; nay, it's meaning is much to clear. One more day since she died. One more day closer to my own demise. One more day of silence. It's unbearable. I had the partner of my life. She balanced me. Now I am Yin without Yang.
My life has lost all meaning. My life is no longer my own; it belongs to my boys. I am happy when they are happy. I am proud when they do well. But I am so empty inside. I feel nothing but despondency. Oh Lord, to smile, truly smile again. To feel joy from within. To achieve equilibrium.
I've cried so much and so often, I'm surprised my eyes haven't melted. I wish I could go with her. I love her so. Without her, I am dead already, inside. Sweet Jesus, why could it not have been me? Why her? I'm so alone...
I wish I had someone to console me. I wish I had someone to hold me, a shoulder to cry on. Someone who knew her and me as us. But I have no one. Everyone in my family thinks I'm a wimp. My sister in NJ, my mother, my cousins... My neighbors torture me daily. I'm at the bottom of a pit with no way out. Not good.
I miss her so. I sit here in silence. I watch TV and have no one to discuss the show with. I miss her questions. I miss her comments. I miss her smile.
I watch the sun go down and it has no meaning; nay, it's meaning is much to clear. One more day since she died. One more day closer to my own demise. One more day of silence. It's unbearable. I had the partner of my life. She balanced me. Now I am Yin without Yang.
My life has lost all meaning. My life is no longer my own; it belongs to my boys. I am happy when they are happy. I am proud when they do well. But I am so empty inside. I feel nothing but despondency. Oh Lord, to smile, truly smile again. To feel joy from within. To achieve equilibrium.
I've cried so much and so often, I'm surprised my eyes haven't melted. I wish I could go with her. I love her so. Without her, I am dead already, inside. Sweet Jesus, why could it not have been me? Why her? I'm so alone...
I wish I had someone to console me. I wish I had someone to hold me, a shoulder to cry on. Someone who knew her and me as us. But I have no one. Everyone in my family thinks I'm a wimp. My sister in NJ, my mother, my cousins... My neighbors torture me daily. I'm at the bottom of a pit with no way out. Not good.
Monday, November 3, 2008
31. The Day After...
It was obvious to me that the guy who tried to kill me was not going to be captured. So I turned my anger towards the NYPD. I wanted to sue them for their inaction. It was the early 90s, and the big thing was "Hate Crimes" and "Bias Attacks". I figured that with the proper support, I'd get justice, if not at least satisfaction. Boy, was I naive.
First I tried to follow up with the police. As stated in chapter 30, I was informed that I was not the victim of a bias attack because my attacker was black and I was Puerto Rican. I guess we all look alike. Nigger, spic, it's all the same to us whiteys.
So I called the Hate Crimes Hotline of New York State. They were going to help, until they found out it was a black guy who tried to kill me. Since blacks and PRs are the same thing, it was not a racial attack. So then I called Channel 9 News, thinking Help Me Howard or whatever could help. They were ready to send a camera crew to interview me and get my story on the air... until they found out a black guy did it. I was put on hold for 20 minutes. When they came back, I was told there was no room in the news segment for my story.
What about tomorrow?
We'll get back to you.
I did not hold my breath.
So then I thought, call Arnold Diaz of Channel 2. He's Latino; he's my pipples. He'll help! He talked to me for 20 minutes.
We'll get a camera crew down there! NYPD should have followed up. Describe your attacker. Oh, a black guy? Hold on...
You guessed it. It was only newsworthy if a WHITE guy attacked me. Black on black crime is not news. BUT I'M NOT BLACK!!! I'M PUERTO RICAN!!!
Okay. Let's try El Diario/La Prensa, the Spanish language daily paper. When I described how the cops let my attacker escape, and I could get no justice, the reporter said it was a travesty. NYPD should have investigated. They were going to put my story on the FRONT PAGE!
Describe your attacker... ohh... ¿fué un negro? Espera un minuto...
I knew what was coming. After being on hold for a while, I was informed that suddenly the editor realized that there was no room for any more columns in the paper, and they could not do my story. I asked, why were you interested until I told you a black guy tried to kill me? It wasn't about my attacker anymore. It was about NYPD doing NOTHING! He hemmed and hawed, and said it was a matter of physical space in the paper. Mierda de Toro. Bullshit.
So I figured I'd try the NAACP. I made sure to play up the lack of police involvement, and spoke with the women for 45 minutes, careful not to divulge the race of he who assaulted me. I tried to make it all about the cops. She contacted their legal department... they were going to help.
Describe your attacker.
Does it matter what he looked liked? The police let him escape and refused to investigate. That's what this is all about!
Yes sir, but we need to know the description of your attacker.
Okay, it was this big black guy...
Hold on please! Sorry, we can't help you.
Why, because it was a Negro who tried to kill me? You are the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. I am a Colored Person. ADVANCE ME!
Have you tried calling New York State, or a Spanish paper?
Now that's racist, lady!
Okay, out of options. One more try. The City Sun is a Harlem newspaper. I gave them a call. They were going to do my story. UNTIL...
Sir, we can't do a story on you being attacked by a black man.
Why not?
Because white people won't care. It's just not news.
At least HE was honest about it.
Victimized again and again. I lay there in pain, my head in bandages, my arms wrapped in gauze. In the words of my "good friend" Herbie Quiñones (Where are you, you dreadlock bastard?), I looked like a man who had been in a scuffle. Yeah, I had an argument with a Monte Carlo and lost.
My buzzer rings. It is my sweet angel of healing, Debbie. She came to treat my wounds. My Good Samaritan. It took over a month, but her ministrations, her love, nursed me back to health, with barely a scar.
This is why I cry for her every day. Yes, and I weep for myself. Who in this universe would love me as she did? I am garbage in most people's eyes. I am held to an impossible standard. I could be an "A" student, but as soon as I get an "A minus", I am a failure. Just ask Quantricia. Weeks and weeks of communication and I am a wonderful person. ONE FUCKING MISSTATEMENT, ONE ERROR IN JUDGEMENT, and I am a piece of shit forever. No pressure.
In Super Max prisons, there is a special form of solitary confinement for their most incorrigble inmates: NHC. No Human Contact. This is the punishment I endure. I pour my heart out to this chick, and no amount of crawling over broken glass will get me past my ill-advised comments. Pages and Pages of e-mails. Hours of talking. Destroyed forever by two little sentences. Man, I must really be garbage. I must have been a serial killer in an earlier life to warrant such punishment. Yeah I'll meet someone when the time is right. You know when that time will be? Why, when hell freezes over, of course. Or perhaps when swine become airborne. I'm a dead man writing...
Next post will be about Debbie and her Punishment for marrying me...
First I tried to follow up with the police. As stated in chapter 30, I was informed that I was not the victim of a bias attack because my attacker was black and I was Puerto Rican. I guess we all look alike. Nigger, spic, it's all the same to us whiteys.
So I called the Hate Crimes Hotline of New York State. They were going to help, until they found out it was a black guy who tried to kill me. Since blacks and PRs are the same thing, it was not a racial attack. So then I called Channel 9 News, thinking Help Me Howard or whatever could help. They were ready to send a camera crew to interview me and get my story on the air... until they found out a black guy did it. I was put on hold for 20 minutes. When they came back, I was told there was no room in the news segment for my story.
What about tomorrow?
We'll get back to you.
I did not hold my breath.
So then I thought, call Arnold Diaz of Channel 2. He's Latino; he's my pipples. He'll help! He talked to me for 20 minutes.
We'll get a camera crew down there! NYPD should have followed up. Describe your attacker. Oh, a black guy? Hold on...
You guessed it. It was only newsworthy if a WHITE guy attacked me. Black on black crime is not news. BUT I'M NOT BLACK!!! I'M PUERTO RICAN!!!
Okay. Let's try El Diario/La Prensa, the Spanish language daily paper. When I described how the cops let my attacker escape, and I could get no justice, the reporter said it was a travesty. NYPD should have investigated. They were going to put my story on the FRONT PAGE!
Describe your attacker... ohh... ¿fué un negro? Espera un minuto...
I knew what was coming. After being on hold for a while, I was informed that suddenly the editor realized that there was no room for any more columns in the paper, and they could not do my story. I asked, why were you interested until I told you a black guy tried to kill me? It wasn't about my attacker anymore. It was about NYPD doing NOTHING! He hemmed and hawed, and said it was a matter of physical space in the paper. Mierda de Toro. Bullshit.
So I figured I'd try the NAACP. I made sure to play up the lack of police involvement, and spoke with the women for 45 minutes, careful not to divulge the race of he who assaulted me. I tried to make it all about the cops. She contacted their legal department... they were going to help.
Describe your attacker.
Does it matter what he looked liked? The police let him escape and refused to investigate. That's what this is all about!
Yes sir, but we need to know the description of your attacker.
Okay, it was this big black guy...
Hold on please! Sorry, we can't help you.
Why, because it was a Negro who tried to kill me? You are the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. I am a Colored Person. ADVANCE ME!
Have you tried calling New York State, or a Spanish paper?
Now that's racist, lady!
Okay, out of options. One more try. The City Sun is a Harlem newspaper. I gave them a call. They were going to do my story. UNTIL...
Sir, we can't do a story on you being attacked by a black man.
Why not?
Because white people won't care. It's just not news.
At least HE was honest about it.
Victimized again and again. I lay there in pain, my head in bandages, my arms wrapped in gauze. In the words of my "good friend" Herbie Quiñones (Where are you, you dreadlock bastard?), I looked like a man who had been in a scuffle. Yeah, I had an argument with a Monte Carlo and lost.
My buzzer rings. It is my sweet angel of healing, Debbie. She came to treat my wounds. My Good Samaritan. It took over a month, but her ministrations, her love, nursed me back to health, with barely a scar.
This is why I cry for her every day. Yes, and I weep for myself. Who in this universe would love me as she did? I am garbage in most people's eyes. I am held to an impossible standard. I could be an "A" student, but as soon as I get an "A minus", I am a failure. Just ask Quantricia. Weeks and weeks of communication and I am a wonderful person. ONE FUCKING MISSTATEMENT, ONE ERROR IN JUDGEMENT, and I am a piece of shit forever. No pressure.
In Super Max prisons, there is a special form of solitary confinement for their most incorrigble inmates: NHC. No Human Contact. This is the punishment I endure. I pour my heart out to this chick, and no amount of crawling over broken glass will get me past my ill-advised comments. Pages and Pages of e-mails. Hours of talking. Destroyed forever by two little sentences. Man, I must really be garbage. I must have been a serial killer in an earlier life to warrant such punishment. Yeah I'll meet someone when the time is right. You know when that time will be? Why, when hell freezes over, of course. Or perhaps when swine become airborne. I'm a dead man writing...
Next post will be about Debbie and her Punishment for marrying me...
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
30. The Day I was Almost Murdered
Some of you have asked me to post some memories about freshman year at Syracuse University. As amazing as my memory may seem to some of you, there are gaps. You see, in 1990 (or was 1991, or 1992?) a black man thought I had stolen his car stereo. He tried to kill me by running me over with his car. Who nursed me back to health? My dear Debbie.
Aww, anybody insulted because I said a black guy tried to kill me? TUFF SHIT! That fucking nigger was more racist than me, because he ran over the first SPIC he saw on a bike. This is gonna be raw folks, so if you have a weak stomach or are overly sensitive about racial issues, go smoke some pot or something (and save me some!). This is the first time I almost died, and I am a little touchy about it.
It was shortly after the Puerto Rican Day parade. It was a lovely summer day. Freelancing is a feast or famine business. I can have two solid weeks of work, then three weeks of nothing. During those gaps, I would hop on my bike and do some long-distance cycling. I love bike riding. That day, I left my apartment in SoHo, crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge, and rode through Brooklyn until I reached Atlantic Avenue. I figure I'd go see my friend Herbie Quiñones at his job out in Jamaica Queens. I had some time to kill (ironic), so I rode around for a while; I think it was Sunset Blvd., I'm not really sure. I had my Puerto Rican Flag attached to my bike, proclaiming my racial pride and heritage. I remember being WAY out in Queens; 190th, 225th Street, something like that. I passed the parking lot of what I learned later was a Mental hospital (don't remember the name), which explains a lot. I remember seeing another Hispanic guy on a bike, cruising around the lot. I thought nothing of it. As I rode leisurely up the boulevard, I saw that Latino guy pass me. Again, big deal. There was hardly a car on the road. I heard an engine noise, and I saw a white Monte Carlo coming up behind me. I moved to the right to give him plenty of room to pass. Next thing I know, this car is almost on top of me! That negro maricón hijo de la gran PUTA was pushing me ever closer to the cars parked on my right! I start to yell "YO! WHAT THE FUCK..." BOOM!!! That motherfucker swings his car hard to the right. I start bouncing between his car and the cars to the right. I hit the asphalt, and see nothing but hubcaps as I slide on the street for about 5 or 6 car lengths. I can FEEL that son of a bitch's tires barely miss my skull. I skid to a stop. My whole left side is fucked up. I picked up my head, and saw blood pouring from my left temple like water from a faucet. For some reason, I looked at my watch, which was spattered with my blood. It was a Timex watch. And yes, it was still working. I remember saying, WOW! Takes a licking, and keeps on ticking!
While I lay there in a pool of blood, a white man who was walking his dog across the street runs over and holds my head. "Don't move! I called an ambulance!" Meanwhile, that fucking moyeto parks his car way up the block so I can't see his license plate. He and his fat black piece of shit baby momma get out the car and stroll over as I bleed profusely.
Where's my car stereo!
What the fuck are you talking about? You fucking killed me!
They told me a Puerto Rican on a bike broke into my car and stole my stereo! Where is it?!
He leans over and grabs my bloody bag to search it. I am spitting blood as I let loose a tirade that would make a klansman proud.
You black nigger piece of shit! I don't have your fucking stereo! You run over the first spic on a bike you see!? FUCK YOU!
I remember his girlfriend standing there. Black as coal with blond hair. That fat cunt must've weighed 300 pounds. And this fucking jungle bunny, still dressed in jailhouse orange sweat shirt and pants, still trying to go through my blood-soaked shoulder bag. With my last ounce of strength I snatched it back. This tusa was not going to search me!
Dayquan and Takwonka or whatever their ghettos names were stroll back to their car and make a hard U-turn just as a cop car pulls up. I had just been the victim of black racism. I am now about to become the victim of white NYPD racism.
The cops alight from their vehicle. I scream and point at the car going the opposite way. "There he goes! That's the motherfucker who tried to kill me!" What do these fat donut-eating white piece of crap coppers do? NOTHING! NADA! ZILCH! They start jawing with each other in that cop accent.
Whaddaya wanna do Joey?
Ahh let's wait for the paramedics and let them handle it.
Wait! the guy who hit me went that way! Go get him!
The cops ignore me.
C'mon! You cant miss him! Look for a white car with scratches and my blood on the right side! He was big fat black guy dressed head to toe in orange! His girlfriend is this big fat football-shaped woman, black as shit with blond hair! We don't need Columbo here to find them!
Ignored again. I now spew venom at the cops.
You motherfucking honkeys! If I was some little white girl, you guys would be stopping every nigger on the street, whether he fit the description or not!
The paramedics arrive. They start to clean my wounds and bandage me up. I'm feeling faint.
Should we take him to the hospital?
Naah, he's okay.
But I want to go!
You'll be alright.
I'm stranded in Queens. The victim of a racially motivated attack. Damn near killed. To add insult to traumatic injury, someone stole my bloody bike!
Oh, but wait! There's more! I must tell you the victimization had not yet ended! When I tried to report it as a racially motivated attack, the police said it was not, because I was hispanic and the attacker was black! Then they "lost" the police report! I was told:
You were not the victim of a racially motivated attack.
Why not?
Because you fit the description.
A PUERTO RICAN ON A BIKE IS NOT A DESCRIPTION!
I need a break now, but I will report how I was further victimized by NYPD, New York State, Channel 9 news, Arnold Diaz of Channel 2 News, El Diario/La Prensa, the NAACP, and the City Sun newspaper.
And don't be insulted by my epithets. What happened was what happened. YOU get run over by a car, and let's see you sing the Ave Maria!
More to come...
Aww, anybody insulted because I said a black guy tried to kill me? TUFF SHIT! That fucking nigger was more racist than me, because he ran over the first SPIC he saw on a bike. This is gonna be raw folks, so if you have a weak stomach or are overly sensitive about racial issues, go smoke some pot or something (and save me some!). This is the first time I almost died, and I am a little touchy about it.
It was shortly after the Puerto Rican Day parade. It was a lovely summer day. Freelancing is a feast or famine business. I can have two solid weeks of work, then three weeks of nothing. During those gaps, I would hop on my bike and do some long-distance cycling. I love bike riding. That day, I left my apartment in SoHo, crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge, and rode through Brooklyn until I reached Atlantic Avenue. I figure I'd go see my friend Herbie Quiñones at his job out in Jamaica Queens. I had some time to kill (ironic), so I rode around for a while; I think it was Sunset Blvd., I'm not really sure. I had my Puerto Rican Flag attached to my bike, proclaiming my racial pride and heritage. I remember being WAY out in Queens; 190th, 225th Street, something like that. I passed the parking lot of what I learned later was a Mental hospital (don't remember the name), which explains a lot. I remember seeing another Hispanic guy on a bike, cruising around the lot. I thought nothing of it. As I rode leisurely up the boulevard, I saw that Latino guy pass me. Again, big deal. There was hardly a car on the road. I heard an engine noise, and I saw a white Monte Carlo coming up behind me. I moved to the right to give him plenty of room to pass. Next thing I know, this car is almost on top of me! That negro maricón hijo de la gran PUTA was pushing me ever closer to the cars parked on my right! I start to yell "YO! WHAT THE FUCK..." BOOM!!! That motherfucker swings his car hard to the right. I start bouncing between his car and the cars to the right. I hit the asphalt, and see nothing but hubcaps as I slide on the street for about 5 or 6 car lengths. I can FEEL that son of a bitch's tires barely miss my skull. I skid to a stop. My whole left side is fucked up. I picked up my head, and saw blood pouring from my left temple like water from a faucet. For some reason, I looked at my watch, which was spattered with my blood. It was a Timex watch. And yes, it was still working. I remember saying, WOW! Takes a licking, and keeps on ticking!
While I lay there in a pool of blood, a white man who was walking his dog across the street runs over and holds my head. "Don't move! I called an ambulance!" Meanwhile, that fucking moyeto parks his car way up the block so I can't see his license plate. He and his fat black piece of shit baby momma get out the car and stroll over as I bleed profusely.
Where's my car stereo!
What the fuck are you talking about? You fucking killed me!
They told me a Puerto Rican on a bike broke into my car and stole my stereo! Where is it?!
He leans over and grabs my bloody bag to search it. I am spitting blood as I let loose a tirade that would make a klansman proud.
You black nigger piece of shit! I don't have your fucking stereo! You run over the first spic on a bike you see!? FUCK YOU!
I remember his girlfriend standing there. Black as coal with blond hair. That fat cunt must've weighed 300 pounds. And this fucking jungle bunny, still dressed in jailhouse orange sweat shirt and pants, still trying to go through my blood-soaked shoulder bag. With my last ounce of strength I snatched it back. This tusa was not going to search me!
Dayquan and Takwonka or whatever their ghettos names were stroll back to their car and make a hard U-turn just as a cop car pulls up. I had just been the victim of black racism. I am now about to become the victim of white NYPD racism.
The cops alight from their vehicle. I scream and point at the car going the opposite way. "There he goes! That's the motherfucker who tried to kill me!" What do these fat donut-eating white piece of crap coppers do? NOTHING! NADA! ZILCH! They start jawing with each other in that cop accent.
Whaddaya wanna do Joey?
Ahh let's wait for the paramedics and let them handle it.
Wait! the guy who hit me went that way! Go get him!
The cops ignore me.
C'mon! You cant miss him! Look for a white car with scratches and my blood on the right side! He was big fat black guy dressed head to toe in orange! His girlfriend is this big fat football-shaped woman, black as shit with blond hair! We don't need Columbo here to find them!
Ignored again. I now spew venom at the cops.
You motherfucking honkeys! If I was some little white girl, you guys would be stopping every nigger on the street, whether he fit the description or not!
The paramedics arrive. They start to clean my wounds and bandage me up. I'm feeling faint.
Should we take him to the hospital?
Naah, he's okay.
But I want to go!
You'll be alright.
I'm stranded in Queens. The victim of a racially motivated attack. Damn near killed. To add insult to traumatic injury, someone stole my bloody bike!
Oh, but wait! There's more! I must tell you the victimization had not yet ended! When I tried to report it as a racially motivated attack, the police said it was not, because I was hispanic and the attacker was black! Then they "lost" the police report! I was told:
You were not the victim of a racially motivated attack.
Why not?
Because you fit the description.
A PUERTO RICAN ON A BIKE IS NOT A DESCRIPTION!
I need a break now, but I will report how I was further victimized by NYPD, New York State, Channel 9 news, Arnold Diaz of Channel 2 News, El Diario/La Prensa, the NAACP, and the City Sun newspaper.
And don't be insulted by my epithets. What happened was what happened. YOU get run over by a car, and let's see you sing the Ave Maria!
More to come...
Monday, October 27, 2008
29. Feedback & Backlash
You can please some of the people all of the time. You can please all of the people some of the time. But you can't please all of the people all of the time.
"P" wrote:
Your writing skills are amazing. I am looking forward to more installments of your blog.
"J" wrote:
Wow! Powerful stuff! Sad...tragic...but well-written and very powerful! I hope it helps you to heal.
"C" wrote:
We are reading - rest assured of that! I have to say that this is a great story man - keep them coming.
And then there's "K":
HEY CHICO,
IF YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY POSITIVE THAN SAY NOTHING AT ALL..... WE ARE NOT YOUR PUNCHING BAGS, FOR YOU TO INSULT, AND THIS HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH FRIENDSHIP OR SADNESS. YOU JUST CAN'T SAY WHAT YOU LIKE AND GET AWAY WITH IT. THIS IS NOT FUNNY, AND I FIND NO HUMOR IN WHAT YOU HAVE WRITTEN. SO PLEASE TAKE ME OFF YOUR LIST OF PEOPLE THAT YOU DAILY INSULT.....!!!!!
Let me crack my knuckles before I begin. There. Here we go.
As long as I don't yell "FIRE" in a crowded theater, as long as I do not slander or falsely defame anyone, the United States Constitution guarantees me the right of FREE SPEECH, which means I CAN say what I like and get away with it. This is not North Korea. No storm troopers will pay a midnight visit to my home to spirit me away, never to be seen again. This modern-day censorship is a load of BULLSHIT! We never would have had comic philosophical geniuses and songwriters like George Carlin, Richard Pryor, and Bob Marley if "K's" attitude had been allowed to prevail.
Secondly, I challenge anyone to find these "daily insults" of which "K" speaks. Read the blog. Read the posts. What the FUCK are you talking about, K? Was it the Tramp Stamp comment? If you have one, K, I bet it looks sexy. I have the right to dislike them and say so. I think women need to get of the hypocrite high horse and face facts. You can't sex it up and not expect some guys to be crass and lecherous; if you do, you are deluded. I'm not saying women need to wear bhurkas. But if a woman displays herself like a piece of meat, she should not be upset when someone tries to take a bite. :-p YOU CAN'T ENCOURAGE ME TO WRITE WHAT I FEEL, THEN TRY TO CENSOR ME!
And, in the words of Tonto: What do you mean "WE", white man? K is the only person who gives me negative shit about what I write. Why? I still ain't ready to shit flowers and fart lollipops babe! Just read the fucking blog AND GET OFF MY CASE! I HAVE ENOUGH PEOPLE SHITTING ON ME IN MY LIFE, AND I DON'T NEED THIS FROM SOMEONE WHO IS SUPPOSED TO BE MY FRIEND! Are you the kind of person who would sit through a movie and walk out in the middle because ONE SCENE offended her?
I was born and raised in an Italian neighborhood. There were no black people here as I was growing up. I was the darkest kid in my entire school. For every one time I was called "Spic", I was called "NIGGER" ten times. I'll bet I was called NIGGER in anger more times than ANY of the African Americans who read this. I was beaten up almost every day, sometimes thrice a day; going to school, at lunch, and coming home. Those fucking WOPS would even beat me up on my way to church on Sundays! I had even been shot at with BB pistols and pellet guns. And what would they yell when the whole gang of them came after me? Not "Get the Spic!" They'd yell "GET THE NIGGER!" I hate that fucking word, and until people of slave descendancy stop calling each other by that name, I will use it to!
I heard all the nigger jokes:
"Hey, Norberto, what did God say when he made you? OOOPS! Burned another one!"
"Hey, Norberto, why do all niggers call each other brother? Because they all have the same father!"
"Hey, Norberto! At least I have a father, not five suspects!"
I remember when "West Side Story" came on TV for the first time. I was in the 3rd grade. My parents watched the movie while I played with my Hot Wheels cars. The next morning, I was walking to St. Anthony's School when about nine guineas walked up to me, snapping their fingers:
Snap, snap, snap, snap!
What's going on?
You didn't shee da moobie lasht night? (Guinea-speak)
No, I was playing with my Hot Wheels like a normal 3rd-grader!
Well, get dish: WEEEEE are da Jets! And YOOOOO are da Shark!
The Jets were the Italian gang, and the Sharks were the Puerto Rican gang. Since I was the only dark-skinned spic who displayed ANY type of racial pride in the neighborhood, they proceeded to beat the shit out of me, and these daily fights continued until I went to high school.
So please, K, lighten up! Read Down These Mean Streets by Piri Thomas. Things could be worse. YOU COULD BE ME! A miserable wretch of a human being who has not recovered from a terrible tragedy. I know, but maybe you are stronger than me, maybe you are a better man than I am.
For the rest of you who LIKE what I write, more posts to come!
Sunday, October 26, 2008
28. Anatomy of a Disaster — VOLUME 2
Quite a conundrum. I realize how badly I fucked up (re: Anatomy Part 1). After having spoken with several women for a female point of view, I see that I crossed a line that never should have even been approached. Of course, some of the guys have been more forgiving: "Ahhh, tell her to lighten up and get over it!" was one thing said to me. But the ladies have been far more critical, far more chastising, far more shocked that I would make such a comment as what was said.
I would like to tell (discreetly; I want to protect the woman's identity) what happened; if I am going to be a writer, I have to tell the story that needs to be told, no matter how painful it can be to me. Isn't that what this blog is about? Yet my screw-up was so abominable, if I describe what happened, I am afraid that some of you who know me might lose respect for me, and that would devastate me. I can make no excuse. I can say that having Clinical Depression, as well as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, combined with my inability to get refills for my antidepressants, have left my judgment somewhat... impaired. But to some, that still is no excuse for doing what I did.
Fuck it. I will tell the story. But let me preface it. First of all, if I lose your respect, then you were never my friend in the first place. Secondly, if you are my friend and truly know me, then you know I meant know harm in any way, even if I did screw up majestically. I learned my lesson. Thirdly, before you say "What were you thinking?", remember one thing: HELLLOOOOO! CLINICALLY DEPRESSED WITH PTSD OVER HERE! CHEMICAL BRAIN IMBALANCE REQUIRING TREATMENT AND MEDICA-TION! JUDGMENT AND MEMORY NOT AT OPTIMAL LEVELS! DIFFICULTY THINKING CLEARLY, AND CONDITION HAS EXISTED FOR 10 MO-ONTHS! HELLLOOOOO!
My preface continues. You must understand the context and environment I live in and am exposed to here in New York City, and SoHo/Greenwich Village/TriBeCa in particular. Now, here in the city, many parents dress their little girls most inappropriately. They style their little cherubim after Sex & The City and Bratz Dolls. The term "Prosti-Tot" was not invented by me. Nor was the term "Tramp Stamp", describing the lower-back tattoo many women and young girls get these days. While sexually alluring, I find that particular form of body art unappealing and somewhat disgusting; if you have one and get lewd comments, you get what you ask for. That is my humble opinion. Everywhere, tattoo parlors have signs in the window: Tramp Stamps, $100. The women call them Tramp Stamps. Now, if a mother pays for her 8-year-old to have a Henna version of the Tramp Stamp, who is the freak, me or she? When the little girls run around the playground, and both parent and child laughingly call the string of dolphins above the little girl's ass crack and low-riding pants and below her bippy shirt "my new Tramp Stamp!", who has impaired judgment, me for saying what I said, or the parent for dressing her most precious child as a little slut? I'll send ya pictures folks. I'm not making this up!
OK, here we go. Bungee jumping with dental floss.
The lady responded to my request for assistance by contracting me to modify photos of her daughter and create some materials using them. I will describe the project no further to protect her identity. For purposes of this narrative, I shall call the mother Quantricia, and the daughterrrrrr... Shinaytray.
I shall continue.
Quantricia and I had been speaking and e-mailing for 3 months, and I thought she was used to my warped, acerbic sense of humor. But I forget, SoHo, NY, is a planet unto itself, and I was dealing with someone from the Bible Belt (that Belt needs a new buckle!). She had sent me a photo of Shinaytray on a couch, her hair was a bit unkempt, and her clothing (I thought) looked a bit dissheveled. Quantricia asked if I could remove the background and make some other modifications. I responded thusly:
I am the Lizard King! I can do ANYTHING! I can remove the background, but it would take a great deal of work, maybe an hour or two. The other photo is better; it looks more "professionally" shot. Also, the loose shoulder strap makes her look a bit "slutty" (I mean that in a nice way; I hope she doesn't have a "tramp stamp" tattoo!).
The other shot has her hair nicely coiffed, the lighting and background are just right. Let's stick with that one.
DON'T SAY IT! JUST DON'T! NO MORE SALT IN THE WOUNDS! I WAS ALREADY BEATING MYSELF UP OVER DEBBIE'S DEATH, AND THIS JUST TURNED MY WHIP INTO A CAT O'NINE TAILS! SO JUST DON'T SAY IT!
Well, as you can imagine, the e-mail I got back was so corrosive, my hard drive melted! (The phone call made my cell burst into flames!)
Take note: IT IS NEVER OK TO REFER TO THE STRAPS ON A FUCKING SUN DRESS OF A NINE YEAR OLD INNOCENT GIRL AS "A BIT SLUTTY". EVER! And I'm really holding back on the "tramp stamp" tattoo. Not cool, Nori. Not even close. I'm so mad I could spit right now.
I was profuse in my apologies. I had begged for forgiveness. All to no avail. I would say it went downhill from here, but it was more like, over the precipice!
I e-mailed Quantricia many letters, including this one:
Is there no way for me to regain your respect? Is there no way for me to convince you that I am a good person, a dedicated father, a devoted family man? Is there no way for me to be admired by you once again? Is there no way I can tell you that I am a human being, with all the flaws and foibles of a human being? Is there no way I can get you to see that I made a mistake, that I misspoke, that I meant no harm? Is there no way I can persuade you to not think ill of me? Is there no way I can show you that I am not a disgusting pervert? Have you never done anything you deeply regretted, something you wished you could take back, something you could undo? Have you never felt remorse over hurting someone who meant something to you, especially when you did not mean to cause pain to that person? Have you never felt the pain of knowing you screwed up badly, and could find no way to make it right?
Is there nothing I can do?
Quantricia's response:
Yes, I've done and said things that I regret. I learned from them and moved on, but never did I expect for things to commence as they did before the blunder. Nor should you.
I may be 23 years out of the game, but that sure as hell sounds like "I never want to hear from you again, you sick fucking bastard!" to me...
I see.
As you wish. I hang my head low in shame as I leave your life. Thank you for the moments of joy you have brought me. Thank you for the times you made me feel better about myself. Thank you for your smiles and laughter. Thank you for the times you made me smile and laugh.
I will contact you no more, if that is your wish. But if you need me, I will be here for you.
Adiós, mi amor.
Wowzers. All that time, all that caring, all that... gone. Poof. In an instant. I cared about her. I thought she cared about me. If nothing else, I loved talking to her. I had no one else, and she made me feel less alone. I am a man stranded on a desert isle, alone Robinson Crusoe style. But I had a radio, and it worked. And she answered. For a while, I knew someone else was out there, and I was not alone. Then I had to go and smash the radio with a coconut. She made me feel good about myself, even happy at times. She seemed so nice and warm and caring. And she was so beautiful. I even allowed myself to dream and explore the possibilities. Kaput.
So now, properly whipped and chastised, I, El Perro Arrepentido (The Repentant Dog), tuck my tail between my legs, hang my snout low, and crawl back into my filthy hole, to emerge again I know not when. This episode took a great deal of energy out of me, and my fear and dread of messing up and being rejected came to pass. I just wanted someone to want me. I got back on the horse and was trampled beneath it's hooves. I'm afraid to even go near a merry-go-round now.
I have more heart-wrenching stories about Debbie to tell. Perhaps those will cheer me up.
I would like to tell (discreetly; I want to protect the woman's identity) what happened; if I am going to be a writer, I have to tell the story that needs to be told, no matter how painful it can be to me. Isn't that what this blog is about? Yet my screw-up was so abominable, if I describe what happened, I am afraid that some of you who know me might lose respect for me, and that would devastate me. I can make no excuse. I can say that having Clinical Depression, as well as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, combined with my inability to get refills for my antidepressants, have left my judgment somewhat... impaired. But to some, that still is no excuse for doing what I did.
Fuck it. I will tell the story. But let me preface it. First of all, if I lose your respect, then you were never my friend in the first place. Secondly, if you are my friend and truly know me, then you know I meant know harm in any way, even if I did screw up majestically. I learned my lesson. Thirdly, before you say "What were you thinking?", remember one thing: HELLLOOOOO! CLINICALLY DEPRESSED WITH PTSD OVER HERE! CHEMICAL BRAIN IMBALANCE REQUIRING TREATMENT AND MEDICA-TION! JUDGMENT AND MEMORY NOT AT OPTIMAL LEVELS! DIFFICULTY THINKING CLEARLY, AND CONDITION HAS EXISTED FOR 10 MO-ONTHS! HELLLOOOOO!
My preface continues. You must understand the context and environment I live in and am exposed to here in New York City, and SoHo/Greenwich Village/TriBeCa in particular. Now, here in the city, many parents dress their little girls most inappropriately. They style their little cherubim after Sex & The City and Bratz Dolls. The term "Prosti-Tot" was not invented by me. Nor was the term "Tramp Stamp", describing the lower-back tattoo many women and young girls get these days. While sexually alluring, I find that particular form of body art unappealing and somewhat disgusting; if you have one and get lewd comments, you get what you ask for. That is my humble opinion. Everywhere, tattoo parlors have signs in the window: Tramp Stamps, $100. The women call them Tramp Stamps. Now, if a mother pays for her 8-year-old to have a Henna version of the Tramp Stamp, who is the freak, me or she? When the little girls run around the playground, and both parent and child laughingly call the string of dolphins above the little girl's ass crack and low-riding pants and below her bippy shirt "my new Tramp Stamp!", who has impaired judgment, me for saying what I said, or the parent for dressing her most precious child as a little slut? I'll send ya pictures folks. I'm not making this up!
OK, here we go. Bungee jumping with dental floss.
The lady responded to my request for assistance by contracting me to modify photos of her daughter and create some materials using them. I will describe the project no further to protect her identity. For purposes of this narrative, I shall call the mother Quantricia, and the daughterrrrrr... Shinaytray.
I shall continue.
Quantricia and I had been speaking and e-mailing for 3 months, and I thought she was used to my warped, acerbic sense of humor. But I forget, SoHo, NY, is a planet unto itself, and I was dealing with someone from the Bible Belt (that Belt needs a new buckle!). She had sent me a photo of Shinaytray on a couch, her hair was a bit unkempt, and her clothing (I thought) looked a bit dissheveled. Quantricia asked if I could remove the background and make some other modifications. I responded thusly:
I am the Lizard King! I can do ANYTHING! I can remove the background, but it would take a great deal of work, maybe an hour or two. The other photo is better; it looks more "professionally" shot. Also, the loose shoulder strap makes her look a bit "slutty" (I mean that in a nice way; I hope she doesn't have a "tramp stamp" tattoo!).
The other shot has her hair nicely coiffed, the lighting and background are just right. Let's stick with that one.
DON'T SAY IT! JUST DON'T! NO MORE SALT IN THE WOUNDS! I WAS ALREADY BEATING MYSELF UP OVER DEBBIE'S DEATH, AND THIS JUST TURNED MY WHIP INTO A CAT O'NINE TAILS! SO JUST DON'T SAY IT!
Well, as you can imagine, the e-mail I got back was so corrosive, my hard drive melted! (The phone call made my cell burst into flames!)
Take note: IT IS NEVER OK TO REFER TO THE STRAPS ON A FUCKING SUN DRESS OF A NINE YEAR OLD INNOCENT GIRL AS "A BIT SLUTTY". EVER! And I'm really holding back on the "tramp stamp" tattoo. Not cool, Nori. Not even close. I'm so mad I could spit right now.
I was profuse in my apologies. I had begged for forgiveness. All to no avail. I would say it went downhill from here, but it was more like, over the precipice!
I e-mailed Quantricia many letters, including this one:
Is there no way for me to regain your respect? Is there no way for me to convince you that I am a good person, a dedicated father, a devoted family man? Is there no way for me to be admired by you once again? Is there no way I can tell you that I am a human being, with all the flaws and foibles of a human being? Is there no way I can get you to see that I made a mistake, that I misspoke, that I meant no harm? Is there no way I can persuade you to not think ill of me? Is there no way I can show you that I am not a disgusting pervert? Have you never done anything you deeply regretted, something you wished you could take back, something you could undo? Have you never felt remorse over hurting someone who meant something to you, especially when you did not mean to cause pain to that person? Have you never felt the pain of knowing you screwed up badly, and could find no way to make it right?
Is there nothing I can do?
Quantricia's response:
Yes, I've done and said things that I regret. I learned from them and moved on, but never did I expect for things to commence as they did before the blunder. Nor should you.
I may be 23 years out of the game, but that sure as hell sounds like "I never want to hear from you again, you sick fucking bastard!" to me...
I see.
As you wish. I hang my head low in shame as I leave your life. Thank you for the moments of joy you have brought me. Thank you for the times you made me feel better about myself. Thank you for your smiles and laughter. Thank you for the times you made me smile and laugh.
I will contact you no more, if that is your wish. But if you need me, I will be here for you.
Adiós, mi amor.
Wowzers. All that time, all that caring, all that... gone. Poof. In an instant. I cared about her. I thought she cared about me. If nothing else, I loved talking to her. I had no one else, and she made me feel less alone. I am a man stranded on a desert isle, alone Robinson Crusoe style. But I had a radio, and it worked. And she answered. For a while, I knew someone else was out there, and I was not alone. Then I had to go and smash the radio with a coconut. She made me feel good about myself, even happy at times. She seemed so nice and warm and caring. And she was so beautiful. I even allowed myself to dream and explore the possibilities. Kaput.
So now, properly whipped and chastised, I, El Perro Arrepentido (The Repentant Dog), tuck my tail between my legs, hang my snout low, and crawl back into my filthy hole, to emerge again I know not when. This episode took a great deal of energy out of me, and my fear and dread of messing up and being rejected came to pass. I just wanted someone to want me. I got back on the horse and was trampled beneath it's hooves. I'm afraid to even go near a merry-go-round now.
I have more heart-wrenching stories about Debbie to tell. Perhaps those will cheer me up.
Friday, October 24, 2008
27. Anatomy of a Disaster, Part 1 (Redux)
I step out of the chronological postings that were leading up to the present day in order to share with you the details of my recent and first attempt at romance that ended in a fiasco. I will try not divulge any clues that could betray the identity of the woman involved, but I have to write this in order to figure out WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED!?!?! So the next few posts will deal with this issue, while I try to sort all this out.
I fucked up ROYALLY! We are talking Great Pharaoh Ramses II royally. I mean Genghis Khan royally. The Queen of Sheba, Charlemagne, Montezuma, Alfred the Great, Shaka Zulu, Princess Diana, and Solomon himself were PEASANT BUMPKINS compared to the way I royally fucked this up. Please help me do the CSI on this thing so I can figure out how I destroyed something nice (first Debbie, now this; damn, I gotta get those antidepressants somehow! I wanna walk in front of a bus!). 22 years going on 23, out of practice. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing.
Let us examine the crime scene...
10/10/08 5:15 PM
Some of you have told me that if I had nothing positive to write, to write nothing at all. To those people, whom I love and respect dearly and deeply, I mean the following in the nicest way possible: fuck you. I will write what I am feeling, and if you can't handle it, don't read it. When I'm shitting flowers and farting lollipops, I'll let ya know.
Not to go into much detail, but my first foray into post-Debbie attempted "romance" has failed miserably. Oh, she's nice and sweet and caring and supporting, and she thinks I am brilliant and witty and funny and dedicated and all that other bullshit, but she just wants to be friends (gag). Hey, when I got 3 unsolicited photos, and she said she'd come visit me (she lives in another state), somehow in my idiocy I got it in my foolish cranium that she might be attracted to me somewhat. Way off base. I guess I could always use another friend. God knows I don't need any more enemies! But I allowed myself to develop feelings for her, and that was a stupid thing to do. Of course I will respect her wishes. I can't fault her for my not being able to control my emotions. Hey, I miss intimacy, I miss cuddling, I miss sex A LOT! But that's no excuse for acting like a love-struck fourteen-year-old. As with most delusions, it was kinda nice to think that someone might actually be into me, even if only for a little while. Que será será. It's really gonna suck going through the rest of this existence in solitude.
Amazing. Karma is a funny thing. Sooner or later, it'll getcha, and bad karma usually comes back before good karma. I broke my share of hearts back in SU. I guess it's payback time. I can't believe I had any girlfriends back then. I know brick piles that have a better rap than I do; I don't even know how to approach a woman, much less talk to one. And reading women's signals? I'm a blind man in a library. No braille.
Nope, not in a happy place yet. I guess I was quite the pendejo for even fantasizing that something might come of this interaction between me and this woman. When you haven't flown in years, and your first solo flight ends in a crash landing, it's difficult to have the confidence and courage to get in the air again. I'm too sensitive, too fragile. I AM. And scared. It took a great deal out of me to even realize that I was developing... sentiments for this woman. And she's not being a tease or anything like that. She's really very nice and just being honest. The fault is mine. I have to be more realistic and realize I have nothing to offer. Oh, yeah, smart witty funny devoted loving sensitive caring and $2.00 gets me on the subway. It seems to me that those qualities are admired, but not desired.
The boys are doing well. Their father is a mess. I'm getting through the day, but the days really have little meaning for me. What good is having positive qualities if you have no one to share them with? At least Narcissus had a mirror.
I hear the sounds of silence so clearly. Every hiss of leaves swaying in the wind, every whirr of rubber tires on asphalt, every chirp, bark, meow and cry of every bird, dog, cat and baby resonates so clearly and deeply, like a lead crystal wine glass being struck with a tuning fork. I can even see the sounds of silence. Every movement, every shadow, every bird's wingbeat seems like time-lapse photography. My emotions well up and overflow like lava from a volcano. I have little control. Every beautiful woman who walks by captures my gaze, and I force myself to look away from her gorgeous cleavage, her lovely legs, her sexy tattoo. I look at feet and sidewalk a lot, and tell myself "Not for you, pal! She wouldn't want you anyway." I have to steel myself for the inevitable rejection, so that it won't hurt so much. That was what I did before Debbie. Now, here we go again. This blows. I won't even try so that that way I do not fail. I was the guy who would struggle all the way across the dance floor, only to be rejected in front of the entire club, then have to dance back across the floor and find a dark corner to hide in, because now that the chick gave me the mark of the Loser, no other girl in the place will give ya the time of year. It would be nice to be desired by someone, to know that someone found me attractive. Keep dreaming.
I remember in Hunter College, every girl I tried to become "involved" with became my friend. They'd say to me, "What wonderful qualities you have! You're going to make some girl very happy one day." "So why can't I make YOU happy?" "Oh you're not my type." Talk about getting your testicles stomped with spiked shoes! I'm so wonderful but I'm not you're fucking type!?!?!?! What is your type, child-molesting, drug-dealing, car-stealing serial rapists? WHAT THE FUCK???
Heavy sigh.
P.S.
Nobody give me any shit about creating negativity or anything like that. These are my feelings and I can't keep them to myself. Even if I am wrong about something (doubt it, though), I need this catharsis.
Like the first tiny crack in a dam's facade, this is only the beginning of what will eventually end up as a catastrophe. Stay tuned for the next episode! Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel!
I fucked up ROYALLY! We are talking Great Pharaoh Ramses II royally. I mean Genghis Khan royally. The Queen of Sheba, Charlemagne, Montezuma, Alfred the Great, Shaka Zulu, Princess Diana, and Solomon himself were PEASANT BUMPKINS compared to the way I royally fucked this up. Please help me do the CSI on this thing so I can figure out how I destroyed something nice (first Debbie, now this; damn, I gotta get those antidepressants somehow! I wanna walk in front of a bus!). 22 years going on 23, out of practice. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing.
Let us examine the crime scene...
10/10/08 5:15 PM
Some of you have told me that if I had nothing positive to write, to write nothing at all. To those people, whom I love and respect dearly and deeply, I mean the following in the nicest way possible: fuck you. I will write what I am feeling, and if you can't handle it, don't read it. When I'm shitting flowers and farting lollipops, I'll let ya know.
Not to go into much detail, but my first foray into post-Debbie attempted "romance" has failed miserably. Oh, she's nice and sweet and caring and supporting, and she thinks I am brilliant and witty and funny and dedicated and all that other bullshit, but she just wants to be friends (gag). Hey, when I got 3 unsolicited photos, and she said she'd come visit me (she lives in another state), somehow in my idiocy I got it in my foolish cranium that she might be attracted to me somewhat. Way off base. I guess I could always use another friend. God knows I don't need any more enemies! But I allowed myself to develop feelings for her, and that was a stupid thing to do. Of course I will respect her wishes. I can't fault her for my not being able to control my emotions. Hey, I miss intimacy, I miss cuddling, I miss sex A LOT! But that's no excuse for acting like a love-struck fourteen-year-old. As with most delusions, it was kinda nice to think that someone might actually be into me, even if only for a little while. Que será será. It's really gonna suck going through the rest of this existence in solitude.
Amazing. Karma is a funny thing. Sooner or later, it'll getcha, and bad karma usually comes back before good karma. I broke my share of hearts back in SU. I guess it's payback time. I can't believe I had any girlfriends back then. I know brick piles that have a better rap than I do; I don't even know how to approach a woman, much less talk to one. And reading women's signals? I'm a blind man in a library. No braille.
Nope, not in a happy place yet. I guess I was quite the pendejo for even fantasizing that something might come of this interaction between me and this woman. When you haven't flown in years, and your first solo flight ends in a crash landing, it's difficult to have the confidence and courage to get in the air again. I'm too sensitive, too fragile. I AM. And scared. It took a great deal out of me to even realize that I was developing... sentiments for this woman. And she's not being a tease or anything like that. She's really very nice and just being honest. The fault is mine. I have to be more realistic and realize I have nothing to offer. Oh, yeah, smart witty funny devoted loving sensitive caring and $2.00 gets me on the subway. It seems to me that those qualities are admired, but not desired.
The boys are doing well. Their father is a mess. I'm getting through the day, but the days really have little meaning for me. What good is having positive qualities if you have no one to share them with? At least Narcissus had a mirror.
I hear the sounds of silence so clearly. Every hiss of leaves swaying in the wind, every whirr of rubber tires on asphalt, every chirp, bark, meow and cry of every bird, dog, cat and baby resonates so clearly and deeply, like a lead crystal wine glass being struck with a tuning fork. I can even see the sounds of silence. Every movement, every shadow, every bird's wingbeat seems like time-lapse photography. My emotions well up and overflow like lava from a volcano. I have little control. Every beautiful woman who walks by captures my gaze, and I force myself to look away from her gorgeous cleavage, her lovely legs, her sexy tattoo. I look at feet and sidewalk a lot, and tell myself "Not for you, pal! She wouldn't want you anyway." I have to steel myself for the inevitable rejection, so that it won't hurt so much. That was what I did before Debbie. Now, here we go again. This blows. I won't even try so that that way I do not fail. I was the guy who would struggle all the way across the dance floor, only to be rejected in front of the entire club, then have to dance back across the floor and find a dark corner to hide in, because now that the chick gave me the mark of the Loser, no other girl in the place will give ya the time of year. It would be nice to be desired by someone, to know that someone found me attractive. Keep dreaming.
I remember in Hunter College, every girl I tried to become "involved" with became my friend. They'd say to me, "What wonderful qualities you have! You're going to make some girl very happy one day." "So why can't I make YOU happy?" "Oh you're not my type." Talk about getting your testicles stomped with spiked shoes! I'm so wonderful but I'm not you're fucking type!?!?!?! What is your type, child-molesting, drug-dealing, car-stealing serial rapists? WHAT THE FUCK???
Heavy sigh.
P.S.
Nobody give me any shit about creating negativity or anything like that. These are my feelings and I can't keep them to myself. Even if I am wrong about something (doubt it, though), I need this catharsis.
Like the first tiny crack in a dam's facade, this is only the beginning of what will eventually end up as a catastrophe. Stay tuned for the next episode! Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel!
Thursday, October 23, 2008
26. Otilio Colón — 13 Years Old Today
4/20/08 8:49 AM
The day he was born was one of the happiest days of my life. My dear wife gave me the greatest of gifts that day: immortality. Something of me would remain upon this earth after my time is done. Then she blessed me twice with another son.
He has come a long way in 13 years. Been through a lot in that little life. He was at school, 3 blocks from the Twin Towers, on 9/11. Then, in November of that year, his mother had a heart attack when I was not home. He and his little brother pushed Mami out of the way of the front door, went to my next door neighbor, and said "My Mami needs an ambulance!" They saved her life that day. Aged 4 and 6. Then he saw his mother die on Christmas Eve morning. I could not save her.
Of course I cannot think of his birth without thinking of her. My wife, my life. She gave me life. She gave me love. She gave me children. She gave me of herself. May Jehovah God grant that I might prove myself worthy of her.
The therapy is helping, but I still have feelings of guilt and regret. Her mother has been so supportive and loving. I asked her (again) if she blamed me for her daughter's death. She responded "Stop it Nori! If I blamed ya I'da killed ya!" That made me laugh. I love Southerners. She does not blame me. If only I could stop blaming myself...
Happy Birthday, Tito!
The day he was born was one of the happiest days of my life. My dear wife gave me the greatest of gifts that day: immortality. Something of me would remain upon this earth after my time is done. Then she blessed me twice with another son.
He has come a long way in 13 years. Been through a lot in that little life. He was at school, 3 blocks from the Twin Towers, on 9/11. Then, in November of that year, his mother had a heart attack when I was not home. He and his little brother pushed Mami out of the way of the front door, went to my next door neighbor, and said "My Mami needs an ambulance!" They saved her life that day. Aged 4 and 6. Then he saw his mother die on Christmas Eve morning. I could not save her.
Of course I cannot think of his birth without thinking of her. My wife, my life. She gave me life. She gave me love. She gave me children. She gave me of herself. May Jehovah God grant that I might prove myself worthy of her.
The therapy is helping, but I still have feelings of guilt and regret. Her mother has been so supportive and loving. I asked her (again) if she blamed me for her daughter's death. She responded "Stop it Nori! If I blamed ya I'da killed ya!" That made me laugh. I love Southerners. She does not blame me. If only I could stop blaming myself...
Happy Birthday, Tito!
25. Tamika
Tamika is the only one of Debbie's friends who will still have any contact with me. I am grateful to God for it.
4/15/08 3:45 PM
I cannot tell you how much we loved each other. I cannot tell you how much I suffer missing her. I did not go to Bookie's house after the funeral because the boys wanted to go home. I figured they had been through enough. Perhaps that was a mistake. I wish I could talk to someone who knew us, who knew her. But I feel shunned. Just because I am not a Jehovah's Witness does not mean I will not receive His grace. Debbie believed that. I do too. I did not do this to her. I loved her. No one knows what we had, what we suffered, what we enjoyed. We had love in the sight of Jehovah. What we had was sincere and true. She made my life worth living. She gave me children. My beautiful boys. And no one knows what I suffer through now. Everyone knew Debbie was ill. Few, very few knew I was sick too. I have a painful skin disease that has put me in the hospital more than once. I have bad knees and a bad back. She did what she could, as did I. Everything we did was for the boys.
No one should judge me. Yet I have been judged and condemned. Solitude is a most vile punishment. I have no one. And I am deeply sad. I believe that if I live my life as God wants, I too will have hope of the resurrection. My Sweet Love accepted and believed that. If it was good enough for her, it should be good enough for those who loved her.
Tamika (Coko), you will be blessed by the Creator for the support and love you have shown me and my sons. Your words have kept me from going over the edge. And I want to thank your husband as well. Many men would not allow there wives to have contact like that. His actions have also saved me. He too will be blessed. May you both know the joys of True Love as my Debbie and I knew it, and may Jehovah keep you from knowing the pain I know. We all must die, but at the proper time. Debbie died too young. Perhaps Jehovah decided for His reasons that it was her time. I don't know. But I loved her True.
4/15/08 3:45 PM
I cannot tell you how much we loved each other. I cannot tell you how much I suffer missing her. I did not go to Bookie's house after the funeral because the boys wanted to go home. I figured they had been through enough. Perhaps that was a mistake. I wish I could talk to someone who knew us, who knew her. But I feel shunned. Just because I am not a Jehovah's Witness does not mean I will not receive His grace. Debbie believed that. I do too. I did not do this to her. I loved her. No one knows what we had, what we suffered, what we enjoyed. We had love in the sight of Jehovah. What we had was sincere and true. She made my life worth living. She gave me children. My beautiful boys. And no one knows what I suffer through now. Everyone knew Debbie was ill. Few, very few knew I was sick too. I have a painful skin disease that has put me in the hospital more than once. I have bad knees and a bad back. She did what she could, as did I. Everything we did was for the boys.
No one should judge me. Yet I have been judged and condemned. Solitude is a most vile punishment. I have no one. And I am deeply sad. I believe that if I live my life as God wants, I too will have hope of the resurrection. My Sweet Love accepted and believed that. If it was good enough for her, it should be good enough for those who loved her.
Tamika (Coko), you will be blessed by the Creator for the support and love you have shown me and my sons. Your words have kept me from going over the edge. And I want to thank your husband as well. Many men would not allow there wives to have contact like that. His actions have also saved me. He too will be blessed. May you both know the joys of True Love as my Debbie and I knew it, and may Jehovah keep you from knowing the pain I know. We all must die, but at the proper time. Debbie died too young. Perhaps Jehovah decided for His reasons that it was her time. I don't know. But I loved her True.
24. I Miss You Dearly
4/8/08 9:31 AM
My dearest love,
I miss you dearly. I know you would not want me to suffer like this, but when you died, I died too. My life before and my life after are completely different. It hurts to smile. It hurts to laugh. I look at the world and see only you, and I weep. I should have been better to you. And yet you stayed with me. You'd say "You hear me complaining? I'm not going anywhere!" Yet you are gone from my side, my love. How do I move on? How do I go forward without you? I did not deserve you, yet you chose me. I could never figure out why.
I hate myself for letting this happen. I should have protected you; I should have saved you. I didn't know what to do! It was so fast. You were there, then you were gone. I was stunned. Forgive me.
I will love you until the end of the universe and beyond. Your laughter was like the beat of an angel's wings. Your smile was like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. And your love... your love was God walking upon this earth. I am nothing without you. My motions are robotic. My actions are pre-programmed. There is no spice of life, no spark. I was proud to call you my wife, and I was proud to be your husband. You gave me dignity and strength.
When we first met, we didn't even like each other. Yet the twists and turns of life put our paths together, and we loved each other. Funny, huh? You gave me a family. You gave me children. You gave me your heart. I did not deserve this from you, but you gave willingly. Oh, to see your face again, to feel your breath on my neck, to kiss your lips one more time. I die every day without you.
Oh my love, I pray for strength and guidance. I try to go forward as you wanted. But without you, I don't know where I'm going.
I love you forever.
-Nori-
23. There Is Always A Song...
4/2/08 6:03 PM
There is always a song that describes how you feel. I guess that's why music is big business.
From the Chi-Lites (with some slight edits to describe my feelings more accurately):
Ten months ago today
I was happy as a lark
But now I go for walks alone
To the movies - maybe to the park
And have a seat on the same old bench
To watch the children play (huh)
You know, tomorrow is their future
But to me, just another day
They all gather around me
They seem to know my name
We laugh, tell a few jokes
But it still doesn't ease my pain
I know I can't hide from a memory
'Though day after day I've tried
I keep sayin' she'll be back
But today again I lied
Oh, I see her face everywhere I go
On the street, and even at the picture show
Have you seen her?
Tell me, have you seen her?
Oh, I hear her voice as the cold winds blow
In the sweet music on the radio
Have you seen her?
Tell me, have you seen her?
Why, oh, why
Did she have to die and go away (oh, god)
Oh-oh-oh, I've been used to havin' someone to lean on
And now I'm lost
Baby, I'm so lost (Oh)
Oh, she left her kiss upon my lips
But left that break within my heart
Have you seen her?
Tell me, have you seen her?
Oh, I see her hand reaching out to me
Only she can set me free
Have you seen her?
Tell me, have you seen her?
As another day comes to an end
I'm lookin' for a letter or somethin'
Anything that she would send
With all the people I know
I'm still a lonely man
You know, it's funny
I thought I had her in the palm of my hand
Have you seen her?
Tell me, have you seen her (tell me, have you seen her?)
I will never stop loving you, Debbie, my soulmate.
22. Who Am I?
4/1/08 10:12 PM
My mood swings so often, I am on a constant period.
Linda, I loved her so much. She meant more to me than the very blood in my veins. To lose her... My God the horror still stabs me with a thousand shards of obsidian. I am no more. Who am I now?
1/2/08 5:50 PM
Just wanted to say hi. Some people (none of the e-mailgroup) think I should grow up and get over Debbie's death already. (You're a grown man! Stop crying!) To those I say, may you NEVER suffer the torment I endure every moment I am awake and every moment I am asleep. May this horror NEVER befall you.
I wish I were near family and/or friends. That's the hardest part. Being truly alone.
I miss her so...
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
21. To Know Another
4/1/08 8:34 AM
I guess that's not ever gonna be possible for me, is it?
I had mine, now she's gone. I cannot date, unless she
wants to meet for lunch. Anyways, what woman would
want a piece of garbage like me? Debbie saw something
in me worthwhile, enough for her to sacrifice her
religion, her friends, her health and her life for us.
I deserve to be punished for not being better to her.
But I loved her with all my essence. I truly did.
I'm sorry I'm such a fuck-up.
I was a little... interested... in someone. But my
passion and desire, as it was in the far past, are
tsunami-like and I got shot down, pushed away,
whatever you call it. My sweet Debbie. I never
thought I would ever be in this position again. I had
my wife, and I was content. I have no rap. I don't
know how to talk to women. I am so frail, rejection
would destroy me slowly. I'll never find another.
She chose me.
I'm no good. I destroyed her. I hurt so many. I
took their mami away. Oh, but I loved her so much.
So much. I wish I were dead.
4/1/08 9:17 AM
(This is an e-mail to June; the Reunion was held at her house.)
I died when she died. I wish I had brought her to
your home, with Ramiro. I am so stupid. I am going
to die alone. No woman would want a mess like me.
What do I have to offer? Eternal Love? Undying
Devotion? Pure Loyalty? These things are
meaningless. So very very few would even look my way.
I am poor. I have no material goods. I begin anew,
and alone. I am 46. I never felt old before. Nay, I
felt YOUNG with her. Now I feel ancient, ready for
eternal sleep. No more love. No more sex. I go
through the perfunctory motions of life without
living. Time? Meaningless. My life is over. No
more living. Just mere existence, like moss or a
lichen or a virus. Yes, I am a virus, on the edge of
existence. I cannot look at our photos. I cannot
hear music. I cannot smile. Laughing is like lifting
bricks. Such pain, No one should know the pain I
know. I know there are many in worse condition than
I. But all I know is what I know. I can't look at
women. I wonder. What can I say? I am nothing. Will
I ever laugh again? Will I ever love again? Will I
ever be loved again? The answer I keep coming up with
is "NO". Somebody shoot me.
Chico is dead.
I guess that's not ever gonna be possible for me, is it?
I had mine, now she's gone. I cannot date, unless she
wants to meet for lunch. Anyways, what woman would
want a piece of garbage like me? Debbie saw something
in me worthwhile, enough for her to sacrifice her
religion, her friends, her health and her life for us.
I deserve to be punished for not being better to her.
But I loved her with all my essence. I truly did.
I'm sorry I'm such a fuck-up.
I was a little... interested... in someone. But my
passion and desire, as it was in the far past, are
tsunami-like and I got shot down, pushed away,
whatever you call it. My sweet Debbie. I never
thought I would ever be in this position again. I had
my wife, and I was content. I have no rap. I don't
know how to talk to women. I am so frail, rejection
would destroy me slowly. I'll never find another.
She chose me.
I'm no good. I destroyed her. I hurt so many. I
took their mami away. Oh, but I loved her so much.
So much. I wish I were dead.
4/1/08 9:17 AM
(This is an e-mail to June; the Reunion was held at her house.)
I died when she died. I wish I had brought her to
your home, with Ramiro. I am so stupid. I am going
to die alone. No woman would want a mess like me.
What do I have to offer? Eternal Love? Undying
Devotion? Pure Loyalty? These things are
meaningless. So very very few would even look my way.
I am poor. I have no material goods. I begin anew,
and alone. I am 46. I never felt old before. Nay, I
felt YOUNG with her. Now I feel ancient, ready for
eternal sleep. No more love. No more sex. I go
through the perfunctory motions of life without
living. Time? Meaningless. My life is over. No
more living. Just mere existence, like moss or a
lichen or a virus. Yes, I am a virus, on the edge of
existence. I cannot look at our photos. I cannot
hear music. I cannot smile. Laughing is like lifting
bricks. Such pain, No one should know the pain I
know. I know there are many in worse condition than
I. But all I know is what I know. I can't look at
women. I wonder. What can I say? I am nothing. Will
I ever laugh again? Will I ever love again? Will I
ever be loved again? The answer I keep coming up with
is "NO". Somebody shoot me.
Chico is dead.
20. Let Not Life Slip By
3/31/08 11:51 PM
Enjoy your loved ones. Everyone fights, but don't let
the world weigh you down and bring your frustrations
home. Be humble, or be humbled. Take nothing and no
one for granted. Any and every second could be the
last. Don't make my mistakes.
Some of you have told me not to beat myself up. A
great sadness fills fill heart and carves out a great
emptiness. She loved me as I was. Never again will I
know love like that. She was there, then she was
gone. Died right in front of me. And me like an
asshole, I thought she'd be okay.
After 9/11, I just wanted to hide at home and be safe.
Now I am alone forever. I should be whipped like a
flagellate. I should have built her a palace.
19. My Deepest Apologies
3/31/08 9:12 AM
I did not mean to smother or overwhelm you people with
my problems and feelings. One is the loneliest
number. I did not intend to bother any of you. I'll
try to keep it to myself from now on. When a person
is drowning in a raging torrent, he or she tends to
grasp and clutch at whatever is in reach. If my
desperation made any of you uncomfortable, I ask you
to forgive me. I have been made small by this
experience. Please allow me to share with you once in
a while, that I might feel that someone is out there;
that I am not alone. I am a deeply and fervently
passionate man, and my passion can be overwhelming.
I know some of you (not too many, I hope) think I am a
pain in the ass. I can be. I will try to be a better
person. I will try to keep my emotions to myself.
Allow me please to release once and again. I have
nothing else.
Forgive me, my friends...
PS: Setting up my new equipment. If anyone needs any
graphics done, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah.
Again, I am so sorry.
I did not mean to smother or overwhelm you people with
my problems and feelings. One is the loneliest
number. I did not intend to bother any of you. I'll
try to keep it to myself from now on. When a person
is drowning in a raging torrent, he or she tends to
grasp and clutch at whatever is in reach. If my
desperation made any of you uncomfortable, I ask you
to forgive me. I have been made small by this
experience. Please allow me to share with you once in
a while, that I might feel that someone is out there;
that I am not alone. I am a deeply and fervently
passionate man, and my passion can be overwhelming.
I know some of you (not too many, I hope) think I am a
pain in the ass. I can be. I will try to be a better
person. I will try to keep my emotions to myself.
Allow me please to release once and again. I have
nothing else.
Forgive me, my friends...
PS: Setting up my new equipment. If anyone needs any
graphics done, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah.
Again, I am so sorry.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
18. I Am Unbelievably Stupid
I have the social skills of a hand grenade. You know that new brit movie, "How to Lose Friends and Alienate People?" It's a documentary on my life.
I tried to be funny and ended up deeply insulting someone I care about. She says she accepts my apology, but I know I have irreparably damaged our relationship, a relationship I was hoping might grow into... something. Damn, I am such an asshole! I am really good at fucking things up. I should join Al Qaida. The whole thing would implode like a light bulb at the bottom of the Puerto Rico Trench.
I am the opposite of King Midas. Everything I touch turns to mud. It's a miracle my kids haven't burst into flames. I'm a walking fucking mistake.
I had first heard this phrase attributed to William Shakespeare, but research also attributes it Abraham Lincoln and Samuel Clements, aka Mark Twain:
"Better to keep one's mouth shut and be thought a fool, than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."
Oh, boy, that's me, brother. I have got to shut the fuck up. Speak only when spoken to, and then very carefully.
Wow. I used to be so confident, so devil-may-care. Now I second-guess every move I make. And rightfully so. If I say water is wet, somebody better check the facts.
I'm shaking over here. I'm not worried about her reading this. She's too busy. I'm pretty sure not too many people are reading anyway. I really don't care anymore. Damn I hate myself. Everything I do I fuck up. Damn, this was important to me. Pendejo. Phemonenally and profoundly stupid. Christ, the last thing I need is another person hating on me. I wish I could just walk off into the desert and disappear. My head is being crushed in a vise. My heart is being squeezed by a gorilla. So fucking stupid stupid stupid. I have got to shut the fuck up. Opening up only brings me pain. Shit, somebody shoot me, and use a really big gun, please.
I wish I could lay down, go to sleep, and not wake up. I'm too much of a coward to kill myself, so don't worry about that. Fuck, my hands are shaking! I'm afraid to to do anything because I know I'll fuck it up! So fucking stupid.
Maybe my neighbors and Deb's friends are right about me. If so many people are angry and hateful with me, I've got to be a real fuck-up. Hell, my own family hates me. I'm surprised my own kids don't spit on me.
Depression is some fucked up shit. Few people understand, even if they say they do. Can't think straight. Why fucking bother. Why do I even wake up. I've hurt somebody I care about, again! Why try. Why do I go through this every day. God, I'm dying inside and I wish the rest of me would catch up. So fucking stupid. It should have been me, not Debbie. It should have been me. I'm weak. I deserve to be alone. I never meant to hurt anybody. No wonder all those JWs turned their backs on me. I would have, should have, done the same thing. Disgusting. I wish I could go insane. That world has got to be better than the one I live in now. I can't find work. I can't support my own children. When I do get a project to work on, I end up not getting payed for it anyway. I don't have a pot to piss in, and I have to rent the piss. Garbage. Go away and leave everbody alone. I serve no purpose. How could I have said something so stupid to her. She hates me now, and I don't blame her. I hate me too. Fucking IDIOT!
This is going to be a long and lonely trip. Embrace it. Swim in it. Make love to it. Inhale it. Be one with the madness.
Don't cry for me. I'm already dead. Just haven't had the good sense to lay down. Goddamn, I'm stupid!
I tried to be funny and ended up deeply insulting someone I care about. She says she accepts my apology, but I know I have irreparably damaged our relationship, a relationship I was hoping might grow into... something. Damn, I am such an asshole! I am really good at fucking things up. I should join Al Qaida. The whole thing would implode like a light bulb at the bottom of the Puerto Rico Trench.
I am the opposite of King Midas. Everything I touch turns to mud. It's a miracle my kids haven't burst into flames. I'm a walking fucking mistake.
I had first heard this phrase attributed to William Shakespeare, but research also attributes it Abraham Lincoln and Samuel Clements, aka Mark Twain:
"Better to keep one's mouth shut and be thought a fool, than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."
Oh, boy, that's me, brother. I have got to shut the fuck up. Speak only when spoken to, and then very carefully.
Wow. I used to be so confident, so devil-may-care. Now I second-guess every move I make. And rightfully so. If I say water is wet, somebody better check the facts.
I'm shaking over here. I'm not worried about her reading this. She's too busy. I'm pretty sure not too many people are reading anyway. I really don't care anymore. Damn I hate myself. Everything I do I fuck up. Damn, this was important to me. Pendejo. Phemonenally and profoundly stupid. Christ, the last thing I need is another person hating on me. I wish I could just walk off into the desert and disappear. My head is being crushed in a vise. My heart is being squeezed by a gorilla. So fucking stupid stupid stupid. I have got to shut the fuck up. Opening up only brings me pain. Shit, somebody shoot me, and use a really big gun, please.
I wish I could lay down, go to sleep, and not wake up. I'm too much of a coward to kill myself, so don't worry about that. Fuck, my hands are shaking! I'm afraid to to do anything because I know I'll fuck it up! So fucking stupid.
Maybe my neighbors and Deb's friends are right about me. If so many people are angry and hateful with me, I've got to be a real fuck-up. Hell, my own family hates me. I'm surprised my own kids don't spit on me.
Depression is some fucked up shit. Few people understand, even if they say they do. Can't think straight. Why fucking bother. Why do I even wake up. I've hurt somebody I care about, again! Why try. Why do I go through this every day. God, I'm dying inside and I wish the rest of me would catch up. So fucking stupid. It should have been me, not Debbie. It should have been me. I'm weak. I deserve to be alone. I never meant to hurt anybody. No wonder all those JWs turned their backs on me. I would have, should have, done the same thing. Disgusting. I wish I could go insane. That world has got to be better than the one I live in now. I can't find work. I can't support my own children. When I do get a project to work on, I end up not getting payed for it anyway. I don't have a pot to piss in, and I have to rent the piss. Garbage. Go away and leave everbody alone. I serve no purpose. How could I have said something so stupid to her. She hates me now, and I don't blame her. I hate me too. Fucking IDIOT!
This is going to be a long and lonely trip. Embrace it. Swim in it. Make love to it. Inhale it. Be one with the madness.
Don't cry for me. I'm already dead. Just haven't had the good sense to lay down. Goddamn, I'm stupid!
Monday, October 20, 2008
17. A Letter to My Wife
3/29/08 12:58 PM
My dearest Debbie:
I always wanted you to know how much I loved you. Remember how I would tell you so often that you'd say "OK, you are now officially creeping me out!" I guess I always knew in the back of my head that every moment I spent with you might be my last, and I wanted my last words to you to be I Love You. So I would tell you. I love you more than my own life. I love you more than the air I breathe. I love you more than all the stars in heaven. You are my greatest love. Before you, I did not know how to love.
But I also told you that the day you die would be the day I die. And I wanted it so. I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted to hold your hand in old age and slip off into the Lord's embrace with you. Alas, that was not to be. I regret deeply arguing with you that last argument, over something so stupid as knocking a Nintendo controller on the floor... again. I begged you to forgive me, and, as usual, you did. I am grateful God allowed us to make love one last time.
One of the things I love most about you was how the world was always fresh and new to you. You could watch the same episode of SpongeBob or the Simpsons or South Park, and still guffaw like it was the very first time you ever saw it. Your laughter was like silver bells ringing on a summer breeze. And to hear you laugh with the children... that sound alone made me feel blessed... and unworthy. I owe you so much. You saved me from myself.
You shared my interests. You would watch science programs (my favorite) and history, and question me and explore God's relationship with the Universe. Remember when we first saw the Hubble images of a stellar nursery, and marveled that God's creation and science were not mutually exclusive; nay, that science affirmed God's wonder. We would see new discoveries about fossils and dinosaurs, and you would say how, when you met Jehovah, you wanted to ask him why he created and destroyed the dinosaurs. My theory was that He wanted us to be humble, to behold how He created great creatures, superbly adapted, existing for millions of years, only to be reduced to ashes and stone. We are here only hundreds of thousands of years, yet the same fate can befall us but for the grace of God. Dinosaur fossils should remind us of this. Jehovah and Tyrannosaurus Rex in the same conversation. How could I not love you.
Yesterday when we were talking as I was coming from the market, you asked me to forgive you. For what my love? You said for not being a better wife, for not giving me more support. Oh my love, it is you I ask for forgiveness. You were nothing but the best wife and mommy a family could ever ask for. Every ounce of strength you had, you put into the boys. And you did well. You taught them kindness and patience. You gave them a moral compass, an inner sense of what is good and and what is wrong. And you made me a better person. You made me happy, even though I was too blind and foolish to see it until you were gone from my side. You made the world better. No, my heart, there is nothing to forgive you for. You were wonderful. Penance is mine.
Old friends have appeared from the mists of the past. They have helped when I needed help most. Their love and support made me believe truly in karma; Jesus said, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. June reminded me once of how her car and apartment were broken into, and I offered to move her in my little red Chevette. She reminded me how I refused payment, even refused gas money. All I know is, if I needed help, I would want someone to help me. So I should help others who need it. And now I see karma coming back to me as I never thought it would. Perhaps Jehovah was preparing me. But they came through as I never ever expected. Remember Dana? Of course you do. You were worried about him when he was in Bosnia, and you worried when he was stationed in Iraq. He is getting a new iMac for us, so that I might work from home and work faster and more profitably, as well as be up to date with the latest software. A new lease on life. Tools with which to provide for my family. Feed a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach him how to fish (and give him a good net!) and you feed him forever. His karma will return to him 10 fold. Such is God's promise.
The boys are well. Ramiro has really stepped up to the plate. Dr. Meyer says he has made great progress, and that Otilio is also doing well. He said I was doing a great job; whether I wanted to believe that was up to me. Miro tries to make me laugh and cheer me up. He even scolds me when I am sad (No more crying! No sad! Happy!). They have your smile, my love, my sweet, my adored one. And they are full of your love.
This is not goodbye my sweet love. We will meet again in God's love. This is See Ya Later. And yes, I will bring juice and milk on my way home.
I love you eternally.
My dearest Debbie:
I always wanted you to know how much I loved you. Remember how I would tell you so often that you'd say "OK, you are now officially creeping me out!" I guess I always knew in the back of my head that every moment I spent with you might be my last, and I wanted my last words to you to be I Love You. So I would tell you. I love you more than my own life. I love you more than the air I breathe. I love you more than all the stars in heaven. You are my greatest love. Before you, I did not know how to love.
But I also told you that the day you die would be the day I die. And I wanted it so. I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted to hold your hand in old age and slip off into the Lord's embrace with you. Alas, that was not to be. I regret deeply arguing with you that last argument, over something so stupid as knocking a Nintendo controller on the floor... again. I begged you to forgive me, and, as usual, you did. I am grateful God allowed us to make love one last time.
One of the things I love most about you was how the world was always fresh and new to you. You could watch the same episode of SpongeBob or the Simpsons or South Park, and still guffaw like it was the very first time you ever saw it. Your laughter was like silver bells ringing on a summer breeze. And to hear you laugh with the children... that sound alone made me feel blessed... and unworthy. I owe you so much. You saved me from myself.
You shared my interests. You would watch science programs (my favorite) and history, and question me and explore God's relationship with the Universe. Remember when we first saw the Hubble images of a stellar nursery, and marveled that God's creation and science were not mutually exclusive; nay, that science affirmed God's wonder. We would see new discoveries about fossils and dinosaurs, and you would say how, when you met Jehovah, you wanted to ask him why he created and destroyed the dinosaurs. My theory was that He wanted us to be humble, to behold how He created great creatures, superbly adapted, existing for millions of years, only to be reduced to ashes and stone. We are here only hundreds of thousands of years, yet the same fate can befall us but for the grace of God. Dinosaur fossils should remind us of this. Jehovah and Tyrannosaurus Rex in the same conversation. How could I not love you.
Yesterday when we were talking as I was coming from the market, you asked me to forgive you. For what my love? You said for not being a better wife, for not giving me more support. Oh my love, it is you I ask for forgiveness. You were nothing but the best wife and mommy a family could ever ask for. Every ounce of strength you had, you put into the boys. And you did well. You taught them kindness and patience. You gave them a moral compass, an inner sense of what is good and and what is wrong. And you made me a better person. You made me happy, even though I was too blind and foolish to see it until you were gone from my side. You made the world better. No, my heart, there is nothing to forgive you for. You were wonderful. Penance is mine.
Old friends have appeared from the mists of the past. They have helped when I needed help most. Their love and support made me believe truly in karma; Jesus said, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. June reminded me once of how her car and apartment were broken into, and I offered to move her in my little red Chevette. She reminded me how I refused payment, even refused gas money. All I know is, if I needed help, I would want someone to help me. So I should help others who need it. And now I see karma coming back to me as I never thought it would. Perhaps Jehovah was preparing me. But they came through as I never ever expected. Remember Dana? Of course you do. You were worried about him when he was in Bosnia, and you worried when he was stationed in Iraq. He is getting a new iMac for us, so that I might work from home and work faster and more profitably, as well as be up to date with the latest software. A new lease on life. Tools with which to provide for my family. Feed a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach him how to fish (and give him a good net!) and you feed him forever. His karma will return to him 10 fold. Such is God's promise.
The boys are well. Ramiro has really stepped up to the plate. Dr. Meyer says he has made great progress, and that Otilio is also doing well. He said I was doing a great job; whether I wanted to believe that was up to me. Miro tries to make me laugh and cheer me up. He even scolds me when I am sad (No more crying! No sad! Happy!). They have your smile, my love, my sweet, my adored one. And they are full of your love.
This is not goodbye my sweet love. We will meet again in God's love. This is See Ya Later. And yes, I will bring juice and milk on my way home.
I love you eternally.
16. Being Alone
3/23/08 6:15 PM
Is anger another phase in the grieving process?
I guess I do have to come to terms with myself. I keep trying to see the good things, but the errors keep rearing up like cobras spreading their hoods. I don't even know how to approach a woman, let alone start a new relationship so soon after her passing. I cannot force it. I cannot make it happen Whomever (if ever) my next companion is to be, she would have to choose me, foibles and all. I have no riches or property. I am starting over completely from scratch. All I have to offer is my undying love and devotion and affection. It would take a special woman to see that in me and find that of value, and accept me. I am so shy, I wouldn't even know how to "break the ice". After all, I had my lady love; why would I need to keep those skills honed? Am I the same guy you knew in college?
Yeah, I guess the JWs wouldn't want me unless I'm willing to take dumb-down pills. I just want peace of mind. I want this torment to end. I have begun reading Book 1 of those wonderful books (thanks) but they are kind of heavy at times and I need to devote some time so I can just sit and read. I feel fragile, and when a new problem comes up sometimes I just go to pieces. I sure wish I could get a hug somewhere. Yes, I hug my kids until they can't breathe. :-)
I am trying. I know I have to be strong, to focus and go forward. But it is difficult (what the hell am I saying? Look who I'm talking to!) to pick up the slivers of my shattered life, try to repair and rebuild, make every decision alone and hope the place don't blow sky high!
3/28/08 10:10 AM
Went 2 hours this morning before weeping. A new record.
Some good news. An old friend of mine from high school is buying me a new iMac so I can be more productive and work faster and profitably. He also has some graphic work for me. Debbie was always right about the sparrows in the trees and the lilies of the field.
I was looking at pix from the BBQ. You're look great and have a wonderful smile.
Ramiro, my special little guy. I call him Little Big Man, after one of my favorite movies, starring Dustin Hoffman. It's a deep movie with funny moments, about a white orphan adopted and raised by Cheyenne Indians. He spends his life crossing between the white world and the Cheyenne (which means "Human Beings") mostly for survival. He earned his name as boy by killing a Paiute Indian who was about to kill another Cheyenne boy. In his naming ceremony, the Chief said "He was a little man. But today he acted like a big man. His name shall now be Little Big Man." It's a great movie; check it out.
He's got a spark and a great sense of humor, my Little Big Man does. He tries so hard to learn new things, and he tries to cheer me up and make me laugh. When I am in a deep funk, he scolds me. "No more crying! No sad! Happy!" When we 3 say the Our Father together, he often gets that look in his eye (Head for the Hills!) and puts on a funny voice to make me laugh. He loves his big brother so much; the 2 are inseparable.
When she was pregnant with Ramiro, we tried to prepare Otilio (Oh-TEE-lee-oh) for his new brother. When Miro was 3 days old, I brought Tito, 2 years old then, to see Mami and the baby in the hospital. She was holding Miro and feeding him formula from the little glass bottle the hospital gives you. Even though we prepared him he got a confused look on his face (he'd arch his eyebrow like Mister Spock and crunch his face). Why is mami holding a baby? I'M the baby!
She put Miro in the bassinet, and we went to sit on the couch to talk. Then we saw something so beautiful. Tito was looking at Miro in the crib, and then he picked up the empty bottle and tried to feed his little brother. We were in tears of happiness.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
15. When Tito Met Miro
Don't get too used to this powder-puff stuff folks. The depressing stuff will return I promise you that. I need to post that stuff to get it out of my system!
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
Ramiro is 2 days old when I bring Otilio to meet his little brother and see his mother. He's all excited. "I have a dil brudda? That means I'm a big brudda!" When we arrive at Debbie's room, she was feeding Ramiro formula and cradling him. Even though we tried to prepare him, Tito got this confused look on his face, tilted his head to the side, and arched his eyebrow Mr. Spock style. I could read his thoughts: Why is Mami holding that baby? I'M the baby!
Oh, my sweet Debbie loved being a mommy. She was so content holding her children. (I'm weeping as I write this.) She looked like the Madonna holding the Christ child. She was actually glowing. She said,
"Hi, Tito! Say hello to your little brother."
"Dil brudda?" (Remember, the kid's only two.)
"Yeah! His name is Ramiro."
"Miro?"
We both chuckle. Tito gave his little brother a nickname.
"Miro my dil brudda?"
"Yes, Miro is your little brother!"
Debbie puts the now rechristened Miro back in that little glass bassinet the hospital provides, and places the empty bottle of formula on the table. Tito is sitting on the bed, while she and I go sit on the couch near the window to talk. As we're talking, we stop and watch as Tito stands up, does the Mr. Spock eyebrow thing and looks closely at his brother. We wonder what he's going to do. Suddenly, Tito picks up the empty bottle of formula, and tries to feed Miro! We are both brought to tears. Tito knows Miro is his "dil brudda", and that he has to take care of him. Those two have been inseperable ever since. And they always watch each other's back.
And I will always see my Angel cradling her newborn child; Tito or Miro, it's interchangeable. And she looked sooo content. And I have to stop now. Crying too much.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
Ramiro is 2 days old when I bring Otilio to meet his little brother and see his mother. He's all excited. "I have a dil brudda? That means I'm a big brudda!" When we arrive at Debbie's room, she was feeding Ramiro formula and cradling him. Even though we tried to prepare him, Tito got this confused look on his face, tilted his head to the side, and arched his eyebrow Mr. Spock style. I could read his thoughts: Why is Mami holding that baby? I'M the baby!
Oh, my sweet Debbie loved being a mommy. She was so content holding her children. (I'm weeping as I write this.) She looked like the Madonna holding the Christ child. She was actually glowing. She said,
"Hi, Tito! Say hello to your little brother."
"Dil brudda?" (Remember, the kid's only two.)
"Yeah! His name is Ramiro."
"Miro?"
We both chuckle. Tito gave his little brother a nickname.
"Miro my dil brudda?"
"Yes, Miro is your little brother!"
Debbie puts the now rechristened Miro back in that little glass bassinet the hospital provides, and places the empty bottle of formula on the table. Tito is sitting on the bed, while she and I go sit on the couch near the window to talk. As we're talking, we stop and watch as Tito stands up, does the Mr. Spock eyebrow thing and looks closely at his brother. We wonder what he's going to do. Suddenly, Tito picks up the empty bottle of formula, and tries to feed Miro! We are both brought to tears. Tito knows Miro is his "dil brudda", and that he has to take care of him. Those two have been inseperable ever since. And they always watch each other's back.
And I will always see my Angel cradling her newborn child; Tito or Miro, it's interchangeable. And she looked sooo content. And I have to stop now. Crying too much.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
14. Ramiro Has Landed
Debbie's pregnancy with Ramiro was problematic. Although she was only two years older, her ailments were advancing and she was experiencing pain and difficulties. I often took time off from freelancing to stay home with her; Otilio was only 2 and I didn't want her to be alone. The doctor declared her pregnancy high risk and she had frequent appointments. I often massaged her belly with baby oil to help give her some relief.
We did not want to know the sex of the child at first; we knew beforehand that Tito was a boy, so we wanted to be surprised this time. At first we thought it was going to be a girl. Again, Debbie granted me the privilege of naming the child, but she had final approval. I chose Sylvia Maruka Yuísa. When my mother was pregnant with me, my name was to be Sylvia if I was a girl. Maruka was the name of my mother's mother's grandmother, who was a full-blood Taína Indian. Her christian name was María Cordero, but her Taíno name was Maruka, or Uka for short. They say she smoked cigars and chewed tobacco. Yuísa was a female chieftan on the Taíno council and a contemporary of the aforementioned Agüeybaná and Urayoán (Taína women could be chiefs as well as men, and women were even allowed more than one husband). So I liked Sylvia Maruka Yuísa Colón Lomax.
Well later in the pregnancy Debbie decided she wanted to know the sex so that we would be better prepared, and the doctor said the information would help in Deb's treatment. It's another boy! Put Sylvia Maruka Yuísa back in the Archives. Now I gotta come up with another boy's name.
Now, when I named Otilio it was not just to carry on a legacy. I wanted a strong Spanish name; un nombre fuerte para un hombre fuerte I would say. A strong name for a strong man. And I didn't want a name that had an english equivalent. No Miguel to become Mike, No José to twist into Joey. But since I shot my wad with Otilio Elías William, I had run out of boy's names. So I gave her another list:
• Orocóvis - another Taíno chieftan.
• Guarionéx - Supreme Chief of Borikén at the time of the Conquest (the Taíno name for Puerto Rico, Borikén, or Borinquen, means Land of the Noble Lord, and Borícua means One Who Lives in the Land of the Noble Lord). I knew Debbie would reject this one, but I had to pay my props.
• Basilio
• Bartolo
• Norberto Jr. (I didn't like "junior")
• Ramiro
"I like Ramiro!" she says. So, in the tradition of two-paged birth certificates, we filled it out to Ramiro Norberto Andrés Colón Lomax. The first two are obvious. I had a favorite aunt named Andréa. She was not a blood relative, but very close to the family. She helped raise me and baby sat for me as a child. She died tragically from colon cancer and I loved her very much. So, the male version of Andréa is Andrés.
We had spent a great deal of time getting Tito prepared for his little sister. Now we had to switch gears and tell him his sister was now his brother!
We are all at home on the night of August 27, 1997, when Debbie tells me "Nori, it's time!" We rush to Bellevue Hospital, where Darth Maternus meets us to take Tito home with her. We go up to the high risk pregnancy room, and my poor sweetie is in labor for hours.
I hate West Indian Head Nurses. They are on such a power trip, even resident doctors don't like dealing with them. Debbie was very thirsty, but the doctor said she could have no water. But he did say she could suck on ice cubes. Well, the shift changes (Debbie was in labor for like 12 hours) and we get this big fat dreadlock-wearing Bob-Marley-listening Queen's-English-funny-talking curry-goat-roti-eating BITCH of a head nurse! I ask for ice cubes for my honey.
"No, Mahn, she cyant have waw-taaah!"
"The doctor said she can have ice cubes."
"Wachanow! Me say she cyant hab no waw-TAAAH!"
"I know, but she can have ice cubes."
"Me say NO WAW-TAAH!"
"But the doctor said..."
"Me bin da ed-ners ear fe' fawteen yee-ahs! Ya cyant be tellin me ow to do me jawb!"
"But.."
"NO WAW-TAAAH!"
"¡Tanta pendeja de'gra'ciá! ¡Sucia! ¡Dame la maldita jodienda agua pa' mi mujer! ¡¿Quien carajo eh tu para negar lo que dijo el doctor?! ¡Maricona!" (do your own translating)
"Watch wid da Spanish jibba-jabbeh! NO WAW-TAAAH!"
Dread bitch leaves to do her rounds. A Filipina nurse walks by and I ask her for ice. She says "Yeah, sure!" "Why wouldn't that fat bitch gimme ice cubes?" "I don't know, it says right on her chart she can have ice. Ignore her. You know how those people can be."
We get the ice cubes. I'm dead on my feet waiting for this kid to present himself. Around midnight or so, a NICE nurse tells me, "She won't give birth tonight. We're going to induce labor in the morning. Go home and get some sleep. We'll call you if anything happens."
Now, since I'm allergic to money, I didn't have much left on me. I wanted to be sure to have cab fare in case I have to fly back. So I kiss Debbie on the forehead, and I leave the hospital. Since it's after midnight, public transportation is running VERY slowly, and even more delays because of subway repairs. Under normal conditions, the trip from my house on the Lower West Side, Spring & 6th Ave, to Bellevue, on 28th Street and 1st Ave., takes about a half hour. After midnight, with bus delays and subway repairs, it took me 2 HOURS to get home! I AM EXHAUSTED! I finally get of the train at Spring Street. It's like two in the morning. I am in front of my building. I take my keys to open the front door lock. The key BARELY TOUCHES the front door lock when my cell phone goes off.
"Mr. Colón? Your wife is giving birth! Get back here right away!"
AWWUGGH! Shoot me now, please! I turn around to see an empty cab right in front of my building. I jump in and tell the cabbie, "My wife is giving birth! I need to get to Bellevue right away!" He makes the left on Sullivan, then the right on Houston (pronounced HOW-stun, not HYOO-stun) to go down to First Avenue. Not fast enough. "Sir, I don't want to get you in trouble, but I really need you to grow wings on this thing and fly!" He chuckles and picks up the pace. He makes the left on 1st. Still not fast enough! "Sir, please eat the red lights! If the cops give you any beef, I'll take care of it!" He laughs, but he hits the gas and blows the lights. We screech in front of Bellevue, I go to pay him, but he says "No charge! Now hurry and get to your wife!" I run through the hospital (naturally, the elevators to maternity are in the rear). I get in the elevator and get off on 10. The nurses were waiting for me. You'd've thought I was performing surgery! They said, "Good, you're here! Put this on and get in there!" One nurse pulls my coat off, another shoves me forward with outstretched arms while two more are holding my gown so I fly right into it. Another ties the cap to my head; another ties the mask to my face. Then I'm shoved through the double doors into the birthing room.
Somehow I remember to bring my video camera. Before I turn it on, Debbie turns to me with pain in her eyes and shouts one word, clearly and succinctly: "MORPHINE!" They hook her up with some pain killers, and I start coaching and encouraging while I am taping. But when the actual moment comes, they force me to stop taping! Since she was high risk, I guess they didn't want any video evidence should something go wrong.
There's a whole team of doctors and nurses in there, and I am praying my wife and baby will be okay. The kid finally slides out, and they let me tape again. When they have him in the baby crib, I say to him what I said to his big brother when he was born. "Welcome to Earth. Your name is Ramiro. I will be your father for the rest of this flight."
I really don't remember much after that. I was so tired, I don't remember if I went home or to my mother's house, or even if I slept at the hospital. But my baby was here, and my wife was OK.
We did not want to know the sex of the child at first; we knew beforehand that Tito was a boy, so we wanted to be surprised this time. At first we thought it was going to be a girl. Again, Debbie granted me the privilege of naming the child, but she had final approval. I chose Sylvia Maruka Yuísa. When my mother was pregnant with me, my name was to be Sylvia if I was a girl. Maruka was the name of my mother's mother's grandmother, who was a full-blood Taína Indian. Her christian name was María Cordero, but her Taíno name was Maruka, or Uka for short. They say she smoked cigars and chewed tobacco. Yuísa was a female chieftan on the Taíno council and a contemporary of the aforementioned Agüeybaná and Urayoán (Taína women could be chiefs as well as men, and women were even allowed more than one husband). So I liked Sylvia Maruka Yuísa Colón Lomax.
Well later in the pregnancy Debbie decided she wanted to know the sex so that we would be better prepared, and the doctor said the information would help in Deb's treatment. It's another boy! Put Sylvia Maruka Yuísa back in the Archives. Now I gotta come up with another boy's name.
Now, when I named Otilio it was not just to carry on a legacy. I wanted a strong Spanish name; un nombre fuerte para un hombre fuerte I would say. A strong name for a strong man. And I didn't want a name that had an english equivalent. No Miguel to become Mike, No José to twist into Joey. But since I shot my wad with Otilio Elías William, I had run out of boy's names. So I gave her another list:
• Orocóvis - another Taíno chieftan.
• Guarionéx - Supreme Chief of Borikén at the time of the Conquest (the Taíno name for Puerto Rico, Borikén, or Borinquen, means Land of the Noble Lord, and Borícua means One Who Lives in the Land of the Noble Lord). I knew Debbie would reject this one, but I had to pay my props.
• Basilio
• Bartolo
• Norberto Jr. (I didn't like "junior")
• Ramiro
"I like Ramiro!" she says. So, in the tradition of two-paged birth certificates, we filled it out to Ramiro Norberto Andrés Colón Lomax. The first two are obvious. I had a favorite aunt named Andréa. She was not a blood relative, but very close to the family. She helped raise me and baby sat for me as a child. She died tragically from colon cancer and I loved her very much. So, the male version of Andréa is Andrés.
We had spent a great deal of time getting Tito prepared for his little sister. Now we had to switch gears and tell him his sister was now his brother!
We are all at home on the night of August 27, 1997, when Debbie tells me "Nori, it's time!" We rush to Bellevue Hospital, where Darth Maternus meets us to take Tito home with her. We go up to the high risk pregnancy room, and my poor sweetie is in labor for hours.
I hate West Indian Head Nurses. They are on such a power trip, even resident doctors don't like dealing with them. Debbie was very thirsty, but the doctor said she could have no water. But he did say she could suck on ice cubes. Well, the shift changes (Debbie was in labor for like 12 hours) and we get this big fat dreadlock-wearing Bob-Marley-listening Queen's-English-funny-talking curry-goat-roti-eating BITCH of a head nurse! I ask for ice cubes for my honey.
"No, Mahn, she cyant have waw-taaah!"
"The doctor said she can have ice cubes."
"Wachanow! Me say she cyant hab no waw-TAAAH!"
"I know, but she can have ice cubes."
"Me say NO WAW-TAAH!"
"But the doctor said..."
"Me bin da ed-ners ear fe' fawteen yee-ahs! Ya cyant be tellin me ow to do me jawb!"
"But.."
"NO WAW-TAAAH!"
"¡Tanta pendeja de'gra'ciá! ¡Sucia! ¡Dame la maldita jodienda agua pa' mi mujer! ¡¿Quien carajo eh tu para negar lo que dijo el doctor?! ¡Maricona!" (do your own translating)
"Watch wid da Spanish jibba-jabbeh! NO WAW-TAAAH!"
Dread bitch leaves to do her rounds. A Filipina nurse walks by and I ask her for ice. She says "Yeah, sure!" "Why wouldn't that fat bitch gimme ice cubes?" "I don't know, it says right on her chart she can have ice. Ignore her. You know how those people can be."
We get the ice cubes. I'm dead on my feet waiting for this kid to present himself. Around midnight or so, a NICE nurse tells me, "She won't give birth tonight. We're going to induce labor in the morning. Go home and get some sleep. We'll call you if anything happens."
Now, since I'm allergic to money, I didn't have much left on me. I wanted to be sure to have cab fare in case I have to fly back. So I kiss Debbie on the forehead, and I leave the hospital. Since it's after midnight, public transportation is running VERY slowly, and even more delays because of subway repairs. Under normal conditions, the trip from my house on the Lower West Side, Spring & 6th Ave, to Bellevue, on 28th Street and 1st Ave., takes about a half hour. After midnight, with bus delays and subway repairs, it took me 2 HOURS to get home! I AM EXHAUSTED! I finally get of the train at Spring Street. It's like two in the morning. I am in front of my building. I take my keys to open the front door lock. The key BARELY TOUCHES the front door lock when my cell phone goes off.
"Mr. Colón? Your wife is giving birth! Get back here right away!"
AWWUGGH! Shoot me now, please! I turn around to see an empty cab right in front of my building. I jump in and tell the cabbie, "My wife is giving birth! I need to get to Bellevue right away!" He makes the left on Sullivan, then the right on Houston (pronounced HOW-stun, not HYOO-stun) to go down to First Avenue. Not fast enough. "Sir, I don't want to get you in trouble, but I really need you to grow wings on this thing and fly!" He chuckles and picks up the pace. He makes the left on 1st. Still not fast enough! "Sir, please eat the red lights! If the cops give you any beef, I'll take care of it!" He laughs, but he hits the gas and blows the lights. We screech in front of Bellevue, I go to pay him, but he says "No charge! Now hurry and get to your wife!" I run through the hospital (naturally, the elevators to maternity are in the rear). I get in the elevator and get off on 10. The nurses were waiting for me. You'd've thought I was performing surgery! They said, "Good, you're here! Put this on and get in there!" One nurse pulls my coat off, another shoves me forward with outstretched arms while two more are holding my gown so I fly right into it. Another ties the cap to my head; another ties the mask to my face. Then I'm shoved through the double doors into the birthing room.
Somehow I remember to bring my video camera. Before I turn it on, Debbie turns to me with pain in her eyes and shouts one word, clearly and succinctly: "MORPHINE!" They hook her up with some pain killers, and I start coaching and encouraging while I am taping. But when the actual moment comes, they force me to stop taping! Since she was high risk, I guess they didn't want any video evidence should something go wrong.
There's a whole team of doctors and nurses in there, and I am praying my wife and baby will be okay. The kid finally slides out, and they let me tape again. When they have him in the baby crib, I say to him what I said to his big brother when he was born. "Welcome to Earth. Your name is Ramiro. I will be your father for the rest of this flight."
I really don't remember much after that. I was so tired, I don't remember if I went home or to my mother's house, or even if I slept at the hospital. But my baby was here, and my wife was OK.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
