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...
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
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.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
13. The Birth of Otilio
Once we realized Debbie was in fact pregnant, things went into fast forward. It was as if Tito said "Good, now you're aware of me. Now let's par-tay!" Deb's belly suddenly began to balloon, and she experienced more kicks than a Bruce Lee movie. Remember, we only had a few scant days between discovery of her pregnancy and the arrival of this little turtle. Now we gotta come up with names.
Deb knows my Puerto Rican culture is very important to me, and she deigned to let me choose the name. We already knew it was a boy from the sonogram (the flag pole was at full mast, if you know what I mean.) So I went through my list, and waited for her approval. The following names she rejected:
• Mabodamaca - a Taíno Indian chieftain
• Agüeybaná - a great Taíno warrior and chieftain. There were actually two, father and son. Agüeybaná el Viejo (the Elder) and his son, Agüeybaná el Bravo (the Brave). The son was the one who led the ill-fated rebellion against the Conquistadores.
• Urayoán - a great and wise elder and chieftain on the Taíno council. It was his wisdom that sought to find the Spaniard's weaknesses. You see, the Taíno had never seen body armor, and when their arrows bounced of the Spaniard's chests, it was thought you could not kill a Spaniard. Besides, even if you did kill one, he'd just come back in 3 days and 3 nights (they claimed Jesus' power). But Urayoán decided on an experiment. Let's kill one and see what happens. So, a Castillian named Miguel Salcedo demands Taíno laborers to take him into the interior, and Urayoán decides he will do nicely. The Taíno come to a shallow river, and Salcedo demands to be carried on the shoulders of a Taíno so as not to get wet. Perfect. When they get to the middle of the river, the Taíno "accidentally" slips and drops Salcedo in the water. Now the river is shallow, but Salcedo's body armor weighs him down, and he drowns. The Taínos drag his body onto the bank, and hide in the bushes, watching his corpse for three days and three nights. They spent the time making up a story in case he should ressurect and demand an explanation. After the third day, Salcedos carcass is getting pretty funky and full of flies, and the Taíno realize the Spaniards CAN be killed. So begins "Guasábara" or the Big Fight, the Taíno Rebellion of 1511-1530.
• Mephistopholese - I just threw that in to keep her on her toes.
Well, Debbie demands I get real. So I decide to name him after my father, my grandfather, and her father. My father's name (and his father's name) is Otilio, Spanish for Othello. My mother's father's name is Elías (Elijah), and Debs pop's name is William. I also kept the custom of taking both surnames for the child. Hence: Otilio Elías William Colón-Lomax.
So I'm in Manhattan and Deb is visiting her mom in The Bronx. I get a call; she's in labor. Meet them at Beth Israel Hospital.
She's got nice little birthing room. Couches and a TV too. I'm a nervous wreck while we're waiting for this kid to pop out. She starts to go into labor, and they put her in the stirrups. Let me tell ya, there's a reason ancient societies did not let men witness childbirth. If you see that thing stretch and pulsate like some kind of sea monster, you may not want to go near it again!
Anyway, while she's contracting and we're waiting, Jeopardy is on. We are watching Alex Trebeck; the doctor, the three Filipina nurses, Deb's mom, Deb's gramma, me, and even Debbie's watching. Tito's head starts to crown; I guess he wanted to watch, too. Just then, instead of popping out, he goes back inside (smart kid). The doc goes back to watching Jeopardy. I'm like, Yo! Get in there and get the kid out! The doc tells me to relax. Then the real thing starts to happen. What I am about to say may violate national security, but who cares. I had taken shahada in 1981 after my father died, which means I had converted to Islam. So while she's birfin' dat baby, I'm reciting the shahada: "La Il Aha Il Allah, Muhammadan ur-Rasul-ullah." "There is no god but The God, and Muhammad is his Prophet." While I am crying (I do that a lot) and reciting the faith, a Jewish doctor and three Catholic Filipina nurses look at this Jehovah's Witness woman's Puerto Rican husband say a Muslim prayer in Arabic! Only in America!
Finally, the doc squats like Mike Piazza waiting for a curve ball, and out slides Otilio. Again, great joy and abject terror. I am honored that God sent this tiny soul for me to care for and raise. I am also scared shitless. I hold him and say, "Welcome to earth. I will be your father for the rest of this flight."
They decide it's time to take Tito up to the nursery. Susan (110 camera) is their also, and helps hold me up. (I seem to collapse near women.) We pass a Puerto Rican family; this is old hat to them, mom is giving birth to number six while the other five are in the waiting room with relatives. They see me crying and smiling, and they look at me and say "¡Ay, que emocionante! Su primero..." "How emotional! His first one..."
So happy...
Oh, by the way, before Homeland Security (what a fascist name) comes a-knocking at my door, I learned a great deal from Islam, but I am a Spic, not a Towel Head. I prefer arroz con pollo over hummus and pita bread. And my name is Norberto.
Deb knows my Puerto Rican culture is very important to me, and she deigned to let me choose the name. We already knew it was a boy from the sonogram (the flag pole was at full mast, if you know what I mean.) So I went through my list, and waited for her approval. The following names she rejected:
• Mabodamaca - a Taíno Indian chieftain
• Agüeybaná - a great Taíno warrior and chieftain. There were actually two, father and son. Agüeybaná el Viejo (the Elder) and his son, Agüeybaná el Bravo (the Brave). The son was the one who led the ill-fated rebellion against the Conquistadores.
• Urayoán - a great and wise elder and chieftain on the Taíno council. It was his wisdom that sought to find the Spaniard's weaknesses. You see, the Taíno had never seen body armor, and when their arrows bounced of the Spaniard's chests, it was thought you could not kill a Spaniard. Besides, even if you did kill one, he'd just come back in 3 days and 3 nights (they claimed Jesus' power). But Urayoán decided on an experiment. Let's kill one and see what happens. So, a Castillian named Miguel Salcedo demands Taíno laborers to take him into the interior, and Urayoán decides he will do nicely. The Taíno come to a shallow river, and Salcedo demands to be carried on the shoulders of a Taíno so as not to get wet. Perfect. When they get to the middle of the river, the Taíno "accidentally" slips and drops Salcedo in the water. Now the river is shallow, but Salcedo's body armor weighs him down, and he drowns. The Taínos drag his body onto the bank, and hide in the bushes, watching his corpse for three days and three nights. They spent the time making up a story in case he should ressurect and demand an explanation. After the third day, Salcedos carcass is getting pretty funky and full of flies, and the Taíno realize the Spaniards CAN be killed. So begins "Guasábara" or the Big Fight, the Taíno Rebellion of 1511-1530.
• Mephistopholese - I just threw that in to keep her on her toes.
Well, Debbie demands I get real. So I decide to name him after my father, my grandfather, and her father. My father's name (and his father's name) is Otilio, Spanish for Othello. My mother's father's name is Elías (Elijah), and Debs pop's name is William. I also kept the custom of taking both surnames for the child. Hence: Otilio Elías William Colón-Lomax.
So I'm in Manhattan and Deb is visiting her mom in The Bronx. I get a call; she's in labor. Meet them at Beth Israel Hospital.
She's got nice little birthing room. Couches and a TV too. I'm a nervous wreck while we're waiting for this kid to pop out. She starts to go into labor, and they put her in the stirrups. Let me tell ya, there's a reason ancient societies did not let men witness childbirth. If you see that thing stretch and pulsate like some kind of sea monster, you may not want to go near it again!
Anyway, while she's contracting and we're waiting, Jeopardy is on. We are watching Alex Trebeck; the doctor, the three Filipina nurses, Deb's mom, Deb's gramma, me, and even Debbie's watching. Tito's head starts to crown; I guess he wanted to watch, too. Just then, instead of popping out, he goes back inside (smart kid). The doc goes back to watching Jeopardy. I'm like, Yo! Get in there and get the kid out! The doc tells me to relax. Then the real thing starts to happen. What I am about to say may violate national security, but who cares. I had taken shahada in 1981 after my father died, which means I had converted to Islam. So while she's birfin' dat baby, I'm reciting the shahada: "La Il Aha Il Allah, Muhammadan ur-Rasul-ullah." "There is no god but The God, and Muhammad is his Prophet." While I am crying (I do that a lot) and reciting the faith, a Jewish doctor and three Catholic Filipina nurses look at this Jehovah's Witness woman's Puerto Rican husband say a Muslim prayer in Arabic! Only in America!
Finally, the doc squats like Mike Piazza waiting for a curve ball, and out slides Otilio. Again, great joy and abject terror. I am honored that God sent this tiny soul for me to care for and raise. I am also scared shitless. I hold him and say, "Welcome to earth. I will be your father for the rest of this flight."
They decide it's time to take Tito up to the nursery. Susan (110 camera) is their also, and helps hold me up. (I seem to collapse near women.) We pass a Puerto Rican family; this is old hat to them, mom is giving birth to number six while the other five are in the waiting room with relatives. They see me crying and smiling, and they look at me and say "¡Ay, que emocionante! Su primero..." "How emotional! His first one..."
So happy...
Oh, by the way, before Homeland Security (what a fascist name) comes a-knocking at my door, I learned a great deal from Islam, but I am a Spic, not a Towel Head. I prefer arroz con pollo over hummus and pita bread. And my name is Norberto.
Monday, October 13, 2008
12. My Wife the Dog Killer
Another trip to Puerto Rico. We're driving back to Arecibo around 1:00 AM from San Juan. Now, they had just built an new autopista (highway) called the 22. It's great in the daytime; cuts travel time from an hour and a half to around 30 minutes. The old road, el Número Dos (the #2) is still used for local traffic. But the 22 is murder at night. You have to drive with high beams (no lightposts at all) and the straightaways and gentle curves are really conducive to highway hypnosis. So I take the #2 back. Even though most of the stores are closed, the marquees and store signs are still lit, and there are many curves, not dangerous, to help keep your mind on the road.
Still, I am exhausted from a long day of beaching and sight-seeing and all, and I can feel myself falling asleep at the wheel. I asked Debbie to drive, because I am nodding out. But she is reluctant; she had given up her license because she was afraid of having a seizure while driving, and had not driven in some time. But I said I'd remain awake and talk to her, but I could drive no longer. She takes the wheel.
Deb's doing just fine, around 25 mph, making our way to Arecibo. We round a curve, and there's a pack of stray dogs crossing the road. Stray dogs in PR are as common as pigeons in New York. The dogs see us and scurry across the road, except for one. He remains on the other side of the double yellow line, seemingly waiting for us to pass. Deb's concentrating on driving, and doesn't see the dog. But I say nothing; I don't want to startle her and perhaps swerve into the dog, and the dog is looking right at us and is perfectly still. So long as the status quo remains, every one will be cool.
Well, she rounds the curve just fine, when suddenly, we're about three feet from the dog when this crazy mutt decides to step right in front of the car! BATHUMP!!! ARRR, ARRR ARRR! Debbie screams, "What the hell was that!?" "I think you just ran over a dog." "Oh, my god, we have to go back and help it!" "Naah, the rest of the pack is probably eating him by now!"
Deb feels awful! Naturally, I seize upon the moment to tease and torment her to no end (good-naturedly, of course). "Murderer! Dog Killer! Assassin! You aimed for that dog!" She's laughing and pleading, "Don't say that Nori!" I roll down the window and stick my head out. "Help! I'm being held prisoner by a dog serial killer!" Thank god no one was awake, or spoke english! She smacks me: "Get in here you nut!" I tell her not to be upset; the dog probably decided to commit suicide. He probably hated his life as a stray, his wife was a bitch, and he figured he'd end it all when he saw us coming.
I teased her for years after that. I miss my sweet little assassin.
Still, I am exhausted from a long day of beaching and sight-seeing and all, and I can feel myself falling asleep at the wheel. I asked Debbie to drive, because I am nodding out. But she is reluctant; she had given up her license because she was afraid of having a seizure while driving, and had not driven in some time. But I said I'd remain awake and talk to her, but I could drive no longer. She takes the wheel.
Deb's doing just fine, around 25 mph, making our way to Arecibo. We round a curve, and there's a pack of stray dogs crossing the road. Stray dogs in PR are as common as pigeons in New York. The dogs see us and scurry across the road, except for one. He remains on the other side of the double yellow line, seemingly waiting for us to pass. Deb's concentrating on driving, and doesn't see the dog. But I say nothing; I don't want to startle her and perhaps swerve into the dog, and the dog is looking right at us and is perfectly still. So long as the status quo remains, every one will be cool.
Well, she rounds the curve just fine, when suddenly, we're about three feet from the dog when this crazy mutt decides to step right in front of the car! BATHUMP!!! ARRR, ARRR ARRR! Debbie screams, "What the hell was that!?" "I think you just ran over a dog." "Oh, my god, we have to go back and help it!" "Naah, the rest of the pack is probably eating him by now!"
Deb feels awful! Naturally, I seize upon the moment to tease and torment her to no end (good-naturedly, of course). "Murderer! Dog Killer! Assassin! You aimed for that dog!" She's laughing and pleading, "Don't say that Nori!" I roll down the window and stick my head out. "Help! I'm being held prisoner by a dog serial killer!" Thank god no one was awake, or spoke english! She smacks me: "Get in here you nut!" I tell her not to be upset; the dog probably decided to commit suicide. He probably hated his life as a stray, his wife was a bitch, and he figured he'd end it all when he saw us coming.
I teased her for years after that. I miss my sweet little assassin.
11. My Big Fat City Hall Wedding
If you remember from Chapter 2 (please review; there's a quiz on Friday), Deb's pregnancy with Tito was my version of the Tunguska comet; unexpected, came out of nowhere, and phenomenally explosive. Now the fun begins.
Deb's parents knew something was up. Now it's time to face the music. I kept thinking, Deb's father is gonna kill me. We go up to the Bronx to tell them. They sit down with dour faces. I'm seated by the window, in case I need to make a quick escape. We're on the 17th floor, but I figured I'd take my chances with gravity rather than face the ire of Deb's father, Elder William Lomax of the Jehovah's Witnesses.
Deb: "Mom, Dad, I'm pregnant."
Mom: "We KNEW it! How could you?!"
Deb: "We're getting married!"
Mom: "But you sinned! You had sex outside of marriage!"
Me: "Mr. and Mrs Lomax, please understand..."
Pop: "Don't give me that, Nori! I was in World War Two! I KNOW WHAT SEX IS!"
I look out the window. 17 flights. I can make it! If I can just grab that pigeon...
Deb's folks storm off into their bedroom. But I know what they're REALLY doing. I can hear the champagne bottle pop and the streamers and horns and dancing around. YES! WE'RE GONNA BE GRANDPARENTS! But they had to put on that "upset" face for what I did to their little girl (never mind she was 36 at the time!)
Now everything is spinning so fast. I'm driving back and forth between NYC and my sister's house in Jersey, picking up a bassinet, baby stuff and other crap; it's all a blur. Oh, right, gotta get married. I FORGOT!
I'm supposed to be at the Municipal Building at 2:00 pm. It's 1:30, and I have no suit. (I'm a hippie, remember? I still don't own a suit.) I get off the subway at Wall Street, run down Maiden lane figuring to pick up a black suit jacket at Conway's. I got black pants, at least. I pick up a nice linen black suit jacket off the rack. Problem: more wrinkles than a shar-pays face (ugly dogs). ALL of them are wrinkled. 1:41 pm. I grab the jacket, run outside and see a store-front tailor. I run inside. "I'm getting married in 20 minutes! I need this pressed!" "Give it here!" This guy puts the jacket on the steam press, and in 2 minutes this thing is so pressed you could shave with the creases. "How much do I owe you?" "Ahh, it's a wedding present! Now get outta here, you got 15 minutes!" I run to the Municipal Building getting dressed along the way.
So I get there. Deb, her Mom, auntie and Gramma are there. Nobody from my family (feigned look of shock and surprise). Kyle is my best man. Well, maybe not "best", but he was pretty good. Susan is there, too. Kyle had offered to bring a camera. But Susan said she was bringing hers. So we tell Kyle don't bother bringing that nice expensive Minolta SLR High Resolution camera. Bad choice. Susan shows up with this piece of shit obsolete 110 camera, with only 4 shots left because the rest of the roll is full of her vacation in Trinidad! Needless to say, I have no pix of my "wedding". Very ghetto, Susan! Still mad at ya, but I love and forgive ya. ;-)
We get upstairs to the McDonald's of Weddings. The place is packed. The only thing missing was the drive-thru window. You heard of speed dating? This was speed wedding. Every few minutes, the judge would come out and shout "NEXT!" like the receptionist at HUD from the PJs. We were on after the Punk Rocker Wedding Party. I wish I had pictures of this! These heavy metal Punks, women and men alike, parakeet purple and silver hair-dos with studs and chains and tattoos all over their faces, were dressed in perfect tuxedos and gowns. It was high-larious! It was as if somebody had switched the heads off of some bobble-head dolls!
NEXT!
Showtime, folks! The judge (I could not see the stopwatch) explains that the vows are short; no mention of "love, honor, and obey" because the "obey" part starts too many fights and they're not married yet! Also, they don't ask "if anyone objects, speak now" because there is always some nut who comes to these things just to object and cause trouble (damn, they found me out!). So she starts:
Judge: "Do you?"
Deb: "I do."
Judge: "Do you?"
Me: "I do."
Judge: "Give her the ring. NEXT!"
Kyle starts to hand me the ring, but those of you who know me know I am not exactly the orthodox type. Instead of taking the ring, I whip out a pair of hand-cuffs I had hidden in my brand new pressed $25 Conway suit jacket. I click us together, and say, "Together forever, babe!" Kyle smacks me upside my head, by I get him back at the reception in the Chinese-Jamaican restaurant. That's right, Chinese-Jamaican. Fried rice and curry goat. Jackie Chan serving while Steele Pulse plays in the background. Was that racist? I sure hope so!
Next installment: The Birth of Ramiro.
Deb's parents knew something was up. Now it's time to face the music. I kept thinking, Deb's father is gonna kill me. We go up to the Bronx to tell them. They sit down with dour faces. I'm seated by the window, in case I need to make a quick escape. We're on the 17th floor, but I figured I'd take my chances with gravity rather than face the ire of Deb's father, Elder William Lomax of the Jehovah's Witnesses.
Deb: "Mom, Dad, I'm pregnant."
Mom: "We KNEW it! How could you?!"
Deb: "We're getting married!"
Mom: "But you sinned! You had sex outside of marriage!"
Me: "Mr. and Mrs Lomax, please understand..."
Pop: "Don't give me that, Nori! I was in World War Two! I KNOW WHAT SEX IS!"
I look out the window. 17 flights. I can make it! If I can just grab that pigeon...
Deb's folks storm off into their bedroom. But I know what they're REALLY doing. I can hear the champagne bottle pop and the streamers and horns and dancing around. YES! WE'RE GONNA BE GRANDPARENTS! But they had to put on that "upset" face for what I did to their little girl (never mind she was 36 at the time!)
Now everything is spinning so fast. I'm driving back and forth between NYC and my sister's house in Jersey, picking up a bassinet, baby stuff and other crap; it's all a blur. Oh, right, gotta get married. I FORGOT!
I'm supposed to be at the Municipal Building at 2:00 pm. It's 1:30, and I have no suit. (I'm a hippie, remember? I still don't own a suit.) I get off the subway at Wall Street, run down Maiden lane figuring to pick up a black suit jacket at Conway's. I got black pants, at least. I pick up a nice linen black suit jacket off the rack. Problem: more wrinkles than a shar-pays face (ugly dogs). ALL of them are wrinkled. 1:41 pm. I grab the jacket, run outside and see a store-front tailor. I run inside. "I'm getting married in 20 minutes! I need this pressed!" "Give it here!" This guy puts the jacket on the steam press, and in 2 minutes this thing is so pressed you could shave with the creases. "How much do I owe you?" "Ahh, it's a wedding present! Now get outta here, you got 15 minutes!" I run to the Municipal Building getting dressed along the way.
So I get there. Deb, her Mom, auntie and Gramma are there. Nobody from my family (feigned look of shock and surprise). Kyle is my best man. Well, maybe not "best", but he was pretty good. Susan is there, too. Kyle had offered to bring a camera. But Susan said she was bringing hers. So we tell Kyle don't bother bringing that nice expensive Minolta SLR High Resolution camera. Bad choice. Susan shows up with this piece of shit obsolete 110 camera, with only 4 shots left because the rest of the roll is full of her vacation in Trinidad! Needless to say, I have no pix of my "wedding". Very ghetto, Susan! Still mad at ya, but I love and forgive ya. ;-)
We get upstairs to the McDonald's of Weddings. The place is packed. The only thing missing was the drive-thru window. You heard of speed dating? This was speed wedding. Every few minutes, the judge would come out and shout "NEXT!" like the receptionist at HUD from the PJs. We were on after the Punk Rocker Wedding Party. I wish I had pictures of this! These heavy metal Punks, women and men alike, parakeet purple and silver hair-dos with studs and chains and tattoos all over their faces, were dressed in perfect tuxedos and gowns. It was high-larious! It was as if somebody had switched the heads off of some bobble-head dolls!
NEXT!
Showtime, folks! The judge (I could not see the stopwatch) explains that the vows are short; no mention of "love, honor, and obey" because the "obey" part starts too many fights and they're not married yet! Also, they don't ask "if anyone objects, speak now" because there is always some nut who comes to these things just to object and cause trouble (damn, they found me out!). So she starts:
Judge: "Do you?"
Deb: "I do."
Judge: "Do you?"
Me: "I do."
Judge: "Give her the ring. NEXT!"
Kyle starts to hand me the ring, but those of you who know me know I am not exactly the orthodox type. Instead of taking the ring, I whip out a pair of hand-cuffs I had hidden in my brand new pressed $25 Conway suit jacket. I click us together, and say, "Together forever, babe!" Kyle smacks me upside my head, by I get him back at the reception in the Chinese-Jamaican restaurant. That's right, Chinese-Jamaican. Fried rice and curry goat. Jackie Chan serving while Steele Pulse plays in the background. Was that racist? I sure hope so!
Next installment: The Birth of Ramiro.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
10. Let's Lighten the Mood a Little
Okay, so you got it so far. I'm miserable, scared, lonely, overwhelmed, horny, disorganized, unsure of myself, self-esteem shot to hell, confidence destroyed and a host of other crap that would fill a therapist's datebook.
But there are good times I can tell you about. While sailing the stormy Seas of Oblivion, it was hard to see through the Mists of Despair and recognize the shores of the Isles of Joy, especially when the charts and instruments were washed overboard. It was not even possible to take a celestial reading, as the stars were obscured by the storm clouds. But I digress...
On our first trip to Puerto Rico (Otilio was 6 months old, Ramiro had not been born yet), Debbie was flabbergasted at what bad drivers Puerto Ricans are. And I'd tell her, "You ain't seen NUTHIN' yet babe!" I had gone to PR every year since I was a child, and I have seen some pretty horrific accidents over that time. Well, one night we're driving back to Arecibo from Aguadilla (Aguadilla is in the northwest corner of the island; Arecibo is to the east, on the coast, about a third of the way to San Juan), when we see up ahead, at a highway intersection, a small car makes a hard left against the light and gets T-boned by another car going west. Panic erupts as people run out of their houses screaming, waving their hands in the air (you know how we Ricans do) because they realize the people in both cars are residents of the neighborhood. Pandemonium. Deb and I look at each other. We have to help.
We stop the car and pull over to the side. Otilio is strapped into the baby seat, sound asleep. We lock the door. Running across the lanes, we put down flares and reflectors. In all the emotional panic, no one thought to call 911. Remember, the year is 1995, and not too many people had cell phones then. The ones that were available only had 1 hour of talk time and were the size of a brick. But we had 'em! All the passengers got out of the car that was the strike-er. The strike-ee car was T-boned and bent 'round, but no one was trapped. There was a woman in the back seat, however, who was in pain and could not move her neck. We told her to be still; I was on the phone with 911 (Puerto Rican style) arguing with the operator because I did not know the exact location of the accident. I finally shouted to her, "¡Pendeja! Manda una patrulla desde Aguadilla a Arecibo. Cuando ves un choque, ¡allí estamos!" "Asshole! Send a patrol car from Aguadilla to Arecibo. When you see a car accident, there we are!"
Meanwhile, we are trying to keep the injured woman from moving; her neck injury could lead to a spinal problem, and she needed to be immobilized. Debbie and I try to keep people from pulling her out of the car. "¡Los paramédicos están en el camino! Si la mueves, se pondrá peor!" "The paramedics are coming! If you move her she could get worse!" All of a sudden, the woman's sister shows up, climbs in the car crying, and tries to hug her! I start screaming: "¡No la mueves! ¡Saca esa muchacha! ¡Sacala, sacala!" "Don't move her! Get that woman out of here! Get her out, get her out!" I didn't want this girl to be paralyzed!
Finally, an ambulance shows up. But where is the driver? The crowd looks around, and we see this little Cantinflas-looking guy, reminded me of Nature Boy from Bugs Bunny. He's wearing a white lab coat and all, but walking in and out of the crowd, trying to lose himself in the commotion. The crowd grabs him and pushes him forward. "Good, you're here! She needs to be immobilized before you put her on the stretcher." "I can't do that." "Why not?" You have to wait for the paramedics." "And who the hell are YOU?" "I just drive the ambulance!"
You see the commercials for Puerto Rico USA, but PR is still very much a third world country. You call for a paramedic, and they send a Domino's Pizza delivery guy! Two cop cars pull up. Thank God. But we are up in the mountains, and the police radios don't work! So what do they do? THEY BORROW MY CELL PHONE! Now we hear a God-forsaken scream of the screech of tires. All those flashing lights and flares and reflectors, and some prick-head in a pimped out van sees NONE of this and almost plows into the crowd! Stupid spic drivers!
Another car pulls up. It's a Puerto Rican guy from the Bronx with his wife, on vacation in PR. And they both just happen to be paramedics! They even have some gear in their rent-a-car! I get my cell phone back; they check the victim, relay the vitals to me, and I relay them to 911. Deb is doing crowd control, keeping people away from the crash. Otilio is still asleep in the car seat. Where are the cops? Why, having donuts of course! And Nature Boy the Pizza guy? We had to save him from being lynched, because the crowd was angry that this guy didn't even know how to use a band-aid and he was the first to show up!
The paramedic couple is working on the victim. A fire brigade with PROPERLY trained medical personnel finally shows up. I retrieve my cell phone, my wife and baby, and we pull off.
"So, Deb, wanna get a drink?"
"Rum and Coke, please!"
But there are good times I can tell you about. While sailing the stormy Seas of Oblivion, it was hard to see through the Mists of Despair and recognize the shores of the Isles of Joy, especially when the charts and instruments were washed overboard. It was not even possible to take a celestial reading, as the stars were obscured by the storm clouds. But I digress...
On our first trip to Puerto Rico (Otilio was 6 months old, Ramiro had not been born yet), Debbie was flabbergasted at what bad drivers Puerto Ricans are. And I'd tell her, "You ain't seen NUTHIN' yet babe!" I had gone to PR every year since I was a child, and I have seen some pretty horrific accidents over that time. Well, one night we're driving back to Arecibo from Aguadilla (Aguadilla is in the northwest corner of the island; Arecibo is to the east, on the coast, about a third of the way to San Juan), when we see up ahead, at a highway intersection, a small car makes a hard left against the light and gets T-boned by another car going west. Panic erupts as people run out of their houses screaming, waving their hands in the air (you know how we Ricans do) because they realize the people in both cars are residents of the neighborhood. Pandemonium. Deb and I look at each other. We have to help.
We stop the car and pull over to the side. Otilio is strapped into the baby seat, sound asleep. We lock the door. Running across the lanes, we put down flares and reflectors. In all the emotional panic, no one thought to call 911. Remember, the year is 1995, and not too many people had cell phones then. The ones that were available only had 1 hour of talk time and were the size of a brick. But we had 'em! All the passengers got out of the car that was the strike-er. The strike-ee car was T-boned and bent 'round, but no one was trapped. There was a woman in the back seat, however, who was in pain and could not move her neck. We told her to be still; I was on the phone with 911 (Puerto Rican style) arguing with the operator because I did not know the exact location of the accident. I finally shouted to her, "¡Pendeja! Manda una patrulla desde Aguadilla a Arecibo. Cuando ves un choque, ¡allí estamos!" "Asshole! Send a patrol car from Aguadilla to Arecibo. When you see a car accident, there we are!"
Meanwhile, we are trying to keep the injured woman from moving; her neck injury could lead to a spinal problem, and she needed to be immobilized. Debbie and I try to keep people from pulling her out of the car. "¡Los paramédicos están en el camino! Si la mueves, se pondrá peor!" "The paramedics are coming! If you move her she could get worse!" All of a sudden, the woman's sister shows up, climbs in the car crying, and tries to hug her! I start screaming: "¡No la mueves! ¡Saca esa muchacha! ¡Sacala, sacala!" "Don't move her! Get that woman out of here! Get her out, get her out!" I didn't want this girl to be paralyzed!
Finally, an ambulance shows up. But where is the driver? The crowd looks around, and we see this little Cantinflas-looking guy, reminded me of Nature Boy from Bugs Bunny. He's wearing a white lab coat and all, but walking in and out of the crowd, trying to lose himself in the commotion. The crowd grabs him and pushes him forward. "Good, you're here! She needs to be immobilized before you put her on the stretcher." "I can't do that." "Why not?" You have to wait for the paramedics." "And who the hell are YOU?" "I just drive the ambulance!"
You see the commercials for Puerto Rico USA, but PR is still very much a third world country. You call for a paramedic, and they send a Domino's Pizza delivery guy! Two cop cars pull up. Thank God. But we are up in the mountains, and the police radios don't work! So what do they do? THEY BORROW MY CELL PHONE! Now we hear a God-forsaken scream of the screech of tires. All those flashing lights and flares and reflectors, and some prick-head in a pimped out van sees NONE of this and almost plows into the crowd! Stupid spic drivers!
Another car pulls up. It's a Puerto Rican guy from the Bronx with his wife, on vacation in PR. And they both just happen to be paramedics! They even have some gear in their rent-a-car! I get my cell phone back; they check the victim, relay the vitals to me, and I relay them to 911. Deb is doing crowd control, keeping people away from the crash. Otilio is still asleep in the car seat. Where are the cops? Why, having donuts of course! And Nature Boy the Pizza guy? We had to save him from being lynched, because the crowd was angry that this guy didn't even know how to use a band-aid and he was the first to show up!
The paramedic couple is working on the victim. A fire brigade with PROPERLY trained medical personnel finally shows up. I retrieve my cell phone, my wife and baby, and we pull off.
"So, Deb, wanna get a drink?"
"Rum and Coke, please!"
9. So Lonely...
3/22/08 9:52 PM
Forgive me but I must vent.
I had back spasms for the past 3 days. Today I could not move. Nothing done. No laundry, messy house, can hardly stand. How can I do this alone? She took care of me. Am I spoiled? I needed her. Who will take care of me now? I have no one.
If one more person says to me "you're not alone, you have the boys", I will slap them into next week. Without going into detail, I made Otilio cry with all the responsibilities and chores I gave him today because I could not move. He was crying and said "Papi, I'm only 12!" A wake up call that really made me feel like shit. I need a companion. I cannot make love to my sons (hold all wise-ass remarks). I cannot converse with them or confide in them on an equal level. Yes, they are my companions, but the are my charges first. How many times can I talk about SpongeBob and Dragonball Z?
With Debbie I felt young. Now I feel so old. Some foxy supermodel types moved down the hall from me. Stunning chicks, partying late into the night. Across the hall from them, some Limey Brit moved in too. I never used to care. Now I am envious and sometimes angry. They are so free. Even married with kids, I felt a degree of freedom. Now I feel shackled and imprisoned.
I'm so crazy for companionship, I'm ready to study with those oh-so-whacky Jehovah's Witnesses. I have no intention of being baptized into their little cult. I have been too open-minded and tolerant of others' beliefs to turn my back on my beliefs and accept their dogma. I have no use for dogma. A man's actions determine his final judgment, not his lip service. No one can ever make me believe otherwise. Besides, If I need a blood transfusion, I don't care if it's lizard blood or horse piss, pump me up!
No man is an island. Solitude can be murder. I stare at the walls and the floor and watch the hours and days slip by. Not fulfilling at all. She found solace in her faith. She found happiness in her religion. But to thine own self be true. I have my own mind. No elder or clergyman who is just as fallible as I, whose farts smell just as rosy, who eats when hungry just like me, will ever control me or convince me he has a direct line to Jehovah God Allah Buddha Jesus Chango or whatever name you want to assign to the Creator and Source of All Things. Besides, if I joined the JWs, they'd disfellow my tolerant ass in about a week.
Think of this irony. I must be the only person on the planet who WANTS a bible study but can't get one! Every one else heads for the hills when the JWs come around on Saturday mornings. I set myself on fire to grab their attention and invite them in, but they're not interested. I'm told to go to my wife's former congregation and ask for a study. My response is, you people hassle strangers at home, you go to crack houses and brothels and prisons, and you plant yourselves by the subway turnstiles. Why cant you drag your magazine-pushing asses my way? I'll tell you why. THEY WANT THE TRUTH, THEY WANT THE TRUTH, BUT THEY CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH! And the truth is, you don't have to be a JW to get God's grace. You just have to be a good person. By their logic, a bad JW can get grace, but a good Santero cannot. Sorry, Charlie. Can't buy that load. Besides, some of the stories Debbie told me leads me to believe that JWs can be just as freaky as the rest of us. But if it will alleviate my solitary confinement, I will study with them. At least for as long as they can handle me. Some of these JW chicks are cute, and religious girls and minister's daughters (finish the thought yourself).
I don't want to be alone. I want a wife at my side. A companion with whom to face the world. Someone to grow old with and love and be loved. Someone who will love my kids and whom my kids will love. Someone to take care of me, and whom I can take care of.
Right now, I still feel like shit.
Forgive me but I must vent.
I had back spasms for the past 3 days. Today I could not move. Nothing done. No laundry, messy house, can hardly stand. How can I do this alone? She took care of me. Am I spoiled? I needed her. Who will take care of me now? I have no one.
If one more person says to me "you're not alone, you have the boys", I will slap them into next week. Without going into detail, I made Otilio cry with all the responsibilities and chores I gave him today because I could not move. He was crying and said "Papi, I'm only 12!" A wake up call that really made me feel like shit. I need a companion. I cannot make love to my sons (hold all wise-ass remarks). I cannot converse with them or confide in them on an equal level. Yes, they are my companions, but the are my charges first. How many times can I talk about SpongeBob and Dragonball Z?
With Debbie I felt young. Now I feel so old. Some foxy supermodel types moved down the hall from me. Stunning chicks, partying late into the night. Across the hall from them, some Limey Brit moved in too. I never used to care. Now I am envious and sometimes angry. They are so free. Even married with kids, I felt a degree of freedom. Now I feel shackled and imprisoned.
I'm so crazy for companionship, I'm ready to study with those oh-so-whacky Jehovah's Witnesses. I have no intention of being baptized into their little cult. I have been too open-minded and tolerant of others' beliefs to turn my back on my beliefs and accept their dogma. I have no use for dogma. A man's actions determine his final judgment, not his lip service. No one can ever make me believe otherwise. Besides, If I need a blood transfusion, I don't care if it's lizard blood or horse piss, pump me up!
No man is an island. Solitude can be murder. I stare at the walls and the floor and watch the hours and days slip by. Not fulfilling at all. She found solace in her faith. She found happiness in her religion. But to thine own self be true. I have my own mind. No elder or clergyman who is just as fallible as I, whose farts smell just as rosy, who eats when hungry just like me, will ever control me or convince me he has a direct line to Jehovah God Allah Buddha Jesus Chango or whatever name you want to assign to the Creator and Source of All Things. Besides, if I joined the JWs, they'd disfellow my tolerant ass in about a week.
Think of this irony. I must be the only person on the planet who WANTS a bible study but can't get one! Every one else heads for the hills when the JWs come around on Saturday mornings. I set myself on fire to grab their attention and invite them in, but they're not interested. I'm told to go to my wife's former congregation and ask for a study. My response is, you people hassle strangers at home, you go to crack houses and brothels and prisons, and you plant yourselves by the subway turnstiles. Why cant you drag your magazine-pushing asses my way? I'll tell you why. THEY WANT THE TRUTH, THEY WANT THE TRUTH, BUT THEY CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH! And the truth is, you don't have to be a JW to get God's grace. You just have to be a good person. By their logic, a bad JW can get grace, but a good Santero cannot. Sorry, Charlie. Can't buy that load. Besides, some of the stories Debbie told me leads me to believe that JWs can be just as freaky as the rest of us. But if it will alleviate my solitary confinement, I will study with them. At least for as long as they can handle me. Some of these JW chicks are cute, and religious girls and minister's daughters (finish the thought yourself).
I don't want to be alone. I want a wife at my side. A companion with whom to face the world. Someone to grow old with and love and be loved. Someone who will love my kids and whom my kids will love. Someone to take care of me, and whom I can take care of.
Right now, I still feel like shit.
8. Si Tu Supieras... (If Only You Knew...)
The English will come after the Spanish
3/15/08 3:26 PM
Ay Dacyl. Si tu supieras la angustia, la tortura, los dolores que paso cada minuto de mi vida castigada... No puedo concentrar. No puedo dormir. No puedo reir. No puedo sonreir. No puedo comer. Sufro solo. Si no fuera por mis hijos, me ire con ella. AAYYY dolor.... Y yo aqui solo solo solo. Cada sombra, cada hoja, cada movimiento y veo su cara y me siento culpable por su muerte. Debia yo prevenir esto. Debia yo salvarla. Debia yo construir un palacio en los nubes para ella, en vez de este porqueria de apartamento en NYC. Me falta sus besos, sus sonrisas, su amor. Mi cama esta vacia. 22 años. Maldita soledad. Queria ir a la vejez con ella. No quiero morir solo. Suplico a Dios de los ejercitos que me bendice con otra compañera de mi alma, como hizo para Job. El miedo que tengo es horrible. Temo salir de mi casa. El mundo se pone a virar como un bobine, como un tornado. Me mareo. Y lloro lloro lloro como una nena. Lloro cuando ordeno un cheeseburger. Lloro cuando hablo con mis hijos. Se me salen las lagrimas como la cascada de Niagara. Tengo un puñal en mi corazon el tamaño de un 747. Nervioso. Claustrofobico cuando entro al subway.
Oh, Dacyl. If only you knew the anguish, the torture, the pain I experience every minute of my punished life... I cannot concentrate. I cannot sleep. I cannot laugh. I cannot smile. I cannot eat. I suffer alone. If not for my sons, I would go with her. OHHH, pain... And I am here alone alone alone. Every shadow, every leaf, every movement and I see her face and I feel at fault for her death. I should have been able to prevent this. I should have been able to save her. I should have built a palace in the clouds for her, instead of this piece of crap apartment in NYC. I miss her kisses, her smiles, her love. My bed is empty. 22 years. Damned solitude. I wanted to go into old age with her. I don't want to die alone. I beg God Lord of Hosts to bless me with another companion for my soul, like he did for Job. The fear I have is horrible. I am afraid to leave my house. The world starts to spin like a spool of thread, like a tornado. I get dizzy. And I cry cry cry like a little girl. I cry when I order a cheeseburger. I cry when I talk to my sons. The tears flow from me like the cascade at Niagara. I have a dagger in my heart the size of a 747. Nervous. Claustrophobic when I enter the subway.
¿Que vio ella en mi? No tenia nada, y ella me acepto. Solo tengo mi amor, mi dovocion, para ofrecer. No tenia riquezas, ni carros, ni Tommy Hilfiger. Ni lo tengo. Miro al espejo y veo basura. ¿Que vio ella? ¿Que ven ustedes cuando me miren, y ven algo de valor? Yo veo un cobarde, un vago, un arrogante. Estoy hecho al fondo.
What did she see in me? I had nothing, and she accepted me. All I had was my love, my devotion to offer. I had not riches, not cars, not even Tommy Hilfiger. And I don't have these things. I look in the mirror and I see garbage. What did she see? What do all of you see when you look at me, and see something of value? I see a coward, a lazy man, an arrogant man. I am cast to the depths.
¿Que vio ella en mi?
What did she see in me?
3/22/08 9:58 PM
Gracias por tener fé en mi. Debbie tenía fé en mi. Pero yo nunca tenía fe en mi.
Thank you for having faith in me. Debbie had faith in me. But I never had faith in myself.
Es dificil. Me hace falta el olor de café por la mañana. De verdad, ella no podia hacer café en el estilo latino. Cada taza era diferente en sabor; a veces tolerable, a veces horrible, a veces rico. Yo decia que su café era como huelles digitales: cada taza unica y sin igual (I used to call it "fingerprint coffee"!). A veces su café era tan mala que por poco vomito. Me hace falta su café mala.
It is difficult. I miss the smell of coffee in the morning. To tell the truth, she could not make coffee in the Latino style. Each cup was different in flavor; sometimes tolerable, sometimes horrible, sometimes delicious. I used to say that her coffee was like fingerprints; each cup unique and without equal (I used to call it "fingerprint coffee"!). At times her coffee was so bad I almost threw up. I miss her bad coffee.
Algun día me gusteria conocer a otra amor. Ella deseaba eso. No quiero ir a la vejez solo.
One day I would like to meet another love. She would have wanted that. I don't want to go into old age alone.
Oren para nosotros. Estoy tratando den seguir pa'lante, pero todavia lucho con hecharme la culpa por su fallecimiento. Pero si contabas cada granito de arena en toda la tierra, y lo sumabas con cada hoja en todos los bosques, y lo multiplacabas por cada gota de agua en los mares, no acercabas el amor que yo tenia para Mi Cielo.
Pray for us. I am trying to go forward, but I still wrestle with blaming myself for her death. But if you counted every grain of sand on the earth, and you added every leaf in all the forests, and multiplied it by every drop of water in all the seas, it would not even approach the love I had for My Heaven.
3/15/08 3:26 PM
Ay Dacyl. Si tu supieras la angustia, la tortura, los dolores que paso cada minuto de mi vida castigada... No puedo concentrar. No puedo dormir. No puedo reir. No puedo sonreir. No puedo comer. Sufro solo. Si no fuera por mis hijos, me ire con ella. AAYYY dolor.... Y yo aqui solo solo solo. Cada sombra, cada hoja, cada movimiento y veo su cara y me siento culpable por su muerte. Debia yo prevenir esto. Debia yo salvarla. Debia yo construir un palacio en los nubes para ella, en vez de este porqueria de apartamento en NYC. Me falta sus besos, sus sonrisas, su amor. Mi cama esta vacia. 22 años. Maldita soledad. Queria ir a la vejez con ella. No quiero morir solo. Suplico a Dios de los ejercitos que me bendice con otra compañera de mi alma, como hizo para Job. El miedo que tengo es horrible. Temo salir de mi casa. El mundo se pone a virar como un bobine, como un tornado. Me mareo. Y lloro lloro lloro como una nena. Lloro cuando ordeno un cheeseburger. Lloro cuando hablo con mis hijos. Se me salen las lagrimas como la cascada de Niagara. Tengo un puñal en mi corazon el tamaño de un 747. Nervioso. Claustrofobico cuando entro al subway.
Oh, Dacyl. If only you knew the anguish, the torture, the pain I experience every minute of my punished life... I cannot concentrate. I cannot sleep. I cannot laugh. I cannot smile. I cannot eat. I suffer alone. If not for my sons, I would go with her. OHHH, pain... And I am here alone alone alone. Every shadow, every leaf, every movement and I see her face and I feel at fault for her death. I should have been able to prevent this. I should have been able to save her. I should have built a palace in the clouds for her, instead of this piece of crap apartment in NYC. I miss her kisses, her smiles, her love. My bed is empty. 22 years. Damned solitude. I wanted to go into old age with her. I don't want to die alone. I beg God Lord of Hosts to bless me with another companion for my soul, like he did for Job. The fear I have is horrible. I am afraid to leave my house. The world starts to spin like a spool of thread, like a tornado. I get dizzy. And I cry cry cry like a little girl. I cry when I order a cheeseburger. I cry when I talk to my sons. The tears flow from me like the cascade at Niagara. I have a dagger in my heart the size of a 747. Nervous. Claustrophobic when I enter the subway.
¿Que vio ella en mi? No tenia nada, y ella me acepto. Solo tengo mi amor, mi dovocion, para ofrecer. No tenia riquezas, ni carros, ni Tommy Hilfiger. Ni lo tengo. Miro al espejo y veo basura. ¿Que vio ella? ¿Que ven ustedes cuando me miren, y ven algo de valor? Yo veo un cobarde, un vago, un arrogante. Estoy hecho al fondo.
What did she see in me? I had nothing, and she accepted me. All I had was my love, my devotion to offer. I had not riches, not cars, not even Tommy Hilfiger. And I don't have these things. I look in the mirror and I see garbage. What did she see? What do all of you see when you look at me, and see something of value? I see a coward, a lazy man, an arrogant man. I am cast to the depths.
¿Que vio ella en mi?
What did she see in me?
3/22/08 9:58 PM
Gracias por tener fé en mi. Debbie tenía fé en mi. Pero yo nunca tenía fe en mi.
Thank you for having faith in me. Debbie had faith in me. But I never had faith in myself.
Es dificil. Me hace falta el olor de café por la mañana. De verdad, ella no podia hacer café en el estilo latino. Cada taza era diferente en sabor; a veces tolerable, a veces horrible, a veces rico. Yo decia que su café era como huelles digitales: cada taza unica y sin igual (I used to call it "fingerprint coffee"!). A veces su café era tan mala que por poco vomito. Me hace falta su café mala.
It is difficult. I miss the smell of coffee in the morning. To tell the truth, she could not make coffee in the Latino style. Each cup was different in flavor; sometimes tolerable, sometimes horrible, sometimes delicious. I used to say that her coffee was like fingerprints; each cup unique and without equal (I used to call it "fingerprint coffee"!). At times her coffee was so bad I almost threw up. I miss her bad coffee.
Algun día me gusteria conocer a otra amor. Ella deseaba eso. No quiero ir a la vejez solo.
One day I would like to meet another love. She would have wanted that. I don't want to go into old age alone.
Oren para nosotros. Estoy tratando den seguir pa'lante, pero todavia lucho con hecharme la culpa por su fallecimiento. Pero si contabas cada granito de arena en toda la tierra, y lo sumabas con cada hoja en todos los bosques, y lo multiplacabas por cada gota de agua en los mares, no acercabas el amor que yo tenia para Mi Cielo.
Pray for us. I am trying to go forward, but I still wrestle with blaming myself for her death. But if you counted every grain of sand on the earth, and you added every leaf in all the forests, and multiplied it by every drop of water in all the seas, it would not even approach the love I had for My Heaven.
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