“To be so rich and humble and live a life so full and simple.”

 

“To be so rich and humble and live a life so full and simple.”

By

Manuel A Simo Maceo

 

As I was vacationing in my country from the north, on an impulse I headed northeast at dawn. I didn’t know what was driving me that way, I just wanted to leave the city and Santo Domingo and cross the island by myself. Four hours later I stopped my rented car at the highest point of the road that crosses the precipice of Sánchez going to Las Terrenas of Samana.

I stopped simply to gaze at the spectacular view of the miles of deserted beaches that were visible in the distance bellow me. From there one could see the white capes that rolled gently over the azure surface of the Atlantic and softly died on the white sands of the almost virgin beaches. 

Mesmerized by the view, I began to walk inside the descending green Forrest that boarded the road.

I spotted a Mango that hung from the tree branch almost touching the ground and grabbed it. I sunk my teeth into the sweet pulp of its body before casually continuing down towards the humble little wooden house that extended itself with four wood columns on the side of the hill.

At a little porch in front of the house an old peasant sat rocking slowly back and forth on his mahogany rocking chair while he fanned himself with a piece of a palm branch.

 

Only the sound of the breeze through the trees and the rippling sound of a little stream floating down were heard. Without knowing me, and without fear, as I approached him he kindly greeted me with.

”Welcome my friend. Is the mango sweet?”

I was embarrassed that he mentioned the mango and I offered to pay for it but he waved his hand and said

“If the tree put it low for you, it was meant for you,”

 and in the same breath asked me;

”How can we help you?

When I told him that the view and the loneliness of his house attracted me he replied.

“Yes. I imagined it was that. A lot of people have stopped to see it. I guess that for those that don’t see it everyday it’s beautiful. I perhaps don’t know how beautiful it is because I’ve seen it every day of my life.”

His wrinkled face turned to me and I could almost deduct his age.

 “Have you lived here all your life? I asked him.

He smiled as he told me.

“Yes I was born in this same little house.”

And after a small pause and with the smile still on his lips he finished his sentence with,

”I’ll probably die here.”

His last words surprise me but I saw neither fear nor any remorse on his face. Daringly I asked him;

”Excuse the question sir, but how old are you?”

He laughed out loud and it was so contagious that I ended up laughing with him and then he said.

“Put the pencil to it my friend because I don’t celebrate them, but when the ships with the gringo Marines got to Samana I already had the first of nine children.”

Perplexed I asked him,

“When the Marines got here? In 1916? And how old were you when you had your first-born?

 He thought for a second and said,

“Let’s see? Caridad, my wife was fourteen and I was five years older.”

-“If that’s the case,”

 I replied.

 “You were born in 1897. You have live a century and three years.”

He turned his face to find mine and with questions in his eyes he enquired.

”And that is?

-“A hundred an three.”

I told him as I tried to hide my surprise. Although his face showed age, his movements showed the flexibility and energy of someone much younger.

“They are a lot. No?” he proudly commented with a smile.

- “Yes, but you don’t show it.”

And I returned the thank you smile that without saying he gave me. Glancing casually into the interior of the simple and rustic wooden house, I notice that in contrast to its outside simplicity there was an electric fan, a color television, a boom box radio with CD and tape player a small gas and a refrigerator. The old man continue rocking and fanning himself and as I notice all of the electric articles inside my curiosity got the best of me and I asked him.

 “Why don’t you turn on that fan?”

He turned and casually glanced at the fan by the door and as he continue to fan himself said.

 “That rarely works. Only when there’s a strong breeze do I see it move.”

­- “What? Is it broken?

It was the only thing that it occurred to me in the form of a question.

“No. There’s no electricity and when there is, it rarely gets here.”

Intrigued to have noticed all of the electrical things that he had inside his house, my curiosity got the best of me and while I pointed to the articles I asked him;

“If the electricity doesn’t get here, why did you buy those things?”

Before clarifying he shook his head negatively and said.

“Those? I didn’t buy. Our children brought it from the North. The fan Luisito brought it. But every time he comes he lays down right here and the breeze puts him to sleep the same way as when he was a little boy He always says ‘If I could pack this breeze I would become a millionaire in the North.’ The television tube was brought by our daughter, Mercedita, to her departed mother, supposedly so that she could see the novellas but Caridad never did and when Mercedita would come she would sit under that mango tree where the chicken go to sleep. Her and Caridad with Clemencia our cousin that lives at the foot of the mountain to talk until the rooster sang at dawn. The only thing that’s good for something is the ice box.”

 I couldn’t understand how the refrigerator worked if everything else was electric. So I asked him and he replied.

“Oh, no. It doesn’t work without electricity but at least I can use it to keep the flies away from the fruits”

He looked up at the sun and said matter of fact,

“It’s time for some lunch.”

I glanced at my wristwatch and both hands split the noon mark.

“Please, pull the chair out and join me for some fruits.”

I did. The taste of the mango had left a desire fro fruits in my mouth and I couldn’t think of a healthier suggestion for lunch. He went inside and open the refrigerator and, as he had said, it was full of mangos, guavas, papayas, melons, pineapples, watermelon, oranges, bananas and every conceivable typical fruits. He pulled out a wood bowl and before I knew it we sat to enjoy a fresh fruit salad. When we finished I offered to clean the bowls and he agreed. But when I opened the water faucet by the little kitchen inside the house no water came out and I told him so. He said,

“ Yes. I know. The pressure is not strong enough to bring it up and the batteries on the electricity generator that my son brought us have to be recharged. So go down the steps and to your right you’ll see a little stream with a pond. Wash it there. And don’t worry about the Tilapias fish, they like the bits of fruits.”

I had heard the ripple of falling water but it was hidden from my view by the little house. When I got there, there was a small water cascade that fell into a crystal clear pond full of fish that invited me take off my clothe and jump in but I didn’t. That is until I heard him say,

” If you want to refresh yourself jump in. It’s nice and cool at this time of the day.”

Before he could finish I was inside it and it was just as he had said. When I came out, I felt renew and with the noon breeze, just like Luisito, I fell asleep. When I woke up the sun was going down in an orange blaze that covered the horizon.

“You had a nice long siesta.” He told me.

“I would have awaken you up but you rested so peacefully that I thought perhaps you needed the rest. You woke up just in time to see our day friend go to sleep and let the evening lady shine.”

It hadn’t occurred to me to ask him if he lived there alone. And when I did he answered.

“Yes and no. My wife, Caridad, is buried there on that little plain and so I know she’s always here. At the foot of the hill, my cousin Emilio and his wife Clemencia have their house and right over there, where the river empties into the sea, my other cousin Fernando lives with his children.”

High from where we sat I could barely see the river but he pointed it out to me and it must have been at least thirty miles away.

“When do you see him?” I asked him.

“ He was here this morning. Just before you got here. He brought me the gas for the stove on his mule.”

“Finally! “ I thought. He uses something. So I asked him,

“So you use the gas stove to cook then?

- “No. I don’t.”

He confessed.

“I don’t like the taste that the gas gives the food. I prefer the wood fire to cook.”

-“So what do you use it for?

He looked out to sea and said

“Sometimes at night, the wind from the north makes the mountain and the night cold and the house would hold it in. When Caridad was here it was good because we’d keep each other warm and in some occasions our bodies would respond like when we were young.”

 He laughed shyly and embarrassed before saying.

 “That was fun. But now a day I need something to keep the warmth in. So every once in a while I turn the stove on.”

 Soon it was dark and I wanted to leave before it got darker still but he warmed me about the treacherous winding road. I got the feeling that he wanted me to stay and keep him company and I felt incline to do so myself. So I did. We sat in his small porch and spoke about anything and everything. In the process I notice how every once in a while he would sort of jump in his chair as he stared into the sea and said,

 “There she goes.”

 After a few times I couldn’t resist it any more and I question him.

 “Why do you say that?”

He pointed out and said.

“Keep you eyes on the surface of the sea and you’ll see, once in a while, a puff of smoke. Right after that you’ll see the whales jump out of the water. There’s an old folk tale that says that every time you see one jump is another blessing to you from the sea.”

I remember my old uncle in Miches said the same thing when I was just a child. In all of the time that I had been there he had only asked me one question and it was earlier that day. Now he looked at me and asked me.

“You live in the North. Don’t you?”

I told him that I did.

“ You know, Luisito took me to the North once. He lived high in a building full of people in the middle of New York. You could see it was a rich area because I could see, from where I was, the horse drawn carriers and the big park next to it. But when I walked the sidewalks the people looked scared and suspicious. As if by looking at them you would try to steal their souls. Everything and everyone were moving so fast as if by doing so they could grab more of life. It took me a day to get there and a week to get back.”

- “How’s that?”

I wondered out loud.

“The only thing that made me stay the week was the fear I had for getting in the plane.” He laughed.

“ I had never held my ass so tight as when I was in the air. I had never been more scared. And I swore I would never fly again.”

- “So how did you get back?”

-“My son, Luisito, bought each of his brothers and sisters that lived there a ticket in fancy ship that was bound for Puerto Plata and we all came back together.”

I became curious about his son and when I asked him what he did he said that he worked making money for other people at a big investment company on Wall Street and that he had a big house in the town of Terrenas.

“Why then” I asked “ Do you live by yourself up here?”

He pointed to the skies and said.

” But I already told you.  I’m not alone. My Caridad is right there and every night she prays with me and the moon and the stars keep me company. During the day, the birds and the sun keep me entertained. When the breeze blows at noon it lulls me to sleep and at the proper time it also wakes me up. The trees give me all of the fruits that I can eat, and the river gives me all the water that I need. My children are all grown and they have their own lives to lead and yet when they seek peace they come here, to the side of this mountain, and to me.”

I had never met anyone so content with life and nature and without realizing with the tone of his voice I went to sleep.

I slept on the porch that night on an old army cot right next to him. When I woke up to the birds and the roosters’ songs he was already up. The scents lead me to him and I found him squatting next to a little circle made, with bricks that served as his stove, as he fixed eggs with toasted water bread and fruits with hot nutmeg chocolate and vanilla sticks for breakfast. I wanted to give him something for his hospitality but I knew that he would feel insulted, so without he seeing me I took a small golden chain and crucifix that I had around my neck and placed it on a nail inside his door. When it was time to leave we shook hands and for the first time I heard his name.

“I’m Luis Sanchez. It was a pleasure having you here.” 

-“ The pleasure was mine.” I responded gratefully.

 After that he asked me to…

“Come again soon and take some mangos for the road. “ which I did.

The next time I was home from the north I went back to Sanchez but when I got there were other people living in the house. It was one of his many cousins, Andres and his family. They greeted with the same cordiality as don Luis had and when I asked for him they told me he had died a few days earlier. They found him in his rocking chair a few hours after his heart stopped beating from old age.  I tried to find out if that little piece of land was for sale now that he was dead but found out that it wasn’t; That he didn’t own just that piece of land where the house stood, that all the land surrounding him all the way to the sea was his. He had inherited from his parents, who inherited it from their parents parents, that had been given to them by royal decree hundreds of year before and he shared it with his many cousins. He was rich beyond my imagination and yet he chose to live and die in the same place that he was born only with what the land gave him. By coincidence, his son, Luisito, arrived as I was there and when I introduce myself it made me feel good that Don Luis had told him of my one day and night stay.

“He liked you.” Luisito said.

-“I only spent one day with him and in that day I learned to love him.”

I told him from the heart.

“Our father had that effect on people.”

He said sadly.

“He never stopped anyone of us from leaving and making our own lives in the north but he always said that everything we ever needed to live was right here. I’m just sorry to that it took his death to make me realize how right he was. I’m never going back there.”

As we spoke, I started walking to where I knew he would be at and found his grave right next to his wife, Caridad. A simple cross stood over it with the name Luis Sanchez - 1897-2003- engraved on it and at the head of the cross hung the gold chain that I had left him. I’ve stopped twice since and spent the afternoon just looking at the same view. And before I leave I go to his grave to say hello and goodbye and the chain remains untouched. But must of all I think of the lesson that Don Luis gave me. To be so rich and humble and live a life so full and simple.

 

(C) 11/14/2000 Manuel Arturo Simó,. All Rights Reserved. 

 

“A citizen’s opinion; A solitary voice in, and from, the wilderness.The Charlotte Affair”

“A citizen’s opinion”

“A solitary voice in, and from, the wilderness”

“The Charlotte Affair”

By

M.A.Simo

-         

If you read this is – or not- is because at one time or another our paths have crossed and you are considered, at the least by me, a family, intimate, a distant friend or merely a casual acquaintance that at one given time exchanged e-,mails.

Therefore to avoid any sign of prejudicial preference or distinction; since it’s an “Opinion” that would be impossible to express to each of you in  an individual basis,  I've decided to address myself to you collectively and in alphabetical order.

If you have an opinion; share it in the same way in which without reservation I tangibly put down my thoughts for you to read and, I will give you my word, whether I agree with your thoughts or or not, that I will pass it on in the same fashion that I hope you'll send this “Opinion” forward to whomever you think would objectively read it.

The questioning of “Should we truly be two societies? The have and the have Not society; or are world and climate events leading us to the inevitable reality that we should all be a rich and middle class society with inalienable rights united  for the benefit of all and the environment in which we reside?” 

The sacred words that he predicated during times of paganism and imperial oppression were, “Love one another,” not , “Love you first... and then the other.”

It's the premise of the debate. It is the reason behind my exposed perspective of our present and shared situation.

I pledge my first allegiance the first day of my, ethnically segregates, ninth grade class at Thomas Knowlton, Junior High school # 52 in the south Bronx, six days into my thirteen year and on the day in which most Latin American countries celebrate the bringing of gift to the newborn in the manger by “ Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar ;The Three Kings Day.” January the sixth of nineteen sixty five.

Five years after, as my older brother had done before me, I voluntarily took, as a then legal alien and still not a naturalized citizen, my military oath to defend the democratic ideals of this nation. 

A few weeks earlier, December twentieth to be exact, in the time that it took the silver wings of VIASA to carry us from the West Indies to the decimated borough of the city of New York, our odyssey towards the pursuit of happiness in The United States of America began for my two brothers and I. Instantly we went from being the wealthy sons of an industrialist father, to the poor ones of a mother who was a humble, factory shoe maker.

Half a century later, through the opportunities afforded by our adopted land, like the ashes of a phoenix, the three of us, an accomplished Merger and Adquisitions Director and CPA, a Deputy Minister of Tourism and Dominican Reform Activist, and an a Public Relation Coordinator, ex Radio Station Manager and aspiring writer, rose through the available cracks to become proud and productive parents, grandparents and citizens, caught amidst turbulent times of this twenty first century, seeing the prevailing dreams that we hoped for our children and their children possible disappear before their time.

The following is my ambidextrous, not right or left, opinion. What you'll read is what I perceived in a period of two weeks, in two radically opposed conventions and in the reasoning of a first Lady and two American Presidents embroiled in a dogged battle for survival. I titled it “The Charlotte Affair.”

 “The Charlotte Affair”

There are epic, mesmerizing moments in human history that draw us in from the comfortable, exiled, bleacher seats from which we watch our world unfold and make us, in our own individual way, join the individual and collective scream in the middle of the wilderness.

The three day Charlotte Affair did that for me as I’m sure it did for a great multitude of idle citizens blinded by divisive political allegiance and not by righteous common sense of a society  beneficial to the aspirations of all.

It was impossible not to be inspired by the eloquent magic and conviction of those speaking from all segments of society on behalf of the logical and conscientious path that, I believe, we need to continue following.

Each one of the three evenings was like a symphonic crescendo that reached its climatic peak on Thursday, when, “B.H.O,” aka, “Barry” took over the director’s baton. 

She preceded him and came in stage left to the centered podium, while he did it stage left and walked toward her. Their bodies met precisely in the middle of the dark mahogany, wooden convention platform of the Time Warner Cable Arena in Charlotte, North Carolina; a site that once ago had served as one of the centers for the sale of Africans into human bondage in the eventual “Dixie” of America.  

She was wore a purple dress sprinkled with white shapes that barely touched her neck and flowed along her shapely curves to just above the bend of her knees.

He wore a dark blue suit and light blue tie that accented his ivory and ebony, amber tanned face and big ears.

In between a sweet and tender public embrace, in which their hands gently caressed each other’s back, her lips were seen softly mumbled as she, at the lobe of his right ear, whispered…“Go get them, baby.”

It was the inevitable moment that had been familiarly set up by her on the same stage on Tuesday night, when the windy city daughter of a Democratic precinct captain and city water employee with the personal, French, first name and the historically recognizable name of “Robinson,” -synonymous with “Jackie,” the color barrier breaking athlete, who like Clinton, wore the number forty two - took center stage. 

Michelle spoke, in her inimitable Capricornia way, and once again helped us pictured, in collages of words for the canvas of our minds, what most of us already knew about her proud, humble, and formative years in the small and happy home in which she grew.

Now she, openly preached to the quire about the lifetime partner that happens to be the father of her children and the time honored love of her life and our president.

In that instance, from my solitary perspective, what had transpired in Tampa the week before instantly dissolved, among the rear winds of Isaac, into insignificant and illogical political rhetoric and inspired my voluntary inclusion, from the exile of my four walls, into the spirit of America's battle for the inalienable right for choice of destiny.

To second the first lady's initial motion towards what should be a crystal clear choice, she was followed by Bill, “Bubba,” Clinton, the evening of Wednesday.

In his own, incomparable, Arkansan reasoning, twang, Bill became an expert and irrefutable witness against the prosecution. 

He laid it out in the same silky fashion in which he had withstood Washington's lash on his back in the mid-nineties. When, even with lipsticks circles in his trouser, they couldn’t stop him from resurrecting, at the end of the twentieth century, a middle class that was born after the end of the “Mighty, Righteous and Victorious,” Second World War; The admittedly economic escalon that helped the middle class flourish with a  post war industrial boom which was still infant prior to the tragic days of the mythical “Camelot” White House.

It was a passionate defense for the survival of a social status that he had helped ferment and that was consumed by the Military Industrial Complex that "Ike" warned about and the fictional, Wall Street, “Gordon Gekko,” fallacy that “Greed is good for America” instead of measurable responsibility.

They had maltreated him for the single weakness that befalls the male of the species; the same one that in the precincts of the man’s inner self, we men will admit to; “A man’s innate  inability to defeat the persuasive voice, that guides one of our two heads,  and eliminates the most compelling argument in order not to turn down the mouth of a young, new flower, heatedly inspired by our experiences or achievement.

If we said; “Let he that is without sins, throw the first stone” and we were all truthful, few stones would be thrown. 

Here was Bubba’s opportunity for the vindication of his achievements as well as  his opening statement in defense against the route that the opponent suggest we take.

In contrast with another moribund ideology, at the same time, this instant was the “History Shall Absolve Me” moment of two American Presidents, the forty second and the forty fourth; the latest whose number of succession reminds us of the same digits worn by two eventual giants of the grid iron fields of Syracuse whom in their individual personalities chipped a little of the granite path for us.

One, the incomparable Jim Brown, the Cleveland Brown’s  great, rebellious running back and barrier breaking actor who admittedly told the comedic genius of Richard Pryor “So, what are you going to do about your embarrassing problems with the cocaine pipe, Rich?” and the tragic and gentle immortal, Ernie Davis, the other.

Two dignitaries from different ethnic back ground and social spectrum morally united in defense of dignity and the logic of bilateral cooperation. A moment that ironically, and unlike the original one, was taking place on the Democratic Political convention of the biggest consuming oriented society in the planet.

William Jefferson Clinton, was a peasant and royal oxymoron in his cool and calm southern rhythm. He was adamant in his purpose and determined in his resolved to obliterate, without a single shadow of a doubt, every single, contradicting and illogical argument spewed forth from the “right” and equally “wrong “opponents.

 Now was his time of retribution and he pointed it out by symbolically aiming an index finger in the air toward the invisible blackboard of a science that is precise; the application of which had once upon a time during his leadership given us a brief whiff in the breeze of the way the aroma in which the air’s perfume should smell and feel for all; the “We the people” feeling. Not the first you, and then, we, feeling.

“Arithmetic!” Bubba shouted. A fact that the Mayan and the Incas civilizations knew, even before the Wampanoag settled in Plymouth; a science which never fails. 

Arithmetic; the undeniable fact that you and I are two equal. That two and two will always equal four!  Simple! 

In what was utterly genial in its delivery, Bill employed a most humble, diplomatic and profanity free way of eradicating arrogance and an ignorance with the use of the common people's phrase of…“It takes some brass to attack a guy for doing what you did.” The proverbial…”Touché.”

His tale was a white haired, round table Knight, discourse on why the concept of running a country, like running a business, could lead to running a country for the profits of business, which could result on the already evident early omens of oppression by the ongoing acts of voter’s obstruction.

Most Caribbean, that for economic or political reasons migrated and settled in the United State part of North America can attest about and against the doctrine of “running a country for business.” They have the undesirable tendency to turn into ruthless alliances that repressively evolve into dictatorships.

Think of the Somoza’s, The Batista and, my own, the Era of our “Benefactor,” Trujillo and "Papa Doc," Francois Duvalier.

“Where there is subjugation there’s ultimately “insurrections.” Most are violent; like the one in “Quisqueya” in sixty five, which was revolting in the inevitable and wasteful ultimate sacrifices committed by a brother's arm conflict strife against a brother.

In America, at this junction and time, any miniscule and inappropriate attempt by the Elephant followers to circumvent the process, if witness by the Mule back riders, could spark one almost entirely by design.

America’s streets and barns are arsenals of weapons and their experienced users and those who intend to usurp Lincoln’s pledge in  Gettysburg of “A government of the people by the people, for the people.” will only, as Yamamoto once prophesied; “Awake a sleeping giant.” that at this frustrating and demanding stage of our history should not be... “Disturbed or tested.”

Bubba, was masterful, but now came the awaited time of rebuttal of what had been tried to be distorted by the one who, like “Bubba,” was unmercifully hounded for trying to do, under extreme circumstance, the actual doing to correct a mess inherited from eight years of “W”.

He told the facts without hubris and in a most brutally honest way, reminded us that; “You didn’t put me here to tell you what you wanted to hear; you put me here to tell you the truth.”

There, before our expectant eyes and in-tuned ears, stood a once unlikely candidate that behind the arduous forward struggle of his predecessor, and with the promise of “Hope” for the people forever changed a union and defeated the once invincible “Jim Crow” and the proverbial Status Quo.

Poised behind the podium now stood an elegant, eloquent, humorous and  incumbent “Commander in Chief and President” who surfaced from within the rose cracks of the sidewalks, on the bended back of the few steps that America and economic opportunity afforded in order to be able to walk, study and distinguish himself, within the elite sacred and hollow, halls and walls of learning of the “Ivy league.”

A missionary who amble the paved and still same paths in Lincoln's state, who, unlike his opponent, was not born with a silver spoon in mouth, lived in the real time world and by no means was willing to concede to the backward illusory narrative of an Alternative Universe.

He justly deliberated on something that a generation of us “Baby Boomers” had been waiting to see and hear since the “Flower Children’s" days when, from an unwanted, unjust and obligated conflict in the delta we returned and were despised for it by them.

Here was a diplomat that finally envisioned and recognized the emotional residue that eternally remains in the memories of actual veterans of modern combat and their need to be helped with the malignancy of post dramatic trauma and in the gradual re-integration of them into the norms of society after servicing and defending the cause with the ultimate selflessness and sacrifice. 

Who could debate the Solomon mind of a soul who advocates in favor of the strongest and smartest of our human genders for their inalienable right to decide for their creation bodies for themselves?

Who, that is faithful believer in the biblical words could believe that a man who openly confesses to an entire nation; “I'm far more mindful of my own failings, knowing exactly what Lincoln meant when he said, "I have been driven to my knees  many times- oh lord- by the overwhelming conviction that I had no place else to go;" could be percieved as a non-believer?

The human earthling that so eloquently cited those words has to be, by the content and meaning of the words themselves, righteous.

Who could one not laugh at the reality of the sarcastic humor that echoed in gest the cynicals voices in the corridors of Washington; “Feel a cold coming on? Take two tax cuts, roll back some regulations, and call us in the morning,”

Someone like that has to have been placed on us to see the irony, frustration and realities that he reflects to and for us. 

How could one argue with a reason that professes: “As Americans, we believe we are endowed by our Creator with certain inalienable rights, rights that no man or government can take away.” How could any reasonable mind argue against that?      Is the embodiment of democracy; the sustaining pillars of the  founding fathers declaration.

When he clamored; “We insist on personal responsibility, and we celebrate individual initiative. We're not entitled to success. We have to earn it. We honor the strivers, the dreamers, the risk- takers, the entrepreneurs who have always been the driving force behind our free enterprise system, the greatest engine of growth and prosperity that the world's ever known.” How much clearer of a statement is required for the other side?

He is not demanding anything but the responsible share of the collective pie, the collective dream, the collective pursuit of happiness and the American Dream.  Who could argue with the vision that a Healthy American people will not be happier and more productive if given the opportunity?

In conclusion, I find it incomprehensible that those wealthier and more affluent in our society would not want a healthier and relaxed society from the ever impending doom of medical cost. The result would invariably be a happier citizen, a more productive and creative worker that will inevitably motivate the evolution of the lower and middle class and by natural default, “Profits.”

Collaboration and responsible share is the undeniable path for all our disputes and all our resolutions. I, all for one and one for all,  will contribute with these thoughts to the defense of logic, arithmetic and my elected president, Barack Hussein Obama,  as a solitary voice in and from the wilderness.

As promised, here’s the true begining of “Historia de un Adolescente “ ( A Teenager’s Tale). As told in the first person. This time I’ll reserve my comments and let you read, however, it is depending on “your comments” whether or not I continue to do this or to simply continue on my own to do the translation until it is a finished. If you care, let me know.

“A Teenager’s Tale”

It came to my mind suddenly. Throughout her life she had always insisted that our lives had been like a novel and it was worth writing and in a spontaneous moment, after her departure from this world, I told my mind. "Before your days end write it down. The real story; That of happiness and moments of anguish and pain; the one of truths and lies. "

I always thought my imagination, apart from my feelings for my family, and the god whom I, without idolizing believe in, would be my redemption and that such emancipation was waiting in front of the computer, in  the new study room that I had recently built, to isolated me from rest of the home and liberate me to concentrate on writing every memory and consequently hers and my family. But now, amid smoke puffs of cancer sticks, and the reverberating sound of Celia Cruz’s "Latin-American Passport,” bouncing of the walls I finally concluded that there was no need to implement the imagination, I simply had to adopt the right words to describe it and the time to meditate about the past. The story was not just hers and the family, it was mine as well and, regardless of the format involved in which I disclosed its context, I’m sure someone will find something of value or perhaps similar to their own life. Anyway, without giving importance to symbolic clarifications, someone will imagine the concept through my words and how, most of all, my mind grabbed and pictured what my mother and some of my uncles revealed to me. There are some family members that tell the story their way and some that will not welcome what I write and will debate and discuss how I describe it, but since she didn't tell the story to any of them, since nobody else but me will devoted the probable endless time to write it and since is through my eyes that the reader imagination will see it, I shall title it "A Teenager’s Tales."

“Trujillo City”

My story doesn't start here. To be precise it starts in the middle of 1944 but in order to proceed

I need to continue to tell you where and when I was born. When the time came for me

to leave the comfort of my mother's womb, she, along with my father, were residing in the oldest city

in America, Santo Domingo de Guzman, in the neighborhood of San Carlos.

I was born on Sunday, December thirty first, in the year of our lord of 1950. I wish I could describe the

kind of day it was when I was born, whether it was a sunny or a rainy one, but unfortunately in that era

right smack  in the middle of the twentieth century, such data were not of great importance in the island

of Hispaniola and as such not archived, so I will assume that it was a, bright sunny day, the breeze from

the south Caribbean was cool and cruising north across the land  and the diversity of tropical birds

were in unison giving a concert on behalf of the occasion. 

Upon my arrival to this world, the city of Santo Domingo’s name  had been changed to that of  Ciudad

Trujillo in forced tribute to the colossal ego of the "Jefe," Generalissimo, Doctor Rafael Leonidas

Trujillo Molina, who, when the change was suggested, did not hesitate one second to agree to it.

According to those that were adults when it happened, within a day, it  had been made and confirmed

by acclamation by his sycophants senators. The next morning the citizens suddenly awoke to a city

with a new name. This inconceivable act was one that was not even considered by any of the many

Latin America dictators of the time. Even Anastasio Somoza, one of the most despicable one among

them, did not  think of the imprudence to name a city in Nicaragua in his name.

Amongst his many titles Trujillo was proclaimed protector and father of the new country and, over the

mute objection of the archdioceses of the church, the benefactor of the disciples of the Roman catholic

church throughout the island. He overcame their underlying objection to the title by having his secret

service planting and detonating bombs in a few churches and blaming it on the communist. Once they

agreed to openly  name him “benefactor” of the church, the bombing miraculously ceased. 

Trujillo was arguably the most bloodthirsty murderer among the dictators of South and Central America

and I was born and raised for thirteen years in the middle of his city and, in one of those unforeseen

circumstances of life, he directly played a part in my life.

Had it not been for the libidinous ritual practiced by Trujillo every Wednesday night at his San

Cristobal Mahogany ranch, perhaps my parents would never have met and, for reason that even I don't

know, I would not be telling this story.

There are people who claim that they could recall the early days of their childhood, including the day

they were born. I do not have that gift and therefore I cannot make such testimony. To write this I

relied on my mother's words, my father, uncles and family members who were present and told me 

of the late hour of the day when I finally decide to get out of my mother’s womb.

According to them, I was a twelve pounds bundle of joy, that was greeted by the outside world just as

the sound of the fire department's alarm announced midnight and the beginning of the New Year. It was

The last Sunday of 1950 and I was recorded as the last child, born in a hospital, in the half century.

That factor has significance. I do not know what nor have I been able to decipher it yet but I hope

to know before I hear my last bolero.

For some reason all women, regardless of personal beauty, are radiant after giving birth.  They told me

that, even after twenty four hours of labor with me, her beauty was almost, in the religious term, 

virginal. Those hours of labor in which I procrastinated on whether or not to come out of the

warm, comfortable belly of our mother, also had its effects on me. By Uncle Plinio's, account, I was so 

big and swollen that he took off his wrist watch and slid it on my left wrist and it fit me perfectly.

Either my good uncle was exaggerating or his wrist during that time was very skinny. It does not

usually takes me long to make up my mind, although I've had my days in which I don't know whether

to take a  step or stand still. When I was nine, Doctor Capellan, a very close friend of my father and

who had the privilege of  introducing my naked butt to the universe, told me just a few minutes before

he removed my tonsils, that I was screaming at full volume when I slid out which deprived him of the

obligatory slap in my brand new ass.  To me it makes perfect sense. I've never had much of a

threshold for pain. I guess I must have sensed that a total stranger was getting ready to spank me just

for being born.  Or who knows? Maybe I felt comfortable in my mother's womb and was not quite

ready to face the world yet.

"The Vampire Penis”

It turns out that in his mid-life Trujillo developed an affinity for young virgin girls.  Like every

man he admired the beauty of the opposite sex  and  as his absolute power grew, like a vampire, his

imperial penis developed the pleasure of being tangled only in the blood of virgins and after that  never

entered any vagina that was before him deflowered. El Jefe had a troop of spies whose sole function

was that of finding beautiful young virgins  who were worthy of his ego, to be ceremoniously

deflowered by his vampire penis. Every week these spies collected between 10 and 15 girls and took

them to the mahogany ranch house in  San Cristobal. There, Trujillo chose among them the

one or two that most pleased him to give them the privilege of being made into a woman by him or,  

 when his manhood failed, by his index finger. Of course if they were to his liking, his victims and 

their families would be favored with privileges and riches.

In mid-1944, one of the nefarious spies, as he was riding amongst the coffee hills in the high mountains of

San José de Ocoa, saw a beautiful black-haired girl who cheerfully sang as she gathered the red

beans from the coffee plants. The tall and slender brunette that his lecherous eyes had discovered years

later was to become our mother.  

"Where can I find the family of the young dark hair girl collecting the coffee?"

The spy asked Maria, her sister and the wife of Asdrubal Guerrero the owner of the coffee

plantation.  "If I may be allowed, who wants to know?" Maria cautiously and cordially asked.

"El Jefef” the man condescendingly answered her. Aware of what the man's job was and what the

question implied  Maria  lied.

 "To tell the truth, I don’t know. My husband gave her employment a few days ago. He could tell you

but he is in Bani and won’t return for couple of days. You can come back then if you want.“  The man

looked at her suspiciously and answered. “I will.”Maria returned to her routine and waited for the man to

go disappear. She quickly called her sister, took her immediately to their parents’ house and, while the rest

of the eleven brothers and sisters gathered to curiously listen, told them what happened. Contemplating what

to do and what were the alternatives, Ramon, the family's clown, sarcastically hinted.

-"You know what, Gloria. He only uses it once and then, as I have been told, his victims become rich.

If so, give it to him. You're going to lose it anyway and then the rest of us can leave this one bedroom

mansion and move to the city. "

- "Uh, uh." She said as he playfully pretended to hit her clowning brother. "He will not get it. No

matter what you say he has done after. I'm saving it for the father of my children. "

- "And who is that if I may know?" Asked Ramón.

- "I do not know." She replied. "But as soon as I see him I will tell you."

Her parents decided to hide her in Ciudad Trujillo, right under the noses of Trujillo's spies and where

virginity was less likely to be found  that in the humble hills of the country side.

She stayed at her brother's house, Manuel Urbano, whose name - since there are no other Manuel's in

the family - was eventually given to me, and whom they called "Tito," who like their  father was

a humble barber and yet, unlike his grumpy father, was a happy go lucky barber.

Six months later our mother to be was sitting in her brother's  barber chair while talking to Tito and 

her teasing brother Ramón. She spotted the tall, mulatto, who was impeccably dressed and asked:

-"Tito, who is that handsome man dressed in the white linen suit and wearing the Panama hat? "

Glancing over to where the man was leisurely approaching, Tito recognized the man and replied;

- "That is Luis Emilio Simo. The coconut man and don't even look at him because he is the biggest

womanizer in all of San Carlos. "

 Tito was not exaggerating. By the time our parents met, he already had Nilka, our oldest sister, with

Doña Maria, our second sister Haydee Mercedes with Doña Gabriela and had Doña Carmen, pregnant

 with our older brother Luis Emilio. That of course is not counting those other ladies which he

did not have any children with before each one of them and in between all of our mothers.

Luis Emilio Simo, our future father, was only 37 years old and our future mother had just turned 20.

According to what she later told me, when our father passed in front of her brother's barber shop;

 "He looked up at me and, ever so briefly, his eyes focused on my eyes and mine in his” At the same

time she said she touched Ramon's shoulders and reminded him.

 "Remember when I told you that when I saw the future father of my children I would know? “

Ramon looked at her incredulous and answered.

"Yes.” Then, as he realized whom she was referring to, emphatically told her.

“Gloria, get out of here! Please don't tell me this is him?” She confirmed it with her head.

"That's the one.  For the past few weeks I have seen him slowly walking across the street. Always

well dressed but always with an seeming loneliness that ran to my insides and  touched my heart. "Of course, unbeknownst to her, the subtle and well-dressed rounds of the coconut man were

premeditated. Our father had a habit of sitting in a chair leaning against the third door of the business

and as Diogenes, who in those days was his lackey and right hand man, told me on one occasion  when

she walked by  the store he immediately went to find out  where the lady that he began to call “La

Doña,“ lived  Six months later, he separated from Luis Emilio’s mother, Doña Carmen and moved

together in the same place where the store was located.  When Trujillo’s spies finally managed to

find her again it was too late, she had already lost her virginity to our father, the coconut man, and

regardless of how beautiful a woman was, Trujillo never inserted his manhood where other men had

been. Not even that of our mother. After I was born, the last of his four boys, for the first time in his

life, our future father, married our future mother.