“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.

Historia de un Adolescente. Life.

“The Divorce Years.”

Here I am, as Forrest Gump would say, “Again.” Though this time without the philosophy. Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, was a 16th-century philosopher who proposed no theories, put no trust in reason, and showed no desire to convince readers of anything. He contradicted himself, preferred specifics to generalities, embraced uncertainty, and followed his thoughts wherever they led. In his own view, he was, like me, only one of many of an "unpremeditated and accidental" kind. I like him, write about many things without trying to find the universal meaning of it; Poetry, romantic, tragic. Short and long stories, songs and any form that flows from my mind down to my fingers and onto the keyboard and instrument of my composition. Most things in life are as he said, "unpremeditated and accidental.” The letters that dress the empty white space in which I write were of a story that was just as he said.

The only premeditation in this, my case, was the act of researching my own mind and those of the characters, mostly families involved that shared in the shaping of the story and my life. But there were no guidelines of formats; Just the individual loneliness of a space and time with, as Hemingway said, "the unrewarding and lonesome need to tell a total stranger a tale"; Not of two cities or two lives but of one family, as I remember it, mine.

Life. A lot of people whom I have trusted my tale with, and that perhaps will read this translation of the original “Spanish” one, will perhaps noticed that -since I'm translating as I go-  for practical reasons,  in this instance I've told the story from the third person perspective rather than my original, and a bit more introspective, first person perspective and that I've used the middle names rather than first names of the characthers. I'm sure I'll get their opinion in some shape or form which in some sort of way is the reason behind this exersice. They'll also notice that I’ve begun this episode five years after my official beginning. But don’t despair –as if you will- the next chapter will flash back to that point which perhaps will make it more, should we say, “Interesting?” I've also decided to translate the next one in the original first person form which will give you another perspective and this time I hope that,  in exchange for what's freely provided, you'll comment on which one of the methods of description was more appealing to you. Is that too much to ask? I don't think so and I hope not. Not if what you read entertains you or reminds you of some semblance of your life.  
For some reason, unknown even to me, I decided to begin the translation at a very important, troublesome, and I believe, transforming chapter of the story. Life, again, taking the inadequacies of one individual, affected by the “premeditated politics” of the Omnipotent, "Walk softly and carry a big stick," "Benefactor" to the north, and by the prevalent, unilateral and "Machista" rules of the society of the island of Hispaniola at the time and era, which in turn affected the life of a few, including yours truly. And so, without any palpable delay, I reveal to you…”The Divorce Years,” of “Historia de un Adolescente”, in yet another episode of Life, Love, Truth and Lies.

“The Divorce Years"  1955

Unlike his two full brothers, Antonio and Ernesto, Arturo didn’t recall the happy times that their parents shared. Perhaps because the fierceness of the sounds of their voices, and the trauma of the experience, his first clear recollection of them was that terrible night when he heard them fight. He was only five years old.  It was a humid night in the middle of the summer. His bed was damp, and he didn’t remember if it was because at that age he used to wet his bed or whether it was just drenched due to the heat of a tropical summer’s night, but the viciousness in their voices roused him up.

“Perhaps the others allowed you to, Emilio, but not me! I want you to leave this house right now! Take your clothes and move in with your whore!”

At that time they live on number 47 Altagracia Street, named as such in honor of the Virgin patron Saint of the island which by coincidence was also their mother’s name. The small yellow chalet was located in the middle of the hill that steadily rose, between Félix María Ruiz and Ravelo, until it reached its peak at Caracas Street in the barrio of San Carlos, four or five block away from the church of the same name.  Next to the street there was an open alley that led to the row of crowded one bedroom homes in which the poor families of the neighborhood compactly lived. Their own chalet was divided in two comfortable sections. The other part was occupied by the person whom Arturo had always considered his second mother, Rosa Pozo; a dark skinned and gentle lady who had always displayed a genuine love and affection towards him, and reside next to them with her husband Papo, a gentil white man who owned a butcher stall at the Mercado and who, like Arturo, devotedly worshiped the grounfd in which Rosa walked. 

Altagracia was steaming with rage that night. The heavenly blue colored walls vibrated with violence at the thundering pitch of their voices.  Antonio, who was nine years old and Ernesto, who was seven, used to share the small loft within the chalet while Arturo, as the youngest, used the small room next to their parents’ bedroom.  When Arturo got to the area in which the argument was ferociously taking place, he wobbly joined his brothers. Together they hid behind the transparent curtain that divided the bedroom and the living room, clinging to each other’s hand in fear. Arturo could see their eyes were teary with terror as they focused on their parents’ fiery scene evolving in front of them.

 "This is my house! And I don’t care what anyone told you, I’m not going anywhere!”

Emilio’s towering figure screamed at her as he tried to make his way back into the master bedroom. Even at that age his actions seemed ridiculous to Arturo. Internally he asked himself. " Did he think that by just going back to the master bedroom the argument would finish and his mother would accept his infidelity?"
 One thing that had always been a certainty in Arturo’s and his brother’s lives was the constant smile and the melodious song in the pitch of Altagracia’s  voice. Her happiness had always filled the environment with an air of harmony and until this day neither one of them  ever imagined that they would see the ferociousness that he eyes were now revealing, nor what they were about to see.
As their father walked by the three of them on his way to the bedroom, Altagracia grabbed him by the collar of his suit and pulled him back with such strength that the momentum threw him over the sofa and against the front wall against which he crashed.  Emilio’s eyes revealed how surprised he was by the strength of her fury.  Perhaps because Arturo was nervous and had never before seen them argue or fight, he carelessly laughed out loud. His innocent reaction was due in part to the way the giant figure of his father flew over the sofa and also to the curious thing he did after forcefully shaking his head to recover his wits. Emilio looked at her, angry and incredulous of the ease and the physical strength with which she handled him, then, self-consciously, at his three boys before quickly raising the cloth of his pants to check the dark burned skinned and the scars that covered his limbs before angrily jumping to his feet and briskly shaking the cow webs from his head.  He charged after her once more and while Antonio and Arturo stayed clear away from his path, Ernesto subtly stuck out his foot and tripped him. Emilio stumbled and though he tried desperately to keep his balance, his efforts were futile and again collided violently against the wall.
Altagracia quickly pounced upon his stunned person and again grabbed him by the collar. She dragged him desperately towards the front door trying to put him out before he could  gathered his wits but Emilio regained his feet just as she was opening the front door.  Unfortunately for him, the front of the chalet had one single step before the door, and as she pushed him out he missed it and went out stumbling into the side walk. Emilio’s arms flailed wildly until he was unceremoniously stopped by the dark blue right fender her brother’s, Plinio, Impala which was now parked in front of the house. By this time the commotion coming from inside the small chalet had awaken the neighbors’ curiosity and specially that of Altagracia’s parents.

Arturo y Ramona, who lived across the Street with her sister Christina, her brother in law Ramon and their sons and daughter, had  joined the assembling crowd which by this time also included,  Altagracia’s other brothers,  Chamón, and Plinio, as well as Rosa and Papo. They had all gathered in front of the house listening to the argument, just in case the situation became more violent when, to their astonishment, Emilio came out stumbling and violently crashed against the car.

At one time or another all of Altagracia’s brothers had worked for Emilio and Altagracia at the store. But one by one they plowed their own path through education and were able to leave, although they did remained grateful to the opportunity to leave the hillside of Ocoa and come to Trujillo City. The first one to educate himself and leave him was her brother Plinio, who was the closest to her and who had progressed enough to become the undeniable leader of the Laureano family. In the middle of that night someone had called him to let him know what was happening at his sister’s house and he had come to be with the rest of the family. Years later when Arturo reminisce with him about the incident and asked him why all of them did not act before. He simply told him, “Your mother always had a loving disposition, but when she got angry all of us avoided her because she was fearless.”

Emilio sat on the sidewalk resting against the bended fender of the Impala for what seemed like an eternity shaking his head in between breath and utterly surprised by the determination and strength shown by his fuming wife. The crowd s watched him silently; nobody laughed but the smiles were evident in their eyes. He looked towards the door where, between their mother’s legs, his three fearful children stood. He looked at Antonio, Ernesto and then at Arturo whiles, the latest, nervously smiled back at him.  Suddenly something told Arturo to go back inside the house but Antonio grabbed one of his hands to make him stay the ground almost at the same time as Ernesto grabbed the other. What they could not hold was the warm little stream of wet fear that was flowing down the sides of Arturo’s legs. Arturo loved his father but he could never forget how brutally he had seen him whip his oldest sister Maria with his belt.
 All that there knew that they could never really prevent him from going back inside the house if he really decided to; nobody there had the strength to obstruct the two hundred and fifty pounds in his six foot four  frame. Only one person dared; Antonio. Emilio got up and started to walk towards the house again, when Antonio took a step forward and resolutely blocked his father’s path while at the same instance confessing: “It was me who saw you next to that other woman at the Julia’s Park, Papa. It was me who told our mother.” The night went silent and everyone stood still. The only movement was that of the crowd as they exchanged glances in the shadows with one another. Emilio felt their reproach without looking at them. There was no denying the truth and sincerity of the witness. His imposing figure stood his ground and, for a quiet moment, observed just the four of them. His son’s courageous stand had for once brought him to reason and his shoulder sagged in self defeat, when her father’s voice broke the awkward silence.

“It would be better for all concerned, Emilio, if you would find another place to live for a while.” He told him. Although Arturo Laureano was just a humble barber, something in his voice demanded respect and when he fixed his murky eyes on a person it also advice the recipient to act with caution.

"We believe that to be the best thing to do for the time being, neighbor.”

 Papo and Rosa simultaneously added. Emilio calmly heard their advice and took a step toward his children and his determined wife. He reached out to Antonio’s chin and gently stroked his face. Silently without expressing anything else he turned and walked away never again to set foot in their home. The same way Antonio, Ernesto and Arturo, knew him to be brutal, with time, they also came to know those instances in which he admitted his truth and his faults and this was one of those moments.

Atagracias’  anger soon became despair and she emotionally made her way inside followed by her children, family, Papo and Rosa. She was inconsolable and though all present tried to ease her pain, she was undeniably aware that her marriage to Emilio had come to an end.   After a while only her mother remained at her side stroking her daughter’s dark silky hair.  From the loft above his mother’s bedroom Arturo nestled in the bed his brothers rested and between them watched in silence and fear the obvious pain consuming his mother.  It had been a long, fearful and at times comical night for him and he could sense that as a result of it more pain and suffering would come their way. Antonio spent the dark of the night addressing the air in anger; when something made him angry saliva would dribble on the side of his mouth and Arturo would make fun of him which only infuriated Antonio more. He also noticed how his introverted and gentle bother, Ernesto,  was also quietly angry at his father, but then again Ernesto hardly ever voiced his feelings. This night his silence was betrayed by the glimmering tears rolling down the side of his face as he  fixed his gazed at the zinc ceiling.  After a long while, Ernesto found a lonely corner where a filtered moonbeam made a circle of light on the wooden floor and, placing one of the many books that at his young age he had already collected, tried unsuccessfully to read it.
Up to that time , it was the longest night of Arturo’s life.  Under the gentle strokes of her mother s hand over her head, his mother cried inconsolably. Arturo wished that there was something that he could do to bring her  joy back. He knew that he  had the ability to make her smile with his foolishness or simply by singing second voice to her constant songs but  he knew that it would be futile to try to do so this night.  He was still awake lying on the floor when the day broke and the roosters in the alley next to the chalet joined the nightingale’s songs. He opened the little loft window and the salty morning air rushed in and sprayed his face as he glanced to the side at the workers making their way to the Mercado.
The smell of the hot chocolate and vanilla Altagracia used to make each morning reached his nose, normally by the time the aroma reached him, he would be next to her but this time he waited to hear her voice.  Everything in the balance of things to come depended on her sound and he eagerly and fearfully waited for her pitch. It was the waiting for that one thing in particular that had kept him awake. Her ritual was always the same; her loving arms would  give each of her children a hug while at the same time individually asked them for her blessings. There was no other way to start the day and Arturo feared that after the previous night her tenderness would leave the same way his father had. When she finally called and he was able to see her face his dread disappeared. The smile on her face was the same and the song in the pitch of her voice had still the same harmonious melody. “How’s my beautiful baby?” she asked Arturo.  He wanted to say something more than what his embrace was telling her but instead he pressed his head against her chest for a little longer than usual, and finally the tears that normally came easy to his eyes sprung out. Suddenly Arturo realized that regardless of what happened from now on, as long as she was around him, everything would be fine. 
"What do you say?”. She sweetly asked him.  “Bless me, Mama”. Arturo responded. She walked to Antonio and Ernesto as Arturo grabber her skirt and followed her. The three of them surrounded her and in unison hugged her while she lovingly did the same.  She gently and playfully rubbed Antonio’s head and with her index gently lifted his chin to gaze into his eyes as she spoke to him.
“"You are and will always be my first born. I love you and I’m very proud of you. Now, since I can never return to the store, get ready to go help your older brother, Emilio, who will need your help.” Altagracia then turned her attention to Ernesto with a big and grateful smile on her face. She kneeled in front of him and enclosed him within her arms while kissing him tenderly and ceremoniously on both side of his face.  "Thank you for what you did for me last night, Ernesto, but your father could have seriously injured himself.” She paused a second while the smile grew in her face and suddenly she burst into laughter. The memories of their father slamming against the wall and then against their uncle’s car, brought about a hilarious outburst that reverberated through the kitchen and the chalet. When the laughter settled down she again addressed Ernesto and earnestly ordered him. “Now that we’ve had our laugh, it’s time for you to take that bath that you didn’t take last night. Go!”  The smile that a second ago proudly lingered on Ernesto’s face suddenly vanished as he wholeheartedly argued in vain his case to her: 
“Mama, I’m seven years old. For how many more years do I have to bathe?”
Upon hearing this complaint, Altagracia and Rosa, who had been awaken by the previous outburst, joined in  full of laughter and in between Altagracia retorted;
“ For the rest of your life! And while I’m still around to bathe you!”

They resided in the small chalet for another year until Emilio, having been denied entrance to it and to her chambers, decide not to support the household were his three sons lived. It was early one fall evening while Altagracia was serving dinner for her children that the familiar knock sounded on the front door.   Arturo followed Altagracia, while in ominous fear of the familiar knock, Antonio and Ernesto remained standing by the table. She opened the door and as expected was confronted with the figure of Emilio with a court order in his hand. He threw it at her feet condescendingly and harshly told her.
“This a court order is for you. Antonio and Ernesto are coming to live with me immediately. Arturo will stay with you until he is seven years old.”
Arturo would never forget the serene fury that his mother’s eyes and face reflected. Altagracia slowly picked up the document at her feet, she read it and icily promised Emilio.  
“I threw you out of our home because I would never accept another woman between us. I left you everything that by right was mine because I didn’t want to ruin you nor our children’s future. I hoped that what I left you was enough to let me live my life next to our children but I guess that was stupid of me. I feared that your cursed pride would sooner or later bring you to take them away but that’s the way it will be…for now. But I swear to you, Emilio, one day they will live with me again even if to do so I have to prostitute my body." 
 Arturo could see the beads of sweat forming on his father’s forehead while his enormous hands took the wrists of his two brothers. Antonio’s eyes widened with tears of terror, like two glassy half dollar coins, as they desperately sought the help from his motionless mother. Altagracia  stood in shock, paralyzed by the inevitable loss of her children, battling her own tears and  emotions in order to maintain a semblance of dignity in front of them. She could deny herself to him but she could not fight against the power of the court order that his pockets had purchased. Not finding any aid within his mother, Antonio turned his desperate gaze towards his father, hoping for that last minute miracle that would make Emilio desist from carrying on this cruel and despicable deed.

Arturo watched powerless as Ernesto furiously tried to liberate his wrist from the viselike grasps of their father while a prolonged shriek pierced the night stemming from his normally taciturn voice. But the struggle was unfruitful. Arturo sat on the front step of the chalet and silently observed his mother’s eyes as she quietly followed his father taking her children and his brothers away.   Like his mother, knew where he was taking them; he had been by his father’s house a few times since that first frightful night. This was to be his second restless and sleepless night. 
Altagracia sat in the sofa all night long staring silently into a distant and empty space without emitting a sound.  He laid in her bed and fought the weight of sleep against his eyelids in order to stay awake as he remained in dreadful vigil through the transparent curtain that divide her chamber from the living room until the morning, when his grandmother came and gently guided her to her bed and as the previous time, humming to her, caressed her hair until she finally found sleep. Arturo never understood why her mother had waited for the night to die before coming to her aid. It wasn’t until many years had passed that he learned that doing was the old country way. When Arturo questioned his grandmother, she told him.
“The night was as long and torturous for me as it was for your mother  but she had to suffer in order for her to once and for all purge herself from her life with him.”
If there was a certainty about their  father, it was his word. On the first day of January, 1958, on his seventh birthday and as the copper bells of the San Carlos church proclaimed the eighth hour of the morning, Emilio came and with him, quietly went Arturo.

Historia de Un Adolescente – Truth.

“Pórtese todos los días mejor.” (Behave better each day) Those were the last words my father told me. I could still envision him sitting on the passenger side of his car as his driver drove away.  For some reason I knew then and there that I would never see him alive again and those words have always remained with me, because I never truly followed his advice.

 Except for his business, in which he would invariably tell the proverbial business lie, our father was a brutally honest man. Those who knew him used to say “His word was gold,” which was true in the business sense. But in a relationship way he was also heartlessly cruel. At times, when he was confronted with the truth about something he had done or was doing, he’d remain silent rather than lie or to admit the truth. But I always knew when he was lying; a sly smile would always form on his lips. Even though he spent less time with me than with either of his children, he knew me best. He knew that I would do anything within my power to achieve what I wanted from him.  His actions with my mother had conditioned me to become this way.

I’m having a very difficult time writing this, it’s hard to admit the truth but I’m hoping that “The truth will set me free.” ‘What is the truth?’  I ask myself. “Is it about who I am? Or perhaps about what I’ve done?’  I’m struggling with it. “Can anyone truly describe who they are? Or what is the truth about them? I’ve been many things and yet I can’t really define which is the real me. “Can any of you reading this define your own truth?” if you can, please let me know.

“What is my spiritual truth?” All my life I’ve internally debated on that subject. I’ve tried to reason about it until a dear friend presented it to me in this simple way. “You try to analyze faith and truth from a mortal perspective and you can’t; they are both spiritual ones.” Some things have happened to me that would make another person become more in tune with their spiritualism and somehow, I never could; until now.  Or …am I? I’ve been a witness to how most people, including my father and my oldest brother, tried to find spiritualism and religion  in how Shakespeare would write “The years of their discontent” But again, there's definitely a difference between “religion and spiritualism.” To me, one is a doctrine promulgated by man and the other is an internal and individual feeling that shapes your thoughts and actions based on those intangible feelings.  So what is my truth now? Am I really reaching out to find it? Or Am I doing so because of the realization that it’s all coming to an end and want absolution? In truth, I would say the latest but at the same time because of it there have been subtle, almost unperceived events, that leads me to believe that there is indeed something, the collective and intangible “I am” that my friends call “faith.” I'm looking forward to the day in which I can proclaim with certainty that I have “Faith.”

 Most of my maternal relatives’ are Jehovah’s Witnesses’. Their blind faith in the aftermath of life is something that I’ve admired from afar but have never been able to accept or visualize. “Wouldn’t you like to see your mother waiting for you with open arm again in the coming kingdom?” My aunt Lesbia, always asks me and I would always respond “Yes” -just to please her- but without really believing it. Ironically, even though I've never preached one religion or another to them, all of my children  have acquire  that “Faith.” I also have a few friends that have tried, in vain, to steer me towards it but although I've resisted it, without realizing it, I’ve led my own path towards it.

I've seen the foot and the top of the hill. I’ve experienced the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat; I've seen the clear blue skies of success and the stormy, colorless days of failure. They say that once you've been to the top of the hill the way back to it is easy because the path has already been set. Wish I could say that's true. I guess it all depends on the person and the reasons behind the stumble.  I struggled for 15 years to reach the peak only to be sent spiraling down by the personal and vindictive agenda of one individual who had competed through his life with a rival only to end up selling his radio stations to the same company that his rival had sold his. It did not matter to him that he was no longer the owner but an emeritus employee of the new conglomerate, his only goal before departing life was to destroy, to eradicate all of the evidence of existence that his opponent had created and by coincidence the future of many people who had devotedly served the radio stations for years. In retrospect I came to understand that it was the nature of business equal to the baseball analogy that “Once a new owner comes in, he brings in his own coach” and simply because of that I lost my team. But it hurt me deeply and the fall was so hard that I've never been able – or perhaps have not wholeheartedly tried - to really recover and return to the confident and happy me that I was.  “This is depressing” some of you might be thinking and I don't disagree but it does have a happy ending or a least a “Truthful” result that might be of some consequence to you.

With the exception of “teaching” I've done a series of uninspiring jobs in order to merely “survive” and only to find myself in the same rut. Once you've reached a certain level -through work and determination- it takes a resolute mind to reach it again and in all honesty, mine wasn't. The society in which we live has a tendency to look down on you for failing and that along with some other personal mistakes made it significantly harder to climb the mountain again. In search for myself, I left Arizona and moved to Lawrence, Massachusetts. There were other objectives in the move as well. I was confident that by doing so I would help a true friend achieve what his lack of time was not allowing him to do and at the same time create something that would benefit us both, economically and emotionally, but it wasn't to be. Although I had his full economic and moral support the task that he assigned me was one that -in retrospect- he himself could not achieve; one that because of his personal relation with the person or “task” was even more impossible for me, although I've never tried harder to achieve anything in my life. It was- as I called it – “an exercise in humility” that gave me a certain perspective about life and through it I was able to learn at least the theological meaning of personal “spiritualism” as displayed in the bodies and attitudes of two friends – and if they read this I’m sure they’ll recognize their influence- that taught me that there's no winning percentages in bearing anger towards another person and that it's more liberating to forgive and forget. I’ve tried to forget although I’m not sure I’ve forgiven.

Again, I've deviated from the subject at hand “Truth.” It happens. I'm trying to correlate the thought with the story I'm about to reveal, so hang with me. Because of health reasons I had to return to Arizona and soon after that had to deal with the realization that the savings were gone and I needed to work in order to survive. After going to the Department of Unemployment- only to find that I was ineligible- on my way home I stopped to say hello to my old boss and friend. In conversation about life at the present time, I told him about my situation and went home. Later on that evening I received a call from his assistant and made a date to go see him the next day. He had a job for me. The job involved the distribution among the Phoenix area Hispanic community of a Children Story and a caricature character name "Donkey Ollie" and it's christian messages. Doing so would invariably help the Missing Children Campaign, which in itself made the task a lot easier and gratifying  but it still meant hand delivery. I thought about it but one thing tortured my mind. I would have to deal with people that on past occasions had known me as the Hispanic Radio Station Manager and now would see me in what to my way of thinking was a job below me. I prayed hard the previous night in order to erase the ridiculous feeling out of my mind. "No job is below any human being  as long as it was an honest job."  I thought. As it turned out the first place I stopped on the following day was a Meat Market and Bakery by the name of Estrella. As I walked in I immediately recognized the voice. She had been part of my administrative team at the radio station a few years before and now along with her husband owned the store. I recognized her but it took her a while to recognize me. I was now wearing casual shorts and a baseball cap while she had always seen me wearing an executive suit. The encounter was liberating. What I once was had no bearing on who I now am. We spoke amicably about old times and as I left, I felt that the same respect she once had for me was still there. The truth is not in whom I was, its evident in who I now am. In realizing it without shame lays the truth.

The next time I write I will return to the original idea which was to show you in each individual blog a translated segment of life, love, truth and lies within “Historia de Un Adolescente.”  Until the next time…Adios.