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.