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Luis Chaluisan luischaluisan@yahoo.com NEWRICANE Ballad of the Spic Chic 1957-2000 Luis Chaluisan y Batlle © 2001 Newricane © 2001 Contents Part 1 the end of the beginning Chapter 1 Innocence Chapter 2 Bronxworld Chapter 3 Baby Chapter 4 Homeboys & Trains Chapter 5 Wepa Time Chapter 6 Nobody’s Hero Chapter 7 Latin NY’s Dizzy Izzy Chapter 8 New Rican Village Chapter 9 Nuyorican Dreams Chapter 10 Sounds Like Otra Cosa to Me Chapter 11 Lord Jeffrey’s Reality Check Part 2 On the Road Chapter 1 TV Land Chapter 2 Forever Came Today Chapter 3 Presenting Little Otis and The Upsetters Chapter 4 Lord Jeffrey’s Endgame Chapter 5 TV Land Part II Chapter 6 Delilah Blue Part 3 A New Story The Psychosomatic Latin Blues of El Extreme Ola Blue Winds and Cane Lola Welcome to the Jungle La Poeta The Gangster RoadTRIP PROLOGUE “I think a materialistic conception of reality where what you see in front of you is all that exists is dangerous. That's one of the reasons we feel powerless against materialism. Everything around us seems so overwhelming that we don't have faith and confidence in our thoughts. The power we have in our hearts is much stronger than any of this. While life in the U.S. appears in disorder there's an order to IT. We fit somewhere in this order on the mainland and IT really has to do with self realization. We can take reponsibility for each person to develop themselves. We’re in a transition from something old to something new and that's always painful. We're growing up. IT is alway painful when you're going somewhere that you haven't been before. Change is possible but a lot of people just talk about IT and very few people get down and do IT.” Eddie Figueroa July 21, 1977 New Rican Village Loisaida New York I write about the Puerto Rican Cultural Renaissance I witness at the end of the twentieth century. I’m nineteen, inquisitive, hell – even desired when I go exploring its Lower East Side NY birthplace in 1977. Subsequently checking IT all out is worth every moment of chance. This is part of Our story. This is also my story and how I carry the message I hear from the creators of the New Urban Renaissance as El Extreme The Poet. Luis Chaluisan June 1, 2001 El Bronex New York RESOLVE For my daughter Chasan All this I write is true And if not it should be You’re perfectly balanced A chip on each shoulder The fruit doesn’t fall Far from the tree Your future is your words Who you meet And the world around you Go find those words They might even appear frozen In the cold air in front of you Write them down For now come see about me As I tell you how I found mine There are 3 Steps Dancing the Great Game Desire of the Future Fulfillment in the Present Regret for the Past I paint prophecies I experience the human equation I capture beats on tracks Shall you dance on the page Shall you dance on the groove Shall you dance on the rainbow Creativity begins with Humanity And what is that Joy and suffering Excellence in your art Brings you closer to the Divine And ascends your hopes to heaven Drink from my well So you won’t go thirsty When the world Parches your throat It’s a little bitter at first But sweet release lies underneath For my peeps Not just family But all Raza Don’t judge me Or My friends inside Too harshly We’re the young Frankenstein You sent out in the world To deal with White and Black Amerikkka First generation First born First out Front Line Warriors Our totality cleared paths For the rest of you To do your thing In relative peace We’ll tell you Like it is And You can think How it might be Use your memory Understanding and Will To decipher my puzzle Are You Experienced Part One End of the beginning NEWRICANE © 2001 Ballad of the Spic Chic Luis Chaluisan [1] INNOCENCE I never meet a drug dealer until I go away to Amherst College in Massachusetts in 1975. Funny isn't it? You think I’d be dodging them left and right the way some Latino writers paint first and second-generation experiences in the city. They revel in the victim-to-riches Hollywood screen treatment, "Oh noooooo, I have to climb those long project stairs again today. They smell like pee and ammonia. I walk all the way up to the eighteenth floor because the electricity is out for the third time in a week and the elevators are not working. The Shingalings don't let the electricians in to work because they're selling dope out of the project basement. Titi Pinchi ate some bad fish from "la marketa" and drops dead "de repente" at the Intervale train station where somebody takes her shoes before the paramedics come. Now none of us have shoes to go get our food stamps with because they’re the only pair of going out shoes we had for fifteen people. We crowd into that one bedroom apartment in the projects. Ayudame San Anton. Then that big fat envelope from Harvard arrives in the mail and I’m saved." Yo, this stuff still happens and goes on a lot in the past but enough already. I here you, Bro. I feel you Babe. I feel your pain. Damn, that stuff is rough. Cono. But, can you write beyond that? The United States is a Wild West show I’ll give you that. But now that you tell your Pity Projects story for the umpteenth time can we move on to some other things? Like instead of the things we don’t have how about the things we do - integrity, panache and nerve. Welcome to Newricane © 2001 - a bit of Bronx Spic Chic. First up: I apologize for nothing in my life. Walk in my shoes if you want get on my case. Besides, I’m safe – God guides me so bring on the noise. Second: no mainland institution ever saves me. Places like Amherst College overwhelm me but none are a panacea to write home about. A couple of good things do happen during my college years. I discover a little book by a Harlem Renaissance writer named Jean Toomer titled Cane © 1923 and see my desire, fulfillment and regret in its style. Toomer is a light skinned brother coming to grips with his universality in a segregated world. He writes as he thinks in metaphors, portraits and lyricism. It’s a curious mix of things. Like himself. I understand. Some Puerto Rican cats I meet along the way help me comprehend Our own universality. My man Dizzy Izzy Sanabria thumbs his nose at the world and creates his own place in it as a painter, publisher and Salsa’s original MC. I see him in January of 1977 on a small stage in Manhattan though I first hear about Izzy in 1973. “I personally have never been part of the establishment and I probably never will be part of the establishment although I hope to become part of the establishment. Because the establishment is what's happening. You know what the word establishment means? That your established! Isn't that interesting. That's the power. Everyone that's anti-establishment is somebody trying to topple what is. But, I've been on the outside for so long as a Latino and as an artist - not being part of the mainstream -- because an artist is never really part of the establishment, an artist is always anti-establishment.” My father Freddie Chaluisan y Morales works for the establishment. He labors hard, drinks too hard and provides extra hard as a shipping clerk for thirty-five years bringing in money for my mom Ana Chaluisan y Batlle and his family. This crew consists of my brother Ronnie (Harvard '84), four adopted brothers and sisters (Tito – Cardinal Hayes '84, Chris – Cardinal Hayes '84, Debbie – Cardinal Spellman '86 and Emily (Evander Childs - '83 and UCLA '84/Universty of the Corner at Lexington Avenue, my cousin Miguel -- Lehman '83 who my parents take in at 16 and me (Amherst '86). First born and last graduated. Fame, ain’t it a bitch? Poppy’s family is huge. About 200 of them live in New York. They move en masse during the early fifties from Puerto Rico. The family’s been island hopping and mixing for generations. They originate in Southern France and Spain’s Basque country. Already pain in the asses. Settle in Haiti in the early 1800’s. Two Chaluisant brothers break out of Haiti during the 1815 Slave freedom fight and head for Las Marias in Puerto Rico. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out from the dark copper and brown colors in the family that they’re not intolerant -- at least when it comes to making babies. Along the way they drop the T in their last name and their drawers - even with each other. The main branch of the New York family is descended from two first cousins that marry in Mayaguez. The family goofs that’s why most of us are loony. I see some goofy stuff among ourselves but also some intense brilliance that’s infected with cutting sarcasm. My father can be both funny and irritating when he’s in his cups particularly during family gatherings. All his brothers and sisters are there with at least two dozen kids running around and pops just pops, "OK, that's enough. Just stand right there at the door. I want to forget you just as you are. Party's over. You all have to get out. Do you have to spoil what was a depraved and embarrassing evening by sticking around here? Just get the hell out right now. Can you understand me? The food is finished, the beer is gone and I am tired so please get the hell out of my house right now. You don't have to mambo your way out, cha cha, cho cha, merengue or do some funky chicken shit but you must get the hell out now. Can you understand the delicacy of this situation – me, a man who works six days week I implore you … just ….puleeeese geeeetttttt theeeeee Hellllll Oooouuuuuuttt! Oh, and don’t forget, I’ll see you all July Fourth. We’ll roast a pig in the back yard." My father throws out 90 people that Fourth of July after they polish off the lechon (pig) and his tipsy patience. My mom Ana runs a tight ship at home where you can’t get anyway with anything. Mommy gets up at 3:33 in the morning every day and hits the ground running. She drinks gallons of coffee to rev herself up and there’s a period of purging when she feels her world is completely out of control. Hey, let’s see how you do with a hard drinking husband and six smart-ass kids. She's one tough Rican broad; real piece of work -- Jesus Christ. Over the years we've gone toe to toe because we're both lightning rods for all kinds of things. But I got to tell you one thing -- she makes sure we all get an education and never need for food, clothes or shelter. Mommy learns English with me when I enter grammar school. We speak only Spanish with each other until I’m seven years old and totally confounded in school to the point where they tell her early on I’ll be left back. She takes English in high school on the island but struggles as well and suffers her share of embarrassments on the mainland. In Spanish the J is pronounced with and a soft H sound. One day at the Grand Union supermarket on Gun Hill Road she spends five minutes trying to get a manager to tell her where the household cleansers are, "I need some Ah-hax please." "Ah-hax? What's that?" "Ah-hax, you know, Ah-hax. It turns blue. Ah-ax" "I'm sorry lady, I don't know what you're talking about." "Ah-hax, Ah-hax, Ah-hax - scrubbing...” "Oh, Ajax ... Aisle three ... maybe you should learn how to speak right." "I can speak very right mister ... Kiss my ass do you understand that … You just have to listen closer." And eventually she speaks quite well and grows with us. Between 3:30 and 7:00 each day we sit across from each other with a variety of schoolbooks, flash cards and multi slaps when I’m not paying attention. Sometimes her attention is distracted as well while she cooks dinner and I'd end up in a pickle. "Luisito, What's the name of the story for today? "What's The Story?" "The story there in the book, what's the title of the story?" "What's The Story?" "In the book - the story in the book." "What's The Story?" "Te tan luziendo, (are you getting fresh). Tell me now, what's the name of the story?" "Mommy, What's The Story?" Whoosh! Smack! Boom! “Whoa! No Mommy, no, no, no ... Look, mommy, look, look, look the name of the story is What's the Story?” "Oh, I see. Perdoname (forgive me), OK now, what's the story?" The real story is that my mom sizes up this country real fast and figures out the only way to protect her kids is to give us weapons we can use. These two weapons are reading and writing. A lot of reading and writing. Thanks mommy. This one’s for you. She really proves herself with my twin brothers Alberto and Crispin. “Crispin? What kind of name is that? What is he some kind of breakfast cereal? We’ll call him ‘Ping’ and his brother Tito.” They’re five years old when Catholic Charities places them in our home. Ping and Tito are Siamese twins separated at birth. My brothers are only the sixth set of Siamese twins attached at the head in the United States successfully separated. Their natural mother is a troubled woman who gives birth to something like eight sets of twins. When social workers find Ping and Tito they’re a couple of “wild children” speaking their own language and running naked through their mother’s apartment – feeding themselves from old food in the refrigerator. They tell my mom that the boys should be prepared for a handicapped life. But my mom sees something else in them. They’re cagey, smart, creative, “These boys aren’t stupid. They just need some help but you got to keep an eye on them. Do you know they switch classes just to fool their teachers? They’ll try anything if you don’t watch it. Pinnnnnnng y Titooooooooo!” My moms and a group of Catholic nuns tutor Ping and Tito and they put their part into it by completing twelve years of Catholic school and a couple of years at City College. They become early graffiti and hip hop wild stylers tagging everything in sight with ABE and DILLINGER.. Today, Tito is a successful exterminator and electrician with a house and kids in New Jersey. Chris lives in Florida still painting and working the hotel scene the father of a little boy. Who knows what would have happened to them if Mommy hadn’t persisted? We’re raised in a private house in the North Bronx that my Grandfather Don Luis helps my parents buy in 1964. He’s a successful barber following World War II on 117th Street in Harlem where he cuts Malcolm X's hair once or twice at The Spanish American Barbershop a gunshot away from the Harlem Mosque. “Es un Negrito fino – intelligente. He comes in real early in the morning 5:30 – 6:00AM alone. He isn’t reserved around me or the other barbers. I feel he relaxes. We don’t agree on everything – I serve this country in World War II and believe in it -- but we see the changes Harlem goes through and we know he’s honest and dedicated, a funny negrito but sincere. That’s terrible what they do to him and his own people too. That’s terrible.” Grandpa Luis really is my great uncle. He adopts my father when my natural grandfather gives him up during the 1930’s Depression. A bachelor all his life it’s family rumor he’s gay. If that’s the case he never speaks of it. I see a different side. He takes me on special field trips after we move to the Bronx. Gramps makes it a point at the World’s Fair in 1964 to have me see Michaelangelo’s Pieta on loan from the Vatican. With all the technological marvels at the Fair I notice that this exhibit moves him the most. Mary sits with her son at peace in his death bathed in white light behind protective glass The serenity matches Don Luis reputation in life for reserve calm. But within his stillness lies a volcano of mental activity - like the truths Jesus leaves in his wake. I’m moved by Walt Disney’s Mickey Mouse exhibition It’s A Small Small World. Go figure. If you can see him through my eyes His name his Luis The family calls him Don Luis But his downtown friends Call him Louie You know LOUIIIEEE Line me up So I can go out and play Luis the Anointed Apostle Is the master barber At the Spanish American Barber Shop On 117th and Lenox Sepulcher of the blessed hairstyle Walls adorned with pictures Of Machito Muhammad Ali Malcolm X Hair he cuts And sweeps for years Keeping the clippings At a secret altar to St. Lazarus In the back of the Spanish American It’s not the only secret he keeps For you see Don Luis Is said to be A three quarter closet Gay man Homo Queer Fazzy Hole Oh you laugh Well now Listen to his secrets A lifetime of secrets Words he dare not utter Unless among his own A scholarly appreciation Of what we call The Great Game Such wisdom Don Luis The Anointed Apostle Has a special gift That sears through the souls Of the lives he touches He consecrates the locals While cutting their hair Rubbing oil deep into their scalps Alcohol along the edge of the cut And Menthol on their neck To cool them down All the while imparting Knowledge and blessings You know In the beginning There’s the Beautiful Game Of Love and Wonder And that game Is within the Light And whoever reaches for that Light Brings back peace And to the extent of his reach Is to bring back the Divine Be careful my brother You may be corrupting The Beautiful Game Into The Bitter Game And compromising every truth Along the way Perhaps Don Luis’ solitude Is really a special Fulfillment from God Something marvelous A unique celestial attention For Luis is nothing less Than a voice of love and concern And Isn’t Buddha Jesus Mohammed About Love and Concern Since the days The Elusive One First visits man The Light sometimes arrives With a disturbance An offset of the unusual So before we crucify him With whisper nails Homo Queer Fazzy hole Stop and Think Perhaps a person’s lifestyle Is really a blessing For who are we To know God’s ways and plans When we’re walking together People just stop and stare But if you could see him through my eyes He wouldn’t be a faggot but a man The house on Tilden Street off Gun Hill Road Grandpa Luis helps my parents buy in 1963 has a tenant whose rent helps with the mortgage and a backyard next to a three acre field. We build clubhouses and go-carts, play skullies and attach useless baseball cards to the wheels of our Schwin bicycles with the banana seats and sissy bars. The majority of my cousins, and there's a lot since both of my parents have more than a dozen brothers and sisters, have both parents at home who work. A bunch of them end up at Brown, Boston College, Fordham University, University of Chicago, University of Puerto Rico, Columbia, precinct policemen, FBI staff, DEA agents, professorships, homeowners, solid working class people with families et al. I've just been wondering over the years when am I going to read Our stories? The full true secrets about all of Us in the U.S. and not just the ghetto warrior, prison raps and gifted assimilated geeks the Lords of Culture ordain represent the whole Rican picture. Listen to some of the secrets I pick up from my cousins when I go looking for my voice. Secrets they utter freely among their own: “Puerto Ricans are not only 'in the house' but 'master the house.' It's not a great house but it's our own. For some Puerto Ricans we just accept our existence and someone else writes the script. We have to be involved in writing a new script for ourselves. We have the best of both worlds. The second generation here has the whole western thing down and we also have our Puerto Rican traditions from the island that are still fresh in or families psyche. The whole thing is about knowledge - all kinds of knowledge. We have to organize our knowledge because have a lot of information. We have to develop a whole new thing because before the great Hispanic creative hit is going to come out, you're going to have to break through all of the cliches. The unexpected in theater is good. Bad theater is even good because it shows you what not to do. But controlled madness -- that thing that goes on in our heads, as Puerto Ricans -- put that on stage. We don't have to pick up a gun to get our point across, not yet. Gunplay the most extreme example of resistance. But a Cultural Revolution, that can't be stopped. We make a choice up here. We grew up here in the states but we choose to explore Latin rhythms, thoughts, writing, art and make it so vibrant that you can't ignore it.” My brothers, sisters and I grow up hearing La Lupe, Tito Puente and Machito in concert from apartment windows while visiting our cousins throughout the sixties and seventies in Brooklyn's Red Hook Projects, Bushwick apartment buildings and at el 503 of 161st Street in the Bronx. They're full of static from low budget radios, 78 RPM records and scratchy long play albums that sound like the Puerto Rican chatter filling the apartments inside. "Pitin, no trates de meter me lo mongo. Yo se de tus insolencias y adventuras y no my importa que to he estado in los capitales del Universo porque lo que nace doblao hamas enderesa ... me entiende ... chupates esa en lo que te monda la otra y pon el radio que voz me abures." "Pitin, don't try to stick that limp lie in me right now. I know about your insolence and adventures and I don't care even if you have been the capitals of Europe because what is born bent will never be straightened out ... you understand me ... now suck on that while I peel the next one for you and put on the radio because you bore me." "A mi plin." "A mi pio” “You want your radio on. Here's you're radio on ... yeah, I got your radio for you ... and I want the whole world to know that you, yes ... You ... eres perfection en botella ... si te pones mejor te dana or porsupuesto que no lo puedes escuchar bien voy a subir el volumen del radio hasta que vengan rayos del cielo y alumbran esa mente cerada, perfumado y destrodada que tienes en esa cabeza tuya -- te lo huro, por mi madre! -- Tu ... Tu ... Si TU, mi tormenta en baso de agua." (Sarcastically) ... you are perfection in a bottle ... you'll ruin yourself if you get any better and if in the event you can't hear the radio I'm going to raise the volume to the point where lightning will fall from the sky and hopefully open that closed, aromatic and feeble mind in your head -- I swear it here, on my mother's soul -- You ... You ... Yes YOU, my hurricane swirling in a glass of water." Muy buenas tardes y bienvenidos al la programacion excitante de Chu Leta: Cortesia de Agapito Sovella dueno de Bushwick Furniture, Joyeria y Farmacia - donde se encuentra la butaka, la jolla o la pastilla de su destino. Bushwick Furniture Y Joyeria Cubicada en el 1026 Bushwick Avenue 212-AGA-PITO! Y Ahora Machito Y Su Orquesta En W-A-D-O New York" La A lalala la la A lalala la la Lalala La Lalala Una Rumba Una Guaracha No tiene comparacion En la letra cal quier cosa Despues que tenga sabor Uno tragos de agua ardiente Y el cantar del corazon I often think these spontaneous "deluxe" window sill concerts are really badly recorded soundtracks for a barrio movie. Except no one tells the extras in these dramas. There's always a drama in this part of God's little acre: It's fall in Brooklyn 1963 My mother and father Search Dean Street and Hoyt For their wild child A turquoise dressed martyr And a drunken fallen angel Desperately driven By the tears of God Donde esta mi hijo Where is my son Donde esta mi hijo Where is my son Que Dio lo proteje May God protect him I escape from their world without so much as a by your leave The first step as a runner in The Great Game What's The Great Game? Well, what do you think it is? This exercise may help you. Do you breath in or out when you orgasm? I'm not talking during the whole orgasm but right at that moment when you realize you're coming. "Hold on, I'm ready ... I'm ready ... I'm ready ... HERE I COME!" Do you breath in or out right at that moment? In for passion? Out for ecstasy? Which one? Think about it. Me? I hold my breath Immerse myself in The passion and The ecstasy That's The Great Game People play IT for a long time. Ahkenaton the Pharoah -- an original Raza. The odd one who finds himself ruler of all Egypt. He shares his secret with the most beautiful gal in the world, his woman Nefretiti, that he meets The Elusive One in the Egyptian desert. Together they hold their breath and blend all the gods of Egypt into the one God of the Universe - Aton. Pedro Flores – Poet Rican Raza who cleverly hides his lines in music. The rambunctious one who finds himself on the mainland in the twenties and gives a voice to his longings. Along with Daniel Santos they hold their breath and create Salsa on the mainland to flavor their lives with words and tones. Albizu Campos – Puerto Rican Raza. The brilliant one who is the first Rican to go to Harvard and who confronts Los Yanquis on an intellectual level they won’t see again until Ho Chi Min kicks Los Americanos square in the ass in Vietnam. He let it be known that Puerto Ricans are something special. He holds his breath and his struggle echoes all the way to South Africa in Mandela. Joseph The Dream Man -- the first Raza to make it into print with his riff on dreams in the Bible. Joselito finds himself in the Pharoahs court, the odd one who shares his secret that he can see the future in dreams because of his own captivity in the present. He holds his breath and blends the spirits of the Kabala with the realities of life in The Pharoahs Kingdom and ends up saving his family. The same ones who sell him into captivity showered in the compassion released when Joselito breathes again in their presence. Roberto Clemente – Another Puerto Rican Raza who becomes The Man in the Big Leagues. He perfects his understanding of the world through a little ball and bats it into success. Roberto holds his breath and shows the mainland boys of summer que el negrito del pais is one up on their ball game. And as a true hero the sea claims him when the wind deserts his plane while on his way to help others in Nicaragua. Arturo Schomburg – He’s Raza before the brothers claim him. They do name that cool building in Harlem for him that houses reems of his words. Either way. Puerto Rican or African American, it’s ok because he holds his breath and shows US all the majesty of The African Light long before it becomes fashionable . Holly Woodlawn – He/She is flaming raza from Puerto Rico who takes A Walk On The Wild Side and ends up a Top 40 Lou Reed hit. Holly holds his breath and becomes a girl for a while witnessing Warhol and his crew as she unwinds her own personal flick. Holly makes us screammmmm along with Monti Rock III’s appearances on the Johnny Carson show – another flaming raza. Jesus -- Not "Hayzeus" in those days but "Chuito" the Raza man who goes to the Big City and shakes them up with his simple "jibaro" (campesino) message. The odd one who shares the secret that Ahkenaton and Joseph realize millenia before. He holds his breath and blends passion and ecstasy into love. Of course he bites the big one after one of his boys betrays him but his legacy lives on like all those "jibaro" legacies.. I can't escape my Self by virtue of being part of the Real America playing The Great Game. I experience a transformation rather than assimilation and look at things through New Rican eyes. For example, there are three entertainment constants while growing up on Brooklyn's Dean Street and later Tilden Street in the Bronx: • I Love Lucy on Channel 5 at 7:00 pm; • Elvis and The Beatles on record; and • Richie Ray the neighborhood Latino music phenomenon. Lucy is the star of the show but Desi is the Latin link to the realties of our household. Whenever Ricky Ricardo speaks or sings in Spanish its special because we can understand him, his frustrations and joys. These simple emotions repeat themselves daily in our home. Ricky Ricardo is more accessible than the rest of the American Dream at this point in our lives. He provides a glimpse into a different lifestyle that is possible given talent. I think Elvis is Puerto Rican for the longest time because "The King"/el Rey/el-Vez resembles the handsome cousins and neighborhood rogues that cross my path daily in Brooklyn and later The Bronx. Elvis is a drop dead gorgeous sharp dresser (come on, Presley in that grey shark skin suit in Viva Las Vegas is just like any Rican bad boy cousin whose a Valentino). My family tree drips with these charmers who brandish names like Tito, Chamaco, Bobbie, Chino, Junior, Papo, Cookie, Butchie, Poopsie, Uchi, Jimmmie, Weekeen, Jose Emilio et al.. Elvis deeply loves his momma (just like so many Puerto Rican men adore their mommys). He's wild when out of his momma's sight (just like so many 'panas' are when we're out in the world) and loves pharmaceuticals (just like too many Puerto Ricans who become addicted). The Beatles? Well, play their early albums. A lot of their first ballads/mid tempo songs have a Latin beat. it's easy for a seven year old hearing cha cha's and boleros playing every day on the family record player cranking Daniel Santos, Tito Rodiguez and Gilberto Monroig to jump to the conclusion that The Beatles are part of the neighborhood too. Except these new guys do it in English. There's another live and direct link. The dramedy going on in our house. My pops is very Puerto Rican – very Latino. He may work for a cool Jewish run stationary supplier in the Bronx doing deliveries and speak English all day but at home Rican life rules. And it translates in my head. The smell is Rican. Fried fish and garlic bouqets. The plants are Rican. Green offerings at the feet of plaster saints. Even the door bell is Rican. Instead of ding dong it goes ring a ling a ling dong ding. The stereo is Rican and it’s always on a popping AM station way at the end of the dial blasting Ramito. These days he’s got four all Spanish television stations to pick from and an SAP (Spanish language switch) to simulcast the American stations. It’s a trip. He’s a trip. He tells me one day he thinks our washing machine is Dominican. “What do you mean pops?” “Well, I never get any socks back when I put my wash in and listen to that … if that vibration isn’t a merengue then I don’t know what is. Listen, dum gadagadaka dugodugodun gadagadaka dugodugodun gadagadaka dugodugodun gadagadaka dugodugodun … I’m calling immigration. I think there’s a family of six in there.” He sings second tenor to many of the ballads that play on our stereo. In his youth he sings and plays with quartets in Mayaguez, Puerto Rico that feature Gilberto Monroig, Chu Chu Avellanet, Mon Rivera and others throughout the 1940's. His vocal precision and clarity in delivering songs influences me to perform on the bar circuit throughout the United States later in life. I’ve had the life my father dreamed of. This one’s for you, pops. Poppy takes me to live Latino musical reviews at theaters like the Teatro Puerto Rico in the South Bronx and Teatro Yaguez in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn. My father grows up in pre-fifties Puerto Rico seeing live acts and movie matinees and often relives his youth by attending these shows in New York. The garish spectacles live on in such shows as Sabado Gigante on Univision. However, Sabado Gigante can rarely match the excitement of witnessing a really drunk Mexican singer shoot off his gun while he rides onto stage in a 1968 big boat of a white Chevy Biscayne and blow out an overhead stage light. He never misses a note. You can sure bet the audience pays attention during his act. I do. And then there's Richie Ray. A tripping Desi Arnaz. He launches the Richie Ray orchestra in 1964 with his trumpet wiz brother Ray Maldonado and singer Bobby Cruz to redefine Latin music for the Pepsi generation. I escape With my babysitter's son Richie Who borrows me for the afternoon But doesn't say where we're going Vente conmigo Shhhhhh, come with me. We climb ancient stairwells To an afternoon rent party A Brooklyn Heights holiday I spy mommy and poppy From the third floor window And my silence cuts Our umbilical cord As Ricardo Maldonado The Latino Mod Plays his Con-spic-u-us blues His hands detonate A jet black bomb Of a grand piano Whose sound swims Through the crowded apartment Where the musical notes come Like wave after wave after wave On a sunny day At Coney Island Such small hands. More like paws. I notice that about a lot of Latino piano players over the years. Maybe it's the long rehearsals and nights of playing four to six sets that develops these meaty physical extensions of piano hammers. Eddie Palmieri comes out of the same period and has similar hands. I find out that he starts in the business as a timbales player and ask him why he switches to piano. "Man every place has a piano in it those days. Carrying those drum cases up and down the stairs can give you a hernia, man." In reality, Eddie transforms the piano into a talking timbales set striking the keys with a force only matched by Tito Puente in his mambo heyday. However, the way Richie works his music is something else. He develops a unique left handed style of playing that kicks new life into Latin bass lines while grooving Soul/Jazz riffs with his right hand. His approach branches out into Salsa, Latin Jazz, Boogaloo and Latin Pop. Richie creates arrangements where the band's two trumpet players sound like three horns and is apt to throw in a piano phrase from Stravinsky or Count Basie as he might a musical theme by Noro Morales. “I never want to repeat myself that’s why I always try different things. I start playing in these little dives and bars when I’m nineteen and notice the colored kids doing a certain shuffle step when they dance to Latin music so I start to play things to match their movement. That’s how I come up with boogaloo. But I move on fast away from that. Eventually I hook up with Bobby and we start the band.” Bobby Cruz fronts Richies Orchestra throughout its entire run. “I catch him in this Brooklyn spot with a cigarette hanging off his lips and this look looking real down but that piano playing is so up. I say to myself right away I got to get next to this.” At a time when most Latin bands in New York are making 300-500 dollars for four sets Richie commands 2000-3000 an appearance. Bobby and Richie live the rock and roll lifestyle of the period only with a Latin Tinge. His virtuoso trumpet playing brother Ray leaves the group early in the Richie Ray phenomenon but Doc Cheetham capitalizes on his influence. The jazz trumpeter brings a unique understanding to melding trumpet lines and rhythms that stretches back to the Cab Calloway Era at the Cotton Club and beyond to the early Latinized roots of Black Jazz. Richie calls himself a Latino Mod on the first of his Fonseca Recordings and for good reason. What he does with pre-salsa Latin music in 1963 is what the Beatles do with 1950's American Rhythm and Blues that same year: mine it for inspiration and then develop a whole new thing. The neighborhood bounded by Dean and Hoyt knows he's special but no one ever expects that he will in a few years save a dying Latin Music industry in New York and introduce a whole new generation to the possibilities Latin Rhythms possess with recordings like Shu Fly Shu (1964), Jala Jala (1968) and Sonida Bestial (1972). His brother Ray teamed up with Stevie Wonder and co writes Nicalegua on Songs In The Key Of Life. I'm scared and fascinated I taste my fingers Sweet with caramels Cherry blossom and apple scent Of the freshly painted rooms settle On my seven year old body I am seduced by The beauty of Nuyorican music Richie returns me home Later that afternoon Explaining as best A twenty one year old could That he looses track of time Richie (Ricardo Ray) The Latino Mod -- Starts time for me The lesson of my renegade afternoon with Richie crystallizes for me over the years as I explore the world: Let's not follow convention. Let's look for new truths. Richie eventually does exactly that by handing his life over to God and retiring from the scene to become a minister. But that left hand still rocks. You can take the Rican out of the Salsa but you can’t take the Salsa out of the man. [2] BRONXWORLD Homeboyssssss I watch the baseball game With my father Freddie of The Long Ashes Mets versus the Atlanta Braves And the announcer Mentions this one player’s name Mackie Sasser Mackie Sassssser Maaaackie Saaaasserrrr This is how Stanish And the boys Down in the Valley say it Mackie SasSirrrr Down in the Valley The Bronx Valley By Coop City Where Freedom Land Use to be Where the wiseguys Bury bodies Where once there’s A garbage dump And You can cruise For a hump At Eddie Cinders place Mackie SasSirrrr Guys like Antaknee Vara Joe Tarrrrrsia Ricky Morales Philly John Casiano Stanish Mousey And Walter The original rumpus man My best friend We talk Talk Like Talk Talk Like Taulk Tauulk Taaauuulk Taaaaauuuuullllllllkkkkkk Chomping on a mouthful of words And Spitting them back out Using every corner Of our mouths Eating Swallowing Digesting Spitting words It’s a memory Of a time When all We think sbout Is the fun we have With our friends just Talking The way we do Mackie SasSirrrr Yes Sir Hey, ever hear of Felipe Alou FelEEPeh AhllllloooOOUUUUUU Tough guy Irish illegal aliens, entrenched Italian Mafia crews under Matty "The Horse" Ianello plus street gangs like "The Black Spades" and "Intacrime" (christened by the crazy Pratt twins from the Edenwald Housing Project because, "we're into Crime!") dominate our North Bronx neighborhood. Mongo and his son Johnny Monks run an Italian social club on 214th Street where they control the local numbers, loan sharking and service rackets. Johnny also peddles nicks and dimes of “la babania” (marijuana). Crack does them in the eighties when the boys develop a taste for it. The Black Spades gang are a problem. They’re led out of Evander Child’s High School by their prez Ham. The Spades call for a “Get Whitey Day” throughout the city a couple of years in a row and get everyone shook up. Even the newspapers picks up on it. That really bugs me because depending on the situation with a group of Black Americans my skin becomes my sin. In an attack there’s no time to break down the Brown in my inner town. Nothing ever pops off in the neighbrhood though because, hell, if you come to the square be ready to kick some ass. Everyone mixes their running buddies in Our world and you really don’t now who you’re screwing with if you hit someone. So take that noise somewhere else. The Spades eventually branch out into boxing (Mitch “Blood” Green who, in my opinon, gives Mike Tyson a run for the money in their first fight) and Hip Hop’s Rainbow Division of rappers and wild stylers (Africa Bambata’s Zulu Nation). In our neighborhood life is coherent and I can get anything I need from a nuclear warhead to penny candy. That’s our little sandbox. We can fight, we can love and we can be free to do whatever we want along the lazy sidestreets that stretch from 211th Street to 233rd bounded by White Plains Road and Laconia Avenue. A perfect square. If the night is right I’ll take a long walk along 212th Street and circle around through Paulding Avenue back through 215th Street. But its got to be a right night -- a Bronx winter night with the temperature around 43 degrees. It’s a ritual to energize myself with the right amount of cold attitude. I circle the square A full moon Lights the neighborhood From a cloudless and windless sky Walking the streets Shrouded in a blue aura Little diamond snow beads The frozen tears of weeping angels Illuminate my path As I tip my hat To old and departed spirits There’s someone Peculiar In every home In the neighborhood People who have no qualms About saying what’s On their mind Over on 212th Street is Mrs. Davis house. I never find out her first name but she’s cool as all that and a bag of chips. A little muscular hefer who lives to be more than a hundred years old. A strong Black woman with a voice like Rochester on the Jack Benny show. “Child, how’s your mother. Tell her I said hello and to pass by for a glass of lemonade some afternoon. Now boy run on home and don’t be messing around those vacant lots up there. I seen a crazy dog running around in there and he might be hiding in those bushes looking for a soup bone. Well, a wish bone if he gets a hold of you.” Mrs. Davis always has lemonade time around 3:00 oclock each day. It takes me years to figure out she’s watching the passing school kids for neighborhood moms. Mrs. Davis own boy is all grown up and working at the GM plant by the time we meet her in 1964. She makes the best lemonade in the whole world with just the proper portion of sugar to balance out the lemon’s tartness. Mrs. Davis learns how to make it that way deep in the Alabama countryside where her momma teaches her the right amount of sweet respect for yourself can soften the tartness of life. “Mrs. Davis how did you get it to taste so good?” “Son, nothing beats a failure but a try.” Mrs. Davis is the Blackest woman I ever meet and she don’t take any guff. Yo, she’s I’LL BE BLACK BLACK – B.L.A.C.K. - BLUE BLACK – SIMPLY BLACK – IT’S A BLACK THING BLACK. One day this neighborhood bully we call Fat Carter decides he’s going to hit me with a tree branch. I’m five foot one and 85 pounds. This brother’s five six and 140 pounds, Lucky for me it happens right up the block from Mrs. Davis house. All of a sudden I hear this foghorn rip through the air. “BOY, what are you planning to do with that child. Put that damn switch down or else.” “Or what, old lady?” Mrs. Davis rears her 4 foot 11 frame and gets up from her chair on the porch overlooking the block, “Or what? Boy, don’t you speak to me that way or I’ll slap the mess right out of you.” With that she bounds down the stairs and snatches the branch from a stunned Fat Carter’s meaty hands and throws it in the gutter. “Isn’t your mother Ms. Helen? Helen Carter? Over there on Duncan in the white house with the red trim. I told her not to paint it that way. And it looks like she missed a few strokes on your behind as well. Now you go along and terrorize someone your own size and child don’t come around here messing with the plants or trees ripping them down like that. Have some respect for God’s things and for Mrs. Davis tree. Now go and put some Jesus in your life to get your mind right. Go. Go now, shoo -- go as fast as your fat little legs can carry you!” Fat Carter later became a transit cop. Figures. Frankie and his family live up on 215th street. Damn, it’s a big Irish clan. There must be 12 or 14 of them. His father looks as tired as mine after a long day of work and sits in this easy chair with a glass of Rheingold beer watching this pack of kids tear through the house waiting for that right moment when he shouts, “Silence. All of you. You’re killing me. You’re killing me here. You’re all CRAZY. Absolutely killing me. That’s it. No, no, no more. I’m going to leave this family and enlist in the army that way they’ll send me to Vietnam where I can at least SHOOT my enemy. Maybe I’ve already died and gone to hell. Is that it God? Is this hell? Well if it is CHECK PLEASE! I want out. Out I say. Out. All of you get the hell out of here and Mary Frances bring me a beer before you all leave. Skat you spawns of Satan! There’s one thing that works in this house – THE DOOR – now use it and get out.” Frank teaches me how to skateboard the steep hills of Paulding Avenue, soup up electrical slot car racers and build go carts out of two by fours with baby carriage wheels. One time we try to slap a lawn mower engine on a go cart in my back yard but it ends in disaster – as most of our crazier experiments do. We haul this thing to the small hill on Barnes and 213th Street and let her rip. All is fine for about ten feet then the damn thing suddenly blows up. Frankie’s laughing, the flames are shooting out the back of the go cart but its still rolling down the hill and picks up speed. When Frankie’s hair catches fire he bails out of the cart which runs into an oncoming car. And whose driving it? His father, “You’re killing me. You’re killing me here with your craziness. Absolutely killing me. Maybe I’ve already died and this is hell …” You get the picture. I pass by Herbie and Kevin Carter’s house on the way home. Leukemia dogs Herbie. Kevin wants to play in the NBA. His dreams crash and so does he in crack hell. Herbie and Kevin are not related to Fat Carter. In fact we have three Carter families in the neighborhood that aren’t related. There’s Fat’s family, Herbie’s and “White” Carter, a tough white boy whose amused he has the same family name as the others, “Yeah, I’m the White Shadow.” Michael and Johnny live next door. They’re from a German Irish family. We decide to build a raft out of an old box spring and float the nearby Bronx River. The “yacht” barely makes the bend under the Gun Hill Road overpass. We end up sinking in three feet of water and getting sick. But what a rush. I get to know how Huck Finn feels Bronx style. Sonny is the Jim in my ‘Rico Finn’ life phase. A big old robust brother about thirty three years old living on 211th Street and Holland. He’s built like a rock – GI Joe muscles carved from years of construction work. Sonny fishes us out of the Bronx River and saves Little John, Michael’s brother, from going under. “What the heck you boys doing. Can’t you spend your time better than this. Hell, you didn’t even build the boat right!” Sonny sails the Bronx river in his own home built rig when he’s fifteen. In those days they call him Boy. Then Colored. Nigger. As he ages and demands respect just by his presence he’s a Negro. Soul brother. Black man. He teaches us all this. But he’s sly about it. “What you boys should be doing is getting ready for the talent show.” Sonny still throws annual talent shows in the lot next door to his building. Neighborhood cultural shows. He’s 70 years old now. I win my first competition at 14 and get five bucks by singing Marvin Gaye’s Heard It Through The Grapevine acapella. Sonny echoes Mrs. Davis favorite saying, “Boy, nothing beats a failure but a try.” There are other Puerto Ricans in the neighborhood. Eric lives in the projects by the Gun Hill Road Train Station and Pilar who lives across the street from us. Both of their mothers are Puerto Rican but Eric’s father is half black and half white and Pilar’s dad is from Spain. Pilar and Eric are just buck wild. They experiment with sex, drugs and rock and roll starting at St. Philip and James grammar school. We attend school there because the Capucins at Immaculate Conception in our neighborhood parish want to keep their school all white. No problem. Father Gartland in the neighboring parish St. Philip and James is more than happy to have us. Father Owen Gartland is the bomb. A first generation Irishman who attends Cardinal Hayes High School in the South Bronx as I eventually will. He gets the call from God at 12 but is forever a man’s man. I never know sexually abusive priests like is commonly reported today. Father Gartland is a righteous consecrated wolf right out of central casting. A Bronx version of Spencer Tracey in Boy’s Town. Five foot eleven, hams for hands, knows how to use them, drop dead gorgeous and can woo the parish ladies. He also adopts different bad kids in the school who he knows are just going through changes at home. Glenn “Little Man” Bowman is one of his boys. Glenn’s dad is a pistol and gives him holy hell. Father Gartland takes him under his wing and Glenn becomes a standup guy with a career in the military. Funny dude with much love. Father Gartland can drink and throws down with my father in the rectory and local bars. When I’m an altar boy he drinks from this huge chalice and I fill it with a good shot of wine with just a drop of water. He’s set for the morning after 7 AM Mass and puffs away on 3 packs of Chesterfields a day. He rescues me once from a beating by a neighborhood thug called Milo who jumps me outside school in the eighth grade and redislocates my jaw. My mom first knocks it out of place two years earlier. I head for the rectory and within five miutes Father Gartland is out there in his car searching for Milo and his crew. He sets them straight. Father Gartland does that with other hoods in the neighborhood too. That cat can swing a sermon and left hooks unlike anyone I know until I meet my Uncle Heriberto. Owen dies from throat cancer but not before he gives away this young woman at her wedding. Many in the parish suspect it’s his daughter. A standup guy to the end. Father Owen is trully God’s man in my eyes. Much love Owen. You do your job well. At least with me. When we hit puberty we adopt a Bronx look as teenagers will. Things are bad, boss, stupid silly We ride the I. R. T. See Kung Fu Movies on forty deuce Listen to Roger Dawson Spin Salsa On Sundays Switch between Frankie Crocker And Nasty Joe Gaines weeknights Waiting for those Musical terrorists Carlos, Carlos and Cheito On KCR Pose for memories In Playland’s photo booths With our look Broadway stars in our Own Way The uniform of the time is simple Playboy shoes or Little Abner boots But don’t wear those Tom McCaan Playboys With the bubble top Marshmallow shoes after 1973 Sharkskin or double knit pants Chino pants and Pumas For hanging out Silk shirts Flowered Pattern Knit shirts A long black cashmere coat Or Leather Don’t you be wearing Pleather And a brim The walk Well you have a choice Either a single or double bop Today, young tough guys walk with a side to side motion like clearing a field on a chain gang. Hip Hops originators – cats from the Bronx - walk with an up and down energy; slightly lifting ourselves on the ball of our left or right foot to create a bop in our walk - a wave of energy that rises above the horizon, so to speak. We’re jumping at the sun just like Roberto Clemente snagging a fly ball in the outfield or Juan Marcial doing that elegant wind up kick on the pitchers mound. For the more adventurous there’s the double bop like Pitcher Louie Tiant’s pivot pump but that was a bit extreme and goofed on if you couldn't pull it off. I only knew one homeboy who does it with Style, Ed Robinson from Harlem USA. He coaches me in a brief track career where I go to the Junior Olympics and place second in the mile regionals. An ethnic mix of young guys at Cardinal Hayes High School in the South Bronx surround me united in one purpose: don’t let the priests catch you doing anything. They’re like black draped phantoms and appear out of thin air when you pull some stunt. The schools intercom system serves as operations central: “John Bugafusca report to the Dean of Disciplines Office immediately! We know you’re in the building. Surrender now … come out come out wherever you are Mr. Bugafusca and meet your destiny!” “Mr. Bugafusca you’ve been spotted hiding in the second floor lockers … son don’t make me come and get you.” There was always a dramatic flair among these Christian Brothers, Franciscan, Jesuit and Marist Priests. As demonstrated by Father McCormick, a former middleweight boxer with a propensity for steel tapped shoes. Click Click Click Click “Be Seated. Gentlemen, you are here in our care. There is a term in Latin that applies to this particular situation En Loco Parentis. Do any of you, hmm, scholars know what that means? Come now … It’s Latin for ‘In Place of The Parent’. Gentlemen, you are in our charge and we can do with you what any parent can do and from the looks of it we will be dispensing discipline on a grand scale with this motley crew.” “Oh, brother.” “Who said that … You, stand up and come here.” “But Father.” “What is your name.” “Luis Chaluisan” What a way to start life at Hayes. They’re more than seven hundred freshmen assembled in the auditorium. 450 graduate in my class. Those priests don’t fool around. “Mr. WHAT! Well Mr. Charlemagne or whatever your name is report up here immediately. Right here … Right now … That’s right … Stand right there, son. Gentleman, this is an example of what you are to expect with any insubordination.” Click Heel Turn Whoosh Smack! “Whoa Father take it easy!” “Congratulations, Mister Sang Huang Hey er…. Chaloosian. You will be taking it easy in detention for two weeks. Now, back to your seat. That’s right. Take yourself back to your seat. Splendid. Sit! Gentleman use all your proverbial talents wisely and don’t cross us. We will find you wherever you are and set your mind right. God help us all. You are on your way to becoming Hayes Men ready to battle incompetence in the world. Don’t blow it. Stand UP … I will be proud to lead your wonderful boys into battle any time … anywhere. Dismissed.” Click Click Click Click But it isn’t all Patton like discipline. Hayes priests and lay teachers have some heavy duty lessons to give. Father Principe is this ramrod first generation Italian man who is Jake Lamotta with a conscience. Martin Scorcese pays this man much respect. He’s a real stand up guy. He can wrap this magnificently oversized set of hands (he had been a star football receiver at Hayes) and conceal a volume of theological discourse as easily as the side of your head. He doesn’t have to smack us around too much to get our attention. Father is one of us. A wiseguy with a calling. He introduces our classes to the world of Teilhard de Chardin – a Jesuit scholar whose also an anthropologist. De Chardin’s spiritual writings in light of his anthropological studies give him a perspective that challenges the status quo in creationism. The Vatican gags him. This is my kind of guy. Other teachers at the school make us look at the bigger picture – though at heart most of them are a bunch of smartasses like English teachers Father Johnston and Wild Bill Kerrigan, “Boys, Boys, Boys, Boys …. The lesson here is truth. Yes, St. Augustine became a pious light in the early Church but let us examine what got him there. His life is drenched in debauchery – lust and debauchery boys, boys, boys. You can’t escape it gentlemen. He absolutely debauched himself and then examined his life. Got a best seller out of it and influenced an entire culture.” “A factor which prompts the Southern Grotesque Flannery O’Connor to write her seminal work A Good Man Is Hard To Find … but gentlemen … of course, for Ms. O’Connor A Hard Man Is Better To Find. Do not write that down in your notes, boys. It is merely for mental mastur… I mean Observation.” It doesn’t take much to spur on my hormones in those days. I read on the back cover of an O’Connor short story collection that “she now lives in Georgia raising peacocks.” After Bill Kerrigans joke I have this fantasy of a naked Flannery O’Connor sauntering about these huge plumed birds. A fantasy destroyed when I see a picture of an old dried up wrinkled O’Connor. A real southern grotesque. And here she’s a buxom 27 year old brunette South Bronx kind of Irish/Rican girl in my mind. I attend classes with percussionist Bobby Sanabria, Broadway gypsy John Aller and future New York Times columnist Dave Gonzalez at Hayes. They’re some of the smartest Latinos I meet in my life. David tells me once that the paintings, poems, stories and music we create are really messages from God revealing the past, present and future. He and my brother Ronnie graduate from Hayes ranked first in their class and are inspirations for me all these years. Bobby Sanabria and John Aller posses a creative focus that’s light years ahead of many of us. “Forget about playing in a band, the real career is a session man in the recording studio. That’s what I want to be doing.” Bobby goes from the high school band to Emerson College and is recently nominated for a Grammy. In our Senior Year John appears in Equus replacing Elliot Gould and bounces from Broadway show to show until he gets sick from the virus and goes to perform in heaven. I do get mad at God taking him, “Damn, Yo he was just hitting his stride” but such is life in the big city. What are you going to do? John arranges for me to audition at the Alliance of Latin Artists in the summer of 1975. The Alliance is a semi professional summer touring group that presents folkloric dancers and singers throughout the city. Thirty performers are on call. Three quarters of the Alliance is Puerto Rican dancers and singers from the High School of Performing Arts. The school is made famous in the movie Fame. As good as it is, the movie only captures a tenth of that school's energy. I meet Isa Diaz while touring with the Alliance. She wants to be a headliner and plays the part well. A five foot six Cuban redhead (bottle of course) who knows every trick in the trade. She perfects the way to get all eyes on her when she’s on stage by plugging in a hundred watt smile, working her long black eyelashes and showing a lot of chutzpah. She works night and day to get on Broadway, Off Broadway, Off Off Broadway, way the Hell Off Broadway. There’s also Latin Nightclub hustle/mambo dance reviews, street theater and endless voice/dance classes-- you name it she does it. She believes in the old school approach to celebrity personified by Jose Ferer, Rita Moreno and Miriam Colon. They strive for perfection and believe that in doing so they achieve the celebrity they do. Few can match Ferrer’s command of the English language or Moreno’s talent to cross theatrical boundaries as an actress and musical theater performer. No one can play a maid better than Colon on the movie screen. However, we have a nasty encounter with Miriam at her Travelling Theater which is an eye opener for both of us. I’m working for Joe Papp’s Shakespeare Festival. Part of my responsibility is to attend and evaluate performances by Hispanic Theater groups to see if there’s a crossover hit lurking about. The Travelling Theater presents a play about U.S. intervention in Nicaragua during the nineteenth century. At intermission I’m introduced to Colon and tell her I find the play slow and boring. She looses it and the next thing I know I’m on the carpet at the Shakespeare Festival. I often wonder about that. I’m all of nineteen. You’d think she’d take a moment to explain the significance about the play to a young brother instead she goes on a tear. Ah. Celebrity. In her house the maid becomes a tyranical queen. What are you going to do? Every day during high school I tune in WBLS Radio into the early evening to get my daily dose of funky soul: The color of the day is yellow WBLS One oh seven point five In stereo-ere-ereo-ereo Where you hear James Brown Tito Puente The Stylistics Pucho The Ojay's Santana With Frankie "Holly-wood!" Crocker: "I'm here to put some more dip in your hip some more glide in your stride as you get on down to hear DJ Flowers spin tonight at the Cork and Bottle. Now here’s some Deodato with Ave Maria." But after eleven p.m. it's Salsa time Mondays Wednesdays and Fridays on WKCR 88.9 FM. Carlos De Leon, Carlos De Jesus and Cheo Diaz host alternative Latin music shows on Columbia University's Radio Station. The shows mix a wide range of recorded Latin music from 1917 to the present while they interview musicians, arrangers and various musical terrorists who can say just about anything in the free form atmosphere, Rene Lopez musicologist 1977 on WKCR FM "We're fortunate to have a blend of Indian, Black and White bloods as Puerto Ricans. The mix is going on for generations and so we're a new type of people. In any event, we’re Ourselves." Or in other words, there’s not a problem I can't fix cause I can do it in the mix. This is a radical departure from the tension that the idea of assimilation creates and permits me to go exploring Latin stuff by age sixteen after a big blowout with my dad. A stupid fistfight resulting from a practical joke and too much booze. Ring, Ring …. Ring, Ring “Hello.” “Louie, Poppy. Listen we’ve been arrrested and we’re going to the precint. Tell your mother everything is OK. See you all later … bye ..,. Click” Now I’m freaking out and start pacing the kitchen not knowing to tell my mom or not because I fear the drama that will result. “Damn, I knew he was drinking too much with Heriberto and now this. I can’t believe it. Why would he do this? Why would he do this?” I round up all the liquor in the house and break the bottles. A few minutes later my father and uncle show up laughing, “We were just fooling around … Let’s get a drink … where’s the bottle … Oh, shit who did this … who the hell did this?” “Me, I got mad because you said you were arrested and it pissed me off.” “Oh yeah …” Whoosh Boom Smack And my father is down for the count. It takes a long time for us to be comfortable around each other again. Things change. On the bright side, it launches my explorations. It’s part of the reason I go away to Amherst College sight unseen. But before all that I taste New York’s Latino night life and it blows my mind. There's these nights at the Chez Sensual on Westchester Avenue and The Corso in Manhattan that stand out in my mind as the first exhibition of a new truth while witnessing a real life "electric Rican cabaret.” Latino gays and flaming heteros turn it up a notch at The Ice Palace on 57th Street. It's all from the future. My friend Lulu is with me one evening at The Corso on 86th Street. We just got out of rehearsal with Felix Romero's Teatro Otra Cosa and I want to go see this crazy trumpet player perform at the club. Roy Roman can hit high C's that open up the ceiling. I snag a table with Lulu ringside and in a little while Evelyn (a photographer who becomes a card carrying member of the early Latin New York crowd) joins us. A bunch of young Puerto Rican dancers shows up at the club about 11:30. The midtown jazz dance studios have let out and the Broadway shows wrapped for the evening. These are hardcore Rican cabaret jazz dancers from the city. "Yeah, I be dancing, performing and studying everything from African tribal dance to Jose Limon since grammar school so don't you bother me because I'm going to blow you off the dance floor one, two, three here it comes -- damn did you see that move -- I got you now, te lo dije, I'm bad, I’m bad … I’m bad.” They're part of the next wave that's going to redefine dance on Broadway. All they want is a break. Aids wipes a lot of them out. But, honey, for now these kids work their money makers. Some graduate the High School For Performing Arts. Others the various Catholic High Schools in the city. Many are understudies and chorus dancers in various Broadway and off-Broadway shows like The Wiz, All That Jazz and Pippin. All rehearse and practice long hours getting ready for their chance to break through to fame. The club's D.J. plays a minute and a half jump swing number by the MFSB orchestra to signal the opening or close of its live music sets. Man, that piece still swings. It's not hip it's Hep. Well, the MFSB swing horns blow and the dance floor explodes as this crew of dancers takes the floor. Break dancing pales against what I witness those dancers do that night as Lulu and Evelyn simultaneously perform their own verbal mambo. Evelyn cracks up telling Lulu about a boyfriend loosing his teeth as he's performing oral sex on her, "I know he has false teeth and I never really give it much thought but there they went. The next thing I know he's fussing around down there and I feel this hard thing like a plastic cup near my ass. I say, oh no papito -- you ain't doing nothing around there but I look and he's popping his teeth back in his mouth. Man, I couldn't stop laughing and couldn't go on screwing him until I cooled down." As Evelyn wraps up her story the Corso's DJ launches into a remixed version of "Push Push in The Bush" that’s heavy on the bass drum, bass and percussion. At a break he switches to a second percussion laden segment from a second song and so on in rapid fire until you can't tell what song is playing but damn that beat is kicking. The D.J. that night pushes the beat on the music up in such a way that it seems to stop time as Lulu and Evelyn riff about what else? Life = Sex: A wave of caramel toned He made love to me Glistening bodies like he was Snake in and out of pissing in the street Each other with movements (Mary Panza © 1991) In megaforces Jumping Laughing Spinning Groaning Coupling Splitting Relaxing Stretching their bodies taut He carefully moved To catch the downbeat the bottle back Of the song and forth And when the one hits When he didn't do They release themselves the same to me later In a cascade of smooth I was disappointed (Mary Panza © 1991) Muscular perfection Aware in the direction Where each and every Other dancer is vibrating So never to disrupt The overall flow of joy There's so much rhythm In that part of the room That the nearby tables Even dance The club's twirling Lights rain on He says that erotic Each and every one faces make him Appearing as diamonds come too fast so I Crowning their heads crossed my eyes While illuminating the group He came anyway In its own special spotlight (Mary Panza © 1991) That captures distinct eyes, smiles and Promising Young Rican Faces This unfolds for a solid half-hour As they glide from beat to beat While never missing the one It's not African Caribbean dance Or Jazz movement From the States Though it comes From those places No It's none of these anymore In their Rican bodies The dance becomes Something unique It's the epitome Of the swagger No I don't Ricans add to think the world The streets of the Big City revolves around my They translate the beat of life clitoris but it should (Mary Panza © 1991) In all those Rican apartments Throughout La Gran Manzana And lay it open For us to see In their exhilaration But it doesn't end there Checking out Roy Roman Roy looks out from Climbing on stage the bandstand for the next set Lulu speaks And answers Lulu Her sexual healing Floats in and out CLAVE With the music Swinging 1 2 3 1 2 Recounting adventures In Spanish Que Buenos Son How Fine With a recent lover In English Que Buenas Son How Fine Accented by the With the Que Buenas Son How Fine percussion percussion Son Las Mujeres Are Women Dripping from the Dripping from the Speakers Speakers And the dancers And the dancers Coming in Coming in front of us front of us He then blows Wicked trumpet lines Over the beat Inviting the band in Who joins With righteousness Streaming From canned disco To live musica As the dancers and the girls Stepped out of time Drenched in SALSA If you ever want to upset a hardcore musician or musical purist just use the word SALSA to describe Puerto Rican music in New York. For instance, these two guys at the New Rican Village are arguing one night about the word Salsa and its use to describe the Latin Music being recorded in New York. "Man, don't you get it. Salsa is that sticky bittersweet stuff that's left on your thighs after you make love. It covers everything after a while if you keep on coming. It's like life in A major. That's what we play - music for sex. Look, look. You know how Heny Alvarez wrote that song Tremendo Coco? Man, he was checking out a girl walk down the street and based the beat on how her hips swing – Sal sa ... Ahi, Na Ma ... one two one two three clave Co mo Me Gusta Mi. one two one two three clave When it comes down to it, Salsa is about the banger or the bangee and who's keeping time on the clave." You know what it really is? Salsa Is the truth Life is a dirty Lowdown shame That shouldn’t Happen to a dog Salsa Is the things New Ricans Do In their lives To bark at the Life It exposes "el jibarito" In the big city It’s Spic Chic Parading the runways To a Caribbean beat Steamed in a A mainland cauldron It’s African spirits Rising as aromatic mist Freed to exact their Due after surviving The Middle Passage It’s a Taino soul Tempering That just anger It’s Freedom Land And Section 5 at The Bronx Riviera Salsa Is oratories That exorcise Suffering There are only Fleeting bad moments In life All changes And our sorrows Are prayed away In verse and song It’s a bronze Statue of Liberty Holding sheet music And A set of maracas While Ricans stay in clave And See the world Awash in Renaissance perspective Aware of the past in the present Reinterpreting it But holding true To it’s lessons Fufillment Fueled by Desire Channeling Regrets It’s as much as Batacumbele As it is Eddie Palmieri Sharing the stage with Los Lobos While Richie Ray and Bobby Cruz Bless the congregation And Ralphie Pagan And Hector Lavoe die Powdered deaths For Our Sins Salsa Is a lover's passion caught by a musician's voice It anticipates Interactive media In the computer age Salsa Is sensuously stylish Latin dancing Don’t get lost in the percussion And Miss the real deal in Salsa The secret is How the bass riff And The two dancers Thrust against each other Wrap themselves Around the hips To drive in unison Across the floor In its most abstract IT Is the switch between The bass The dancer hips And The left hand of the timbales player Accenting the count It’s making love With your clothes on To a celestial metronome Record producer Al Santiago understands this philosophy thoroughly. The ubiquitos “Uncle Alegre”. He’s Uncle Al to all of us who buy his Alegre records and seek him out at the original Casa Alegre Music Shop. That heavyset manic uncle every family has whose so restless he recreates the Sistine Chapel ceiling in his living room out of chalk pastel because his wife tells him to touch up the room. It doesn’t matter where this type of fella is – he’ll always create something to entertain himself. Overworks, overeats, overdrinks TYPE A+ Personality, that’s our Al Our Man in the Bronx.” In the 1930's Puerto Rican record producer Gabriel Oller makes a living selling acetates of hot Latin bands to labels like RCA Victor. In the late fifties, Al Santiago creates a company that handles the product from top to bottom. I meet him at various east/west village rehearsals and recording studios. “I wanted to play top of the line saxophone so I studied real hard. At 16, I went to see a movie … The Benny Goodman Story and the next night at a church dance one of Goodman's sax players is in the orchestra playing for ten bucks that gig. I decided right there that there had to be a better position in the business and I found that as a producer." This is the man who creates the prototype for today's mainstream salsa industry with his Bronx based Alegre label in the '60's. (Fania Records under Johnny Pacheco -- an Alegre Alumnus - Fania owner Jerry Massucci and alleged mobster/record distributor-producer-kingpin Morris Levy take this formula to the next level.) Al packages the soundtrack for "spic chic" in the early sixties on Alegre Records while enlisting future Latin NY publisher Izzy Sanabria as the creative director for album covers. Beautiful paintings grace some of the l.p.'s; others have faux Hollywood poses; and campy illustrated characters populate a series of l.p. covers for Alegre Recordings that feature the label's All stars. There is a story line tying these album cover comic strips and even a lost L.P. (think of today's craze for finding lost television episodes.) Al realizes the power of hip Latino marketing by creating the product and, get this, all based in the Bronx U.S.A.. Vaya Al, you did good. Alegre musician's humor is caught on tape and included on the recordings. Through it all, Al is the skipper of this Mad Magazine type crew that confronts popular culture and says "include me." In the meantime he's developing entertainers to cross over into the American Industry. He sees that there is a bigger market for these rhythms other than the "cuchufrito" (chitlin) circuit. The Alegre recordings of the early sixties anticipate new wave production of the early eighties and extend sonically into today's CD's. In the current era when DAT recordings are becoming increasingly favored by cutting edge musicians, Al masters two track live recording in the late fifties and sixties that have an extra sonic sparkle when replayed off CD disc. His production genius launches the first disco song nominated for a Grammy - Sunny by Yambu (1975). A triumph for what is essentially a Salsa band. He recognizes a market with a unique Urban Latin style as early as 1956 and delivers the goods 20 years later with Sunny. The song is developed at the Third Street Music School. Late Disco bastardized the New York Latin Beat driving Sunny and it takes many more years for others to recognize the cultural commercial mint Latin music is today. Say thank you Ricky, Jennifer and Marc. "God loves Adam so much that He gives him Eve. God loves Al so much that he gives him vision. Only problem is that He doesn't tweak the power gauge before Al is already fucking going full blast." Fania All Star Trumpet Player Ray Maldonado 1977 Al is the original El Extreme and he's got a few years left in his life. At times, his energy is beyond manic high voltage. He deftly gets into detailed crazed arguments during recording sessions and uniquely resolves them. Some moments are brilliant. Others are exercises in satire inspired by his passion for reading Voltaire. The books prepare him to delight in the unexpected as he rubs elbows with people like Beatle John Lennon who arrives bombed out of his mind at a Santiago recording session with a charanga band in 1977. Lennon insists on playing with the band but is too far gone to do anything coherent. His solution is a late night session in an east side geisha house. Al is thoroughly grateful, "It relieved this really bad headache I had and put me on a higher plane." One night he and Charlie Palmieri analyze the left versus right hand playing of Eddie Palmieri in the mambo classic Azucar. Al bets Charlie he can come up with the common denominator in Eddie’s playing. He creates fractions and formulas; permutations and counterpoint theories -- all sounding quite precise in its mathematics -- and at the end of five minutes raises his bulky frame to triumphantly announce with a bellow: "And the common denominator is NAUGHT!" He then immediately excuses himself mimicing Claude Rains playing Police Inspector Louie in Casablanca, "I'm shocked Charles.... say shocked ... that there's gambling and foolish musicians in this establishment!" "OK OK OK …. Here's your winnings Inspector." "Thank you .. shocked I say – Round up the usual suspects." Al then gets up to get a snack of rice, beans, roast pork and a Diet Tab leaving Charlie Palmieri in hysterics at the control board. He produces some sides with one of the usual suspects singer Jimmy Sabater over the years. Jimmy’s riding a small crest of success of several well produced Fania Record releases and the disco version of the ballad To Be With You; the late seventies disco tune is a precursor to I Like It Like That and the Ricky/Jennifer/Cristina phenomenon. Jimmy, Joe Cuba, Nick Jimenez, Phil Diaz, Willie Torres (and briefly Willie Bobo) are barrio boys who fuse early sixties rhythm and blues and doo wop with Latin beats. Richie Ray launches boogaloo but Hector Rivera and the Joe Cuba sextet get the commercial hits with Bang Bang and At The Party. Willie Bobo goes to Los Angeles and creates Latin Rock with Sonny Henry who writes Evil Ways -- later to become a hit for Santana. "It's something else to be a star. All the singers in the original [Joe Cuba] sextet are a bunch of criers. Willie [Torres] can't sing To Be With You because he can't do a take without busting out crying. Cheo [Feliciano] the same thing. The day he sings Como Rien he’s getting married. And if you listen carefully to the Seeco record you can hear him ready to bust loose. And that’s a couple of takes in. We had to get a mop after the first session. Sonny [Joe Cuba] was running outside to get bed sheets to hold back the river that was coming from underneath the door of the recording booth in the studio. It was crazy. I don't know how we survived. And the gigs, damn! We play the Colgate Gardens. Sonny says we got four sets but that we won't have to play after the second. That we're already paid up front. It's a lock. Guaranteed shoot out at the end of the second set. Second set ends. BANG!!! BANG!!! We pack up the instruments and speed back home. A week later at the Hunts Point Palace we blew Tito Puente's orchestra out of the water. We were promoting that Boogaloo el Pito (The Whistle) and we handed out all these whistles. Then we played out asses off and left the stage one a time. When Sonny finally got off stage the whole place was filled with the sound of these damn whistles. The audience blew so long on those whistles it disrupted Puente's set. He was pissed but we showed him that night. King or no King of Latin Music we could rock him anytime we wanted. And that pelican jaw Puente Manager Jose Curbelo couldn't do shit about it." Jose Curbelo is an old school bandleader/manager/operator. His cocktail rumba style piano playing garners him enough success during the forties and early fifties to allow him to become a "booking agent/manager". His meal ticket is Tito Puente whom he teams up with in 1938. Curbelo is part gangster, part fop and ruthless when it comes to his Tito. Some estimate that his huge extended jay leno jaw goes beyond Manhattan into New Jersey. Curbelo’s pelican like bill scoops up all the green fisheees. Only his ego is bigger. "All these promoters are characters" Jimmy Sabater says as he pours himself a drink, "But none of them have anything on Federico Pagani.” The grand promoter of Latin sets since the 30's, Pagani is a legend on the "cuchifrito circuit". Sabater talks about one of Pagani's stranger spectaculars at the Teatro Puerto Rico in the South Bronx. Appearing tonight - Tito Puente, Richie Ray, Eddie Palmieri, Celia Cruz, Charlie Palmieri, Pacheco, Machito, Totico, Patato, Mongo, el Bobo, Monty Rock III, Joe Cuba, Willie Colon, Larry Harlow, La Lupe..." and the marquee continues on and on. All for five dollars! Two shows -- one at five. The other at ten. Comes the five o'clock show and the theater is packed. Teatro Puerto Rico can hold up to 3000 people. It's the fifth largest movie house in the city. And it's packed with hard-core Puerto Ricans. 95% from right there in the South Bronx. Five o'clock and nothing. Five Fifteen Five Twenty Five thirty and nothing. This crowd of 2200 Puerto Ricans is now getting restless. From behind the blue green curtain steps Federico. A little Indian looking Rican. Five foot three -- tall for a jibaro del pais. He tries to get the audience's attention. "Q -me ... Q - me .. Por favor." Now they're starting to throw popcorn lids, cups, paper and Federico is ducking, "Q -me ... Q - me .. Por favor .... pero ... me perdonan ... Por favor but THERE WILL BE NO SHOW TONIGHT." The place goes completely quiet. "The truth is my mother has cancer and needs an operation and I had no way to raise the money so I had to do this." The place is stunned but now comes the moment of truth and demonstrates how Federico had delivered successful promotions for more than 30 years.From the balcony one guy yells out, "Ah the hell with it, let him keep the money." The crowd grudgingly agrees and begins to file out. Just as the audience is surging for the doors Federico sincerely announces, "And don't forget, tell your friends that there's another show at ten!" Teatro Puerto Rico hosts different acts in those days. Movies, Reviews and there is always the Passion Plays during Easter. Reenactments of Christ's crucifixion. It's all very solemn. Yomo Toro plays accompaniment with a Jibaro trio. Men openly weep. Women say rosaries. Children mess with each other. You get the picture. But there is a problem. The Cross noticeably shifts during the performance. At the moment that Mary Magdalene announces before Christ's stage death: "Listen he speaks" instead of "My God My God why have you forsaken me" the cross begins to crash and Jesus yells out, "Me Hooooooedeeeeeeee" (I'm screwed) and lands with a resounding thud. Not a beat is missed. The performers pick up the knocked out Jesus and carry him off stage. There is another Jesus for the resurrection scene. And who is it? Why Federico Pagani of course! That little Indian looking Rican promoter. Five foot three -- tall for a Jesus del pais. There's always a Puero Rican in the mix to save the day. Especially in Bronxworld. [3] BABY There's a girl In my neighborhood Who I have as my own Who accepts my perfect balance Of a chip on each shoulder There's a girl In my neighborhood Who's been around for a while A survivor of many scenes Some wonderful Others quite horrible I cross avenues of loneliness Looking for her And then she found me Telling my story in a room Her love tumbles from her lips Crumbles from her tongue And shoots straight from her heart Into heaven There's a girl in my neighborhood Who's worth every moment Of chance Suddenly we're in the papaya business. Leyla goes out for cigarettes one morning and three days later pulls up to the house in the Bronx with a truckload of refrigerated Costa Rican fruit. Two tons of papaya. To top it off, until a couple of months before our papaya escapade she never drives a car in her life. Leyla hears of the opportunity, rushes to the license bureau, applies for a third class permit to drive a truck and wraps up her application and test in a month. She's something else, huh? We're a couple of manic Ricans always just doing crazy stuff all over the place -- always a racket going on -- always up to something. Why? Because it's Our way. I don't expect you to understand or accept it. Personally, I feel its ok to play with a different set of rules. If not you can become one-dimensional. Leyla and I live in a seven dimensional world en la America: Land of Constitution, Restitution and Prost-perity. Or as my boy Walter sums it up, "Louie, you guys just don't give a damn." Yeah, I just don't. Life’s too short. By the way, we sell all of the papaya in three days and she takes a week off in Miami. We improvise well together that Leyla and I. We’re from the city Of electric rhythms Where bebop jazz horns Ride on Caribbean beats As santero fathers chant Blen blen blen blen blen Kes en queno talin ganga guini llare llare And espiritista mothers kneel before Home altars wearing flowered bathrobes To pray for their children's protection We’re the future born in the past It's a Latin thing Of a people in love with An experience on the mainland En el Norte En el Bronex In love with this country in spite of itself The difficult lover beloved Who keeps one waiting While she adjusts her attitude Stirring her special soul food Never allowing anyone else To cook Man, I want me some more rice and beans. Rice with chicken. Arroz con sarchicas. Yellow rice. Arroz con gandules. White rice. Chinese rice con tostones. Rice Krispies drowned in malta. Even green rice and yellow butter beans on Saint Patrick's day for all those special Puerto Ricans like Tura lura lura Drancis Lopez over on Beach Avenue in the Bronx whose mother is Irish and father Rican. They sing "Danny Boy" in clave and drink Ron Superior with Guiness chasers at family christenings as Sister Mary Concepcion -- Drancis cousin on his mother's side -- salsas through an Irish jig and cracks the family up as she hitches her habit and let's go in rapture, "Saints preserve us, don't step in that field now laddie boy or I'll tap a novena all around that'll mambo you straight to ecstasy, don't you know." "Go, Sister -- Go, Sister -- Go Sister -- Yo ohhhh" "Jump around ... jump around ... jump up on the ceiling and get down ... Tito Puente con Palmieri ... los invitan al bailar ... dedicado al mundo entero ... con su ritmo del timbal." Man, I love my rice, beans and avocado tomato salads because they season my world like my running buddy Leyla whose half Puerto Rican and half Turkish. Now that's some kick ass rice and beans with a side of strong black coffee in a size 4. She is - as my Washington Heights Dominican homeboys like to say -- la cremita especial. I've eaten all kinds of food and women in my life and the bottom line is if it ain't got that Latin tinge it ain't straight. Jelly Roll Morton knows this after meeting Puerto Rican clarinet players and Caribbean madams in New Orleans during the birth of jazz. (There's always a Puerto Rican in the mix if you look hard enough) And Jeb Bush knows exactly what I'm talking about. Yeah, buddy -- he's all up in it with his chavalita and Tex Mex kids even if grandpa George calls his grandkids the "little brown ones". Doesn't Abuelito Bush realize that Jeb's kids are part of the Real America? Not "little brown ones" living in the U.S. but Raza. § see definition §Definition: according to Gwebsters (edited by Ping Selusio) Raza: The Real America (n) That big ass Spanish speaking neighborhood that stretches from the tip of South America to the Canadian border and "from sea to shining sea." Really, man, there very few differences between Latinos of different countries no matter what line the Lords of Culture throw at you. We're one people from different buildings in the same neighborhood left behind by indigi landlords, black renegades and conquistador tax collectors. You dig? Here, I'll make it simple. I can pack up my bags today and fly down to punta de las puneta madres somewhere deep in South America. Within twenty fours hours I'd be right at home swinging my Spanish like they speak it in their town and eating our rice and beans together. Go to Mass on Sunday. Screw around on Saturday. Work all week and respect the dona (who comes in varying degrees - 1st degree: the dona wife, 2nd degree: the dona mother and at some point in your life there's even the third degree: a dona tia who stays with you too. Dona cubed. If your fate is really in the hands of a God who fancies himself a comedian he'll give you a fourth degree dona: a daughter – my daughter Chasan - a dona in waiting. Chasan is daring to say the least. I pity the man who tries to take advantage of her. She’s got strength. I ask her on her 16th birthday what she wants out of life and without hesitation she proclaims, “Room Service.” I really luck out when we invite her to our party though she kind of immediately bugs me out. For nine months I sing to her through her mothers stomach and the day she pops out she stops crying once I sing in the delivery room. That’s cool. The bug out comes when she opens her eyes – they’re blue like my Grandma Christina’s and look right into my soul. Will she read my fate in the future? How can her mother tolerate my resolve? Will she? Don’t care to go Don’t you know I just want to be A part of your life So let me in I’ll show you what’s right There are two things God knows that Carmen knows One She is beautiful Two The value she places On her life And On the lives Of the ones she loves I glide precariously Alongside her path At once tender Then off center When touched by The moonlit madness That fuels my mind Two binary stars Dancing in the night sky Drawn in and then out Held together by the magnetism Of our daughter Chasan The ark of the covenant Wherein Carmen keeps my soul Three universes drawn together By a special mystical plan Which I manage to corrupt With the pananche Of Foghorn Leghorn On steroids I Do I Say I Do I Say I love you Carmen replies You say You do But at night I cry And No tears come from my eyes Carmen prays And driftdreams to another place In that world Chasan is safe to roam I am at ease And She is free to Love But those dreams are corrupted By my impetousity Corrupt fascination Bent Brilliance She doesn’t lose her temper She finds it And yet she still loves Because she has the Blue Eyed Ark With her Because she has The Princess tucked away As I travel the byroads Writing my lines As a dantian reporter From the underworld Hey, our daughter is not only Puerto “Bella” (Beautiful) but Rican Tough too. I know this to be a fact because she takes me to court once. We have a super big fight over some stupid thing and we both go ballistic. It’s a tough time for all of us but you know what? If she’s got the cojones to do that I know she’ll stand up to any man when she needs and as her father I prefer getting raked through the coals than have her fold up. However, sometimes she overreaches and get’s busted. Like the time I find her climbing on the counter to perch herself on top of the refigerator for her favorite box of cereal. “Mommy said I could get this.” “Your mother is nowhere around.” “She told me before she left …” munch, munch, munch.” “Get down from there.” “OK, carry me …” munch munch munch She’s already reaching for what she wants in life. At the age of four or five she spends the day walking around with her eyes shut. When Carmen asks her why she’s doing this she answers without missing a beat, “Because I want to see how a blind person sees the world.” If I can only be inside her head at that precise moment to witness what she discovers by turning inwards. But I am – she’s half of me. Damn, poor kid. Interesting that when she gets tatted up she has it done on her left shoulder. My tat runs on my right. Together we’re pefectly balanced guapwericans. She tries to get a cell phone when she’s only fifteen. “Rules? What rules? Hello, yes, is this the Sprint office in Florida? Yes, my name is Chasan. I live in Connecticut. I’d like to order some service.” “O.K. How old are you” “Uh, 21.” “And your full name?” “Chasan Chaluisan.” “Chaluisan? Hold On … Hello .. my name is Denise I’m the supervisor here … did you say you’re last name is Chaluisan? “Yes” “And your name is Chasan?” “Yes” “And you live in Connecticut?” “You’re not 21. Your Titi Ana’s grandaughter. This is your cousin Nisey from New Jersey. I work down here now. What are you trying to pull? “Oh, goodbye! Hahahahahahaha ha ha …. Ohhhh hahahahahahaha ha ha” That day I think she learns how far flung our family is and how funny fate can be. However, she tempts fate a little too much. I don’t know how she drives now because I will not get in a car with her but at 17 she’s lethal behind the wheel. Chasan wipes out her first car going 65 mph in a 25 mph highway turn. (Shades of of her great-grandfather Juan Batlle who also turns his car into a guided missile.) She takes out 6 yellow safety barrels but walks away with just a bruise. Her reaction, “Hey, when can I get a new car?” Dona quien me manda Dona - who told me to do this - Puneta Whoah Carajo Damn Que Dios me bendiga May God bless me Pero me tienes loco But she's driving me insane Totalmente enloquezido Totally nuts Esta ... muchacha This ... grrrrl Con las actuaciones With those things she does Con su vida In her life Si Yes Loco Crazy Como un barbaro Like a madman Tirado al lado Thrown on the side De una montana Of a mountain Por un agila By an eagle Que lo cojio That grabbed him Por los cojones By the balls y and Abandonado Discarded Como un trapo viejo Like an old rag Que esta en la televsion What's on TV La nueva telenovela pronto en Univision La Locura de Americo con actuacion especial de Miriam Colon interpretando la vida de una dama que dio a su destino Dona Justina You might even have a fifth degree dona - like my Great Aunt Dona Justina Aspacia Brown Y Lamboy who survived the flood of 1926 in San German, Puerto Rico. In this great epic recounted every year at her birthday, Dona Justina is swept away during the hurricane season on a wooden cart still attached to a mule by sugar cane poles all the way from Puerto Rico to Cuba. Along the way she battles sharks, seabirds and pirates. Upon nearing the Cuban shore the mule miraculously finds its footing and carries her to the capital where she's romanced by a cocky U.S. serviceman on leave in Havana. In 1931, he opens a soda cracker factory in the South Bronx and literally becomes the Biscuit Head of New York. He dies in 1975 after making love with her in the back of a Red '74 Buick at the Puerto Rican Day Parade. Yep, he came and went. Doctors suspect it’s the lilac powder Justina favors that induces the heart attack by blocking Don Paul's nostrils. Social etiquette prevents them from citing the wheelbarrow position the couple is discovered locked in the back seat; Justina's legs all akimbo. Y akimba tambien. Ma kimbia que un kimbombo. Don Paul's eyes are lit with moist joyful tears and a look of serene happiness on his dead brow. Leonardo Da Vinci, Salvador Dali or even Izzy Sanabria can’t capture the moment on canvas more captivatingly. It takes medics an hour to disentangle them. Dona Justina wears Spanish lilac talc that peeks through the folds of her enormous body. She insists on hugging little children so their faces end up in this pit of powdered flesh surrounded by huge pearls. It's a tall glass of dry sweet smelling mother's milk served with sloppy wet kisses. You say Bendicion Titi Justi but inside your head it's Oh....Oh...Oh...Oh my God help me... help me help me hep hep hep ... "Si - Bendicion (Blessings), enough already. " My friends -- fly down anywhere in the Real America and you get razad and donad out. Catch a boat up the coast to Galveston and experience the same thing. Then train it to, I don't know - uh - San Antonio; Yakima,Washington; Loraine, Ohio; Waterbury, Connecticut and settle right in with mi gente (my people.) Won't it be funny if what’s really going on with Abuelito Georgie Bush is that he secretly accepts Raza ways and is trying to let everyone know by cutting loose with that little brown ones (los Trigenitos) clue; like that POW during the Vietnam War who sends Morse code messages back home by batting his eyes. Maybe the economy is going south because the powers that be figure out secret agent 00Raza is in the house and they freak out. I mean, think about it. I grow up with family nicknamed el Negro (the dark one), el Chino (the Chinese looking one) and the occasional el Pendejito (The Little Ass Hair). We affectionately hand out nicknames all the time. I think el Pendejito ... uh ... Abuelito Bush is at the point in his life where he's just into loving his family and chilling. He must be. His oldest son is President, Jeb is next in line and Barbara is still rocking the brother after 50 years. That got to be a whole mess of love. Greasy love. Hoochie love. 5th Degree Dona love. Kind a love that makes a man look at his woman and say, "Damn Baby, we've had a slamming hoe down all these years, haven't we? It's nice to be around you and groove on this scene, Baby. Yeah, Baby. Honey, I'm glad I'm the one who found you -- that's why I'm always hanging around you ... You’re the kind of ham I would go into hock for. Come on, boo, let me get little bit of that poontang ... move you hand ... move your hand. What's that boo? What's this? It's just a little vomit from the Halcion. I forgot my table manners. What time is it? It's time for you to get busy with me, Boo. That’s what time it is. Wait? O.K. What's on the TV tonight, Baby?" Esta noche en Telemundo el Padron Who Reached The White House con actuacion especial de MARTIN SHEEN interpretando la vida de un domo que dio a su destino hasta al fin Plus -- there's the secret Bush Dynasty weapon that shows that they're ready to market the future of political business. Abuelito George is betting on Latino voters getting into the Latin Bush: George III, Jebs boy. And I know he counts on Puerto Ricans to deliver his grandson into the White House because when asked about the boy's prospects the family pundits respond, "He's the Ricky Martin of the GOP." Picture that. You know we're in the house when the reigning pop icon chosen to describe America's political future is who: A PUERTO RICAN. There's always Menudo in the mix. Let me cook this dish up some more. Even the baddest Black music producer in the business today got a Puerto Rican home girl from the Bronx to deliver the goods, Future First Lady Jennifer Lopez. Another example of Six degrees of Separarican. I mean, it's possible that some undercover Latino will make it to the White House in the next thirty years. And if it's not possible it should be. Why? Because shit happens when you least expect it or are even aware of the possibilities. Who knows until he breaks out that actor Martin Sheen is of Spanish descent, speaks fluent Spanish and has a couple of wild sons who match him note for note in being buggy boo. That’s a nice thing when we find that out. Come to think of it. Abuelito Bush's sons are a little buggy boo, too. Even more so than Bill Clinton and his crew. Go Dog. Yo, rich guys put white trash to shame when it comes to getting down. We all suspect that while Bill and Al puffed on Sleepy Time Down South Kind Bud in the seventies, Georgie Junior parties like an eighties Rican at Lopez' after hours club freezing his nose on Webster Avenue in the Bronx on a Sunday morning. A 6 million-dollar man barely alive that leaves home Friday night. Yeah, buddy. And now he's President. "ESE ES UN MACHO! Das a men. Eh macho. Eh machomen." Wait until one of Us gets in there. Got Latin Bush? [4] HOMEBOYS & TRAINS My brother in arms Dave Gonzalez and I love to play this side of the neck (sarcastic) game of find the Rican. No matter where you dig in the history of the Americas you always find out -- if you dig deep enough -- that there's some damn Puerto Rican in there being part of the mix. "Poor Rat Bastard, Yo... let's play Six Degrees of Separican." The game begins for Dave and I while we're still at Cardinal Hayes High School in the South Bronx. We find out that there's a Puerto Rican Impressionist painter hanging in the Louvre in Paris who held his own with Van Gogh, Gaugin and the other Impressionist painters of that era. "Trust. Look anywhere and you'll find the Puerto Rican." "Time of Jesus." "Pepin el Jorobao (the hunchback)." "Pepin? Who's he?" "The Puerto Rican who sold Judas the rope after he screwed the pooch. Yo, he didn't throw all the money back and besides Pepin took 20 percent off the original asking price because it was Cananite hemp. " "Man what are you babbling about?" "My uncle Herbie showed me a really old dusty scroll in Aramaic which had an inscription on the inside that read 'O.K. it was me ... I did it ... I sold Judas the rope and the Romans the nails to permaset Chuito. So sue me ... Pepin - the wandering Rican." "Oh -- Get the ... out of here. OK the Titanic." "Oh, that's easy." "I suppose you’re going to tell me they were busboys." "Oh, Super jibaro please. It/s a Transoceanic trip ... Drag Queen from San Juan posing as a hairdresser for Jacob Astor's wife. I think it’s Monte Rock III's great uncle forever known as Mr. Natasha from Dykman Avenue. "Monte who? From Disco Tex and the Sexolettes .. Get the ... You need help ... go see someone and get long term treatment." David is one of those really smart Ricans - A Smarican. He graduates Yale and Columbia. Que hombre What a man Pero jodon But a pain in the ass Sin igual Unmatched Como un plomero Like a plumber Con un tubo y siete llaves With a pipe & 7 wrenches y yo And me mas tostao More toasted que un mani than a roasted peanut The game continues as we turn our sights on Puerto Rican emigration to New York. "Yo, man - for real -- check this out. a long time ago this Taino, uh, Guarianex Igneri, yeah, that's it - Gurianex got blown in his fishing boat.'' "Blown?" "Yeah, by a wind, man, don't be stupid (although that space alien Chupacabra would do in a pinch) anyway, Guarianex got pushed all the way up the coast and landed in Manhattan." "When was this?" "Yo, man, a long time ago like before the neighborhood changed. Yeah, before they built the subway and the Indians hadn't moved to Cleveland." "Quien lo manda? "Exactly, quien lo manda - who told him to do that -- he should have stayed home and cultivated some plantains. " "True, True." "So.... Now realizing that he couldn't get back home he settled in on the new island. Guari got tight with the other natives, cornered the local market on upscale sea shell carving and was part of the tribal band on the weekends playing lead hollow log at the original Boomboomakao club on the upper west side of the island. There's always a Puerto Rican in the crowd." "True. True." Me. I'm just a Puerto Rican from The Bronx. Just think of me as the anonymous guy smiling and waving at the camera that pops up flipping the bird in a group shot of unsuspecting Japanese tourists in Times Square. When they get back to Japan they never quite figure out who this guy is in the picture. But he knows exactly who he is and why he's there, "I'm part of the scene in New York not apart from;" a real deluxe world traveler courtesy of Kodak who leaves graffiti all over the Bronx in 1977, Jesus is coming paroled may fifth and now breakdancing on a cross near you as 'wild styler's' spray paint TAKI 183, PHASE II and ULTRA COOL 225 on subway doors and proto-B boys spin the night away at the Starship Discovery in Times Square. A Puerto Rican from the Bronx. My boy Walter is a West Indian original rumpus man (Wise upstart) from 225th street. Like me, he's a first generation island boy who knows where the best Jamaican food, clubs and girls are in all New York. We meet during summer camp at the age of twelve and graduate from Vassar and Amherst Colleges respectively while David hooks up at Yale. We three walk in that strange world that exists isolated between homeboy hangout and Ivy League culture shock. Biscuit Biscuit Head Night an Day I go around town Trying to get my Biscuits Brown Night and day I butter them up It makes me feel Oh, so tough Biscuit I'm just a biscuit head Like to take you On a trip But you got Those beaver lips Like to take you All downtown Like to put Put you in my crowd Biscuit Biscuit Head Riiiiiiighhhhht! Riiiiiiighhhhht! "Bombaclot. Me want some stew beef and rice with peas and banana. Serve me up a cup of tea and a righteous spliff and I'll be with Marley in heaven. Bombaclot ... riiiiiiighhhhht. Me coming live and direct! Yo, man, what are you reading, man?" "What the hell was that, son? Damn Bro. You got some root thing going on, partner. Yo, this? It's Richard Hofstadter ... American Political Tradition. This cat breaks down that the Founding Fathers were just businessmen looking to get theirs ... Yo, man, I think George Washington and his boys were Puerto Rican." "What are you talking about, man, did you smoke dust again?" "No, man, check it out. I'm walking up Gun Hill Road and I see this sign on the lamp post that says the reason it's called Gun Hill Road is because during the Revolution, the dude ... " "Who, Washington?" "Yeah, but they called him Georgie Papi Chulo in those days. He set up these big ass guns at the top of the hill and when the British came by ..." "Where?" "Down at the lower part of the valley where the Jamaicans sell weed now." "What? Mugsy and Daz' spot over on 211th?" "Exactly. But the Arabs hadn't taken over the 24 hour store yet, the Italians still had it - I think it was Johnny "Rimbambid" (the Imbecile) Monks running numbers out of there, anyway Georgie started throwing down some fire on those English cats, lit 'em up and won the day!" "So how does that make him Porto Rican?" "Yo, we got things in common" "What - Guns?" "No, man, don't be stupid man, yo, the dude messes with the British because like this cat Hofstadter wrote about, Georgie and his boys wanted a bigger cut of the action and they weren't getting any respect. Yo man: serious class disrespect. Georgie and his gang finally stood up and said give us our green and our props, man, or I'll blast you. Boom Boom Boom let's go back to my room and that's HOW Gun Hill Road got its name and Georgie mixed his salsa. Yo, Dave what do you think of that?" "Damn. Quien lo manda. So when does the new Revolution start?" "Call me." "When." "Anytime, I got call waiting." "Call waiting?" "Yeah, call waiting. Call. If I don't answer the phone wait and call again. See, call waiting. Tell you what, I'll fax you but I think it's already going down on the Number 2 Train." I ride the Number 2 Train a lot I glide in the front car looking at myself in the windows Hide In the middle cars next to the conductors And when I feel daring I go down to the Third World Club Car At the end of the train Catching a contact buzz From all the cheeba smoke I love the drama One time my boy Sha Sha And me hitch a ride Outside the caboose Screaming all the way From Jackson Avenue to 149th Where we get away From the transit cops waiting By skipping across The tracks to the Uptown Side ALL ABOARD I sing my first song on the Number 2 When I’m only 7 As the train roars through the tunnels On our way to Brooklyn Amusing my self By singing Henry the 8th I Am I Am Over and over To the clacking Of the train wheels And find I like my voice I don't have to go To the movies as long as I have The Number 2 and the Bronx The quick live dramas captured In the 2's windows and wagons As it rumbles Through station after station Are like the coming attractions At the movie house At 223rd and White Plains Road The Art by Simpson At any station I get off And I'm in the middle Of a Technicolor Revolution The rap going on between Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Mexicans, West Indians, Central and South Americans in El Bronex shows how Puerto Ricans first get a foothold on the mainland and survive. They interact and never stop chismiando/gossiping. That's the revolution. It doesn't have to be guns. You can blow up the spot with information. Latinos are dominating the entire U.S. as they expand out of the Northeast and Southwest and Ricans experience the trip first up here in el Norte. En Nueva York. En el Bronex. I'm bound to it all by being in the right place at the right time. New York's Puerto Ricans survive assaults like getting flooded with dope in the 60's. We’re burned out in the 70's, Coke and AIDed out in the 80's, cracked out in the 90's and we just keep on coming like the energizer bunny with a Timex watch up it's tail. I know this for a fact because I still got that watch up my ass. "Alo! Quien llama? Oye men, tiene la hora?" “Hello! Who’s calling? Hey man, do you have the time?” The whole time this is happening the Number 2 train takes me to places where I see the seeds of 21st Century Raza sown live and direct. Gangster rap, La Vida Loca and Oz on HBO? Oh, super Negro please. Back in '71 Felix, Romero throws crazy outdoor Latin Reviews throughout the South Bronx (go to 125th and take the 6 to Brook Avenue) that feature rude vignettes parodying the themes that are now commercial gospel for the terminally hip. We catch Mikey Pinero and Short Eyes straight out of the Lower East Side in ‘73. He makes The Life all clear in two hours on stage at Lincoln Center (66th Street Station) that even includes a homeboy/mambonick rap piece titled Mambo Tu Le Pop. Funny mothers? Yo, Spookarican Rick Aviles is “it” in Loisaida (Astor Place Station) and Hungarican Freddie Prinze is really funny Uptown (50th Street Station) in a cute way before he gets coked out. Cutting edge? Eddie Figueroa runs a kicking place named the New Rican Village (14th Street Station and walk down Avenue A to 6th Street) that is set up by five of the original Young Lords. A place where you can eat some Rican food, hear Puerto Rican poetry inspired in New York and the creme de la creme of "Heavy" Latin musicians led by Andy Gonzalez and Conjunto Libre. I ride those old black trains with Raul Julia (125th Street Station) and the "honorary" Rican Ruben Blades (Bleecker Street Station) just as they’re getting ready to switch to riding in new black limousines. I see that special look real innovators get in their eyes when they know that what they do is good and it's taking them somewhere special. And I visit hell doing blow with Hector Lavoe at a bar called John’s up by 233rd and White Plains Road. I later watch a guy claiming to be his son get slapped around by a dealer because he overplays his credit based on his father’s fame at the same place. Yep, bound it all by being in the right place at the right time. These days they even got trains on the Number 2 line that talk to you in English and Spanish. Can you imagine how a leftover white guy from the old neighborhood must feel like. "Damn, just what I need, a bilingual train that talks to me. Just when I got to the right dose of Haldol and Prolixin to get those voices in my head under control. It's not enough I got Cool Pipo Timbon rapping into a CD burner at one end of the wagon and another Jamaican talking to himself ... " (a half West Indian half Chinese named Shabba Everton "Eba" Chin who really is talking into a wireless phone with a headset while writing lines on his laptop) " ... No, now, I got the Number 2 talking to me. Damn, yo, shut up. Give me a visual to let me know what's up. Flash the stop on a screen. Flash the announcements, Yo. I got other things to be doing with my senses without the train talking to me. I need to talk to my imaginary friend next to me. " Checking out a NY transit map I notice that the other boroughs are islands. I'm seeing this girl Rosie Hurricanes out in Brooklyn the winter of 1977 and I want to know how far I got to travel to get a kiss. Yo, man. She lives at the end of the J line and I live near the end of the Number 2 Line. J like in Just sit down and read some Don Quixote because "You going for a long ride my little friend for the next two hours." Way out there at the end of the line -- in Brooklyn. Biscuit I’m just a Biscuit Head Riiiiiiighhhhht! Riiiiiiighhhhht! Quiero bailar Contigo Quiero dar te Todo mi amor Tu ere Mi negra santa Tu ere My unica amante Biscuit Biscuit Head Riiiiiiighhhhht! Riiiiiiigght! Yo, Brooklyn. It’s so far out that my family left Brooklyn for the Bronx in 1964 to be closer to civilization. So far out, I don't even think they have bathrooms in Rosie's house. Yeah, man. At that time there are still tenements in Brooklyn with community bathroom's that are out in the hallway for two or three apartments. Old buildings with ancient Jibaro (campesino) spirits from the turn of the century. Spirits of the first Puerto Ricans who came after the U.S. invasion in 1898. First they live near the Brooklyn Navy Yards and then spread out. You can feel those spirits still roaming in the chestnut brown stairways getting ready for work, "Ingrid, nina, donde esta mis pantalones que tengo que ir a la factoria tempranito por la manana pa trabajar el overtime. Ingrid -- los pantalones -- que te ta luciendo nena? Te lucsiste? Te ta luciendo. Los Pantalones - ahora y despues a pipi y a mimi!" Rosie is worth the trip but damn, it takes two hours for me to get there to get my freak on. Then it’s just kiss, squeeze ass, fondle, get hot ... oh, I have to pull out and go home. Hornitis Porto Ricanness Interuptus When that long black Number 2 Shoots out the subway tunnel At 149th Street coming home I spill onto the New World The proverbial Puerto Rican seed Once you're in el Bronex You're officially on the mainland Of the Real America Living in The Outer Provinces Of the New Empire "Welcome. You got Ricans -- a lot of Ricans -- more Ricans than you can shake a lechon (roast pig) at." I guess Little Latin Rosie Lu serves a purpose by being way out there on Crooklyn Island. I recognize the truth about Ricans in New York -- especially in The Bronx. We're the northern gatekeepers on the mainland. The first Latinos in the Northeast to represent the Real AmeRica: a super continent of beans, rice/tortillas and a ton of brown workers who take in stride the everyday realities of surviving in the United States. And, get this, Ricans are a leg up on everybody because we come with built in green cards. You go boyyyyyyyyy. Once you pass that gate in el Bronex you're likely to witness strange and magnificent sights -- sometimes in the short span of twenty-four hours. Yep. Witness just about anything from a saint blessing you one day to seeing a flaming orange Volkswagon with a surfboard fixed to its roof in the next. Just about anything. What are you going to do? I laugh … I cry … It’s an experience. [5] WEPA TIME Surfing In the South Bronx Yeah Hanging out on 138th All the dope dealers Think I look great With my girl Rosie I'll be dancing She waxes my board Then I wax her I'll be surfing In the South Bronx Yeah I take the number 6 Train Uptown to Orchard Beach Hanging out in Section 5 With the Ricans I come alive I'll be surfing In the South Bronx Yeah Con me negra Rosesita Yo estoy bailando Ai Mamita Ven conmigo A Orchard Beach Yo voy a surfiar Ay que neat I'll be surfing In the South Bronx Yeah © Luis Chaluisan Whatupyo Whatupyo Whatupyo What up ya Ahhhhhhhh Heh Listen to the words I'm speaking I'm not black or white But Puerto Rican Dropping lyrical bombs At night time Jamming with the flow Of this word style Que Bueno son Que Bueno son Que Bueno son Los Latinos No apollo-geez To the masses It's dog eat dog Got your back ah I'm coming to get ya I'm coming to wet ya I'm coming to hurt ya I'm a word gangster Backed by my gat In the shape of a pen Bangin Ya Is the jam I'm with Riffin Tiffin Spliffin Hittin Dippin I'll play you straight I'm not tricking Stupid wild The immaculate Dawn patrol jammer On the straight tip Que Bueno son Que Bueno son Que Bueno son Los Latinos Ven Conmigo Para Ver Una Cocita Bien Bonita Yo Vine a Vencer In Nombre Del Latino Loose Translation DAMN I LOVE BEING PUERTO RICAN © Chasan Chaluisan My daughter Chasan shouts, "Oh my God. Why are Puerto Ricans so loud!" whenever I’m going full blast. Because we are. At least in my family. It's "Wepa" (hueh-pah) time every day three hundred and sixty five days a year. Wepa time is the time that you just let go of all your inhibtions and come across loud and clear -- announcing yourself as if your life depends on it. That's something the women in my family know real well. Check out these three Smarican women. My mother's cousin Myrna catches this man exposing himself on the D Train one day and instead of screaming or recoiling in fright she grabs his member and holds on to it until the police come and arrest him. "What the hell do you think you're doing with that ... huh ... come here, Is it lost? Does it need to have a leash on it so it won't get away. Tell me. I mean you tried to introduce your little friend to me when no one was looking. Now whose on the spot?" She holds on to it with a vice grip for fifteen minutes -- FIFTEEN MINUTES -- with a crowd laughing and pointing at them on the platform. Wepa Time. My cousin Belen collars premier sociologist B.F. Skinner at Harvard when she’s an undergraduate at the University and grills him, "I had my son at fifteen, was married to a gang leader, my father was locked up ten years by the Feds and my mother is a tough broad. With all your theories about the environment shaping the individual how do you explain this Puerto Rican woman being at Harvard?" “This is my address. Meet me there at 3 PM I’d like to talk with you.” Wepa Time. My cousin Xenia -- Myrna’s cool younger sister -- can teach Christina Aguilera a thing or two and hips me to the real deal about life and virgins. "Yeah, I knew a lot of virgins who had sex while we were growing up in Brooklyn, hypocrites. They didn't take it in Here - pointing to her crotch. They took it in the ass, in the mouth, in the eye ... hey, I said fuck it ... put it where it supposed to go, bro, in the nappy dugout." Wepa Time. One day I convince my brother Ronnie to get into a packing box at the top of the cellar stairs and slide down to the basement. Just as we're positioning ourselves our mother opens the door and sets off the box down the flight. The greatest two second ride of our lives. You know what came after my mother's scream, "Ronnie y Luisitoooo." Wepa Time. But not the kind of Wepa we set off when I decide to perform an experiment. Appealing to my brothers intelligence and curiousity (he graduates Harvard in 1984 and codesigns the curriculun for the Museum School in Manhattan, another Smarican) I decide to set of an M-80 firework. Technically a quarter stick of dynamite. I want to see the effect in a closed environment vis a vis the bathroom. The resulting flash and explosion send Ronnie running up the block barefoot. He jumps out of his Keds in the blast and wears out a pair of kneecaps running so fast to get away. I think he becomes a successful teacher and principal because he knows that out there are hundreds of Raza kids with crazy brothers like me. So, someone has got to show these kids a more humane way to handle their inquisitiveness. We cover up the gaping hole in the bathroom tile with plaster and decide to use a blue permanent marker to try and match the color on the tile. "Perfect. They'll never know." The "they" is primarily my mother Ana. NASA can use her extra sensory powers of deductive reasoning in the search for life in the universe. Mommy appears on the scene 10 minutes later and from the other end of the block yells, "What have you two done now!" Wepa Time. She hit us in clave for two hours straight -- Bam Bam Bam BamBam y a domir. Half the time we’re hurdling furniture and beds with mommy in hot pursuit. Big Wepa time. It only ends when my brother does the most amazing thing I ever see a human being do. My mother catches him on the tip of his butt with the strap and I it must have hit some nerve or muscle at the right spot because suddenly he does a flip onto his bed, bounces, lands on the adjoining bed, bounces again and flies into my arms on the other side of the room. We all stand there in shocked silence and my mother suddenly leaves the room. We can hear her laughing in the kitchen downstairs telling my Titi Edu all about it over the phone, “Kwa Kwa Kwa Kwa Kwa …. Como … Kwa Kwa Kwa Kwa Kwa” Hey, she can laugh but at least the “coolie rumba” stops. Poor Ronnie is the hero of the day for that one. He’s my hero every day of the year. [6] NOBODY’S HERO Querido Dios Dear God Sin Tu amor Without Your love No puedo vivir I can’t live La realidad The reality Es Que estoy solo Is that I’m alone Por dentro aqui Inside of this place Tu eres mi angel You are my angel Mi inspiracion My inspiration Sin Tu luz Without Your light Yo me muero I die Por dentro aqui Inside of this place Como los angeles Like the angels Que Tu tiene por tu ser You have by your side Yo quiero estar contigo otra vez I want to be with you again Ven Conmigo otra vez Come with me again Quiero volar otra vez I want to fly again Manda me un mensagero Send me a messenger Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor? He sends me Felix Romero. In Latin Felix means peace. In life he’s been a manic friend, delusional teacher and artistic guru. He goes before me on this journey en la AmeRica. “I was one of those crazy runners for the mob. When I was a youngster they use to call me Loco because I was fast and a good fighter. I was known as a spider man because I could climb up the side of a building. The cats in the mob loved me because I could escape anybody by jumping roofs or climbing down the side of the building. They would put the numbers slips on me. I would go over the roofs and drop off the numbers and money. So the mob would protect me – numbers crews protected me from anything unpleasant. I had liberties to do things and I got away with them. I grew up with a lot of diversification since age five; exposed to so many people. I never thought there were any limits nor did I ever think that what we were doing was Puerto Rican Art or Latino art or Hispanic arts. What I was doing was just art. It was a manifestation of whatever I was about. I experience the same thing in my own time. For twenty years I carry part of the street sign I rip from the corner of Tilden Street right before I go to College in 1975 and a poem I publish in 1976. My talismen against the biscuit heads I will meet along the way. I know it’s time to come home and examine my life when some zombie robs my apartment and takes them along with my other stuff. I take it in stride. I figure God is sending me a message P.R. call Home … P.R. Call Home … P.R. Call Home. I call Felix. Johnny Boy is back in town A creeper in bruised lives A trader in sultry secrets He has absolutely no right to know A metropolitan skyjacker Taking hostage the stray adventurer He preys on stories A modern vampire of emotions Johnny Boy has arrived Brought by powers unseen To change the course A necessary evil In a dirty little town Of ruined directions Skyscrapers amuse him Pits invite the taste of his special Manipulations Have you seen him El Loco Cantinero Of hyperventilated thoughts Have you seen him He arrived naked at the party Trying to check his clothes And announcing to all I CAME TO DANCE He seduces The confused poet The isolated lover The struggling woman The ambitious teacher To tell him their stories Johnny Boy dismisses boundaries And uses the tragedy of a comedian To ejaculate his venom He performs on stage Free of charge Sparks fly from his steel tipped heart Creating icons Of indignity Of impulse Have you met him His eyes tongue a red haze Of silver spikes and black velvet fury A Catholic boy on a rampage through hell A new age saint with a customized Rosario Who sweats benedictions as he rides her On an elevator rooftop With a pen strapped to his back Each thrust setting off a bullet Up between her legs Through her stomach Past her heart Coming out her lips into his A wild shot of cold hearted lust As soot falls on them Like soft black petals Raining on both the living and the dead A rogue dusky Decadancing on the edge of razors He stalks runners with his boy Yo Yo Montalvo And tries ways to avoid their own stalkers Night bombers in silk shirts And Four hundred dollar shoes Searching for keys broken off Long ago in forgotten locks Searching for The Great Game While compromising every truth Along the way Searching for A Way In He's been speeding so long Marking time Paying cops Burying partners Tricking queens Cruising shadows Wacking even priests In dreams reality cuts loose Avenues slice into boulevards D-D-D-D-D-Dodge City He jumps into his third world club car Reeking of polo and reefer An artillery strapped on every Extremity He's headed for a Sell - A - Bray - Tion Yo Yo is spinning Dead eyes crazy glued on everything A plastic mask for a face Fifth in one hand and Eight
