| [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? |
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