This link --> "Kaibiles, Zetas, and Narcos" <-- is kind of an extension of my Angry Rant about John Negroponte... only it's not written by me, and doesn't have a direct connection to Negroponte. It's more of the ripple effects of the whole Reagan Administration's Foreign Policy, and the war crimes they committed in Central America.
Anyway this guy Rob lives and works in Guatemala for a non-profit organization (Incidencia Democratica) and in addition to having a great blog/journal his site is filled with amazing facts and photos... He's an inspiring guy. I hope everyone will go check his site out, I promise you won't be disappointed: Rob's Page (El Canche)
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
Spanglish
My niece Evelyn is a confused little girl. She's 8 years old and stuck in that zone somewhere between English and Spanish. The problem is, she doesn't speak either language particularly well.In my wife's family the rule is generally, "Spanish in the house, English at school." Some families enforce that rule stricter than others.
In the case of Evelyn's father William, my brother in-law, he was very strict about that with his son. As a result of his strictness, Junior, speaks with a perfect Salvadoran accent. His English is good, but he's equally comfortable in either language.
It's unclear exactley what happened with Evelyn. Either William was too lazy to continue correcting her, or Evelyn's incredible power of cuteness made it impossible for him to be stern with her. I think it's a little bit of both. But regardless, the result is that Evelyn's vocabulary is a mess!
Ask her how old she is, and she'll reply with a mix of English vocab and Spanish sentence structure; "I have 8 years."
Ask her the months in Spanish and you get the this crazy American accent where Julio morphs into Jew-lee-o, and Abril becomes Ab-reeeeeal.
She gets a lot of teasing about it and I always feel sorry for her. Of all people, I should be able to sympathize since Spanish is a second language for me too. And I do sympathize... But at the same time, there is nothing funnier than seeing her reaction when I call her my, "sobrina gringita (or little white niece)," or when I pick her up and say "Evelyn, looks like we're the only gringos here." That never gets old.
Anyway, we were visiting her house on Saturday and as usual, Evelyn followed me everywhere I went, refusing to let me have a conversation with anyone accept her. This is uaually fine by me.
Her big, "Spangligh," highlight of the day was when I asked where her brother was.
"He's at la gang-cha!" she replied, angry that I had even asked about him in the first place. (My attention is supposed to go to her only, so asking about anyone else always elicits a dirty look)
Of course what she meant to say was, "He's at 'la cancha'," which means 'the soccer field', but her accent wasn't cooperating. Everyone had a good laugh until she looked liked she might cry.
A few minutes later she went to the refrigerator to pull out an Avocado that she wanted to show me.
It had a sticker on it indicating that it was from Chile... In addition to being the name of a country, in Spanish, the word 'chile' means a 'spicy hot sauce'. This confused her greatly and she asked me, "Este sticker dice que it's Chile, pero, why isn't it picante?"
Translation: "This sticker says it's 'Chile', but why isn't it spicy?"
I knew the other kids would laugh at her if they heard that. So very quietly, I tried to explain to her that Chile is a country and not just a sauce... She wasn't buying it. I had to be teasing her. No way was 'Chile' a country. Not possible.
"It's a mentira!" [It's a lie] she screeched while trying not to laugh at my crazy statement.
Finally I went and got the globe from her brother's room... To her amazement there it was, right next to Argentina... Chile!
I pointed to it just to make sure she got a good look.
I guess her Spanglish must have been getting to me because I told her, "Mira Evelyn, it's a country tambien!" [Look Evelyn, it's a country too!]
Evelyn looked up from the globe with a VERY serious look on her face. She pulled my ear close to her and looked around the room making sure nobody was listening.
"Tio," [Uncle] she whispered... "In this country you have to learn to speak English or Spanish, but not both!" And then she had a good laugh at my expense.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Calling Home
My wife (Morena) calls her Mother and Sisters in El Salvador 3-4 times per week... Needless to say, we go through a lot of phone cards in our house.
She is like the coordinator of all the family activities. It's not an official title, but it's usually up to my wife to be the conveyor of all family news, messages, and money to be sent home... She has 7 brothers and sister's in the US and 4 in El Salvador (I won't even begin to get into los tios, sobrinos y primos).
It's a big family and my wife is the one who keeps in touch with EVERYBODY.
Half of the family in the Los Estadios Unidos lives here in the DC area and the other half lives in the Houston... You can probably see where this is going... She spent last night on the phone tracking down and making contact with all of la familia in Houston. She had to make sure everyone was safe and had a ride out of the city and a place to stay. It was a long process with most of the phone lines jammed and people busy trying to pack up their lives into their cars... but finally, around 10:30 she had talked with everyone and could call mi suegra and let her know that everyone got out and was safe.
I guess my point is this... What about the families that don't have a Morena, a family coordinator?
I remember when we were first dating... We had just eaten at one of our favorite restaurants in Langley Park and were driving along University Boulevard. For those of you not familiar with the area, it's near the University of Maryland and is the hub of the Central American community in Maryland. There are lots of problems with poverty, unemployment, gangs, etc...
But for every gang member causing problems, there are 100 hard working families just trying to make enough money to pay the bills and hopefully a little extra to send back to mom...
So there we were driving along University Blvd when traffic came to a halt. As we inched along closer to our turn off, it became apparent that there was an accident. Eventually we passed right in front of what used to be a Honda Civic. Now it was nothing more than a twisted hunk of metal wrapped around a telephone pole...
There was a police officer sweeping up shattered glass, and the Civic's bumper was lying on the street with a "Yo Amo Guatemala" bumper sticker facing up.
All the remaining paramedics and police officers that were still on the scene went about their work in a quiet and diligent manner. The driver of the vehicle had most likely been rushed from the scene long ago. We didn't have to see him being taken away to know that he was probably in bad shape.
We drove past in silence... Morena was turned away, still looking out the passenger side window. Finally I tapped her on the thigh. When she turned to look at me I could see tears streaming down her face. I had never seen her cry.
"Que Paso?" I asked.
It was then she told me the story of her older brother Saul. He had died in Los Angeles several years ago in a car accident probably not unlike the one we had just passed. I had heard him mentioned by other family members, and I knew he had died young, leaving behind a wife and two sons. But I had never heard Morena talk about it.
She was about to turn 17 years old when it happened, just a school girl. Her father had also died in a car accident the year before, and now this... She told me about how crushed her mother had been.
Saul had left home at 16, trying to escape the war and maybe earn enough money to come home and start a business. "I'll be home soon," he told everyone as he left the house. They never got to see him again until 10 years later, when he returned in a coffin.
He got a job here in DC with his older brothers who had preceded him in coming to the US... Before he knew it he had a car payment, then a wife, and shortly after that, children.
Eventually he decided to move his family to Los Angeles. "Alla tiene buen trabajo!" he told everyone. His brothers didn't want him to go.
Then one morning they got the call... Morena wanted to be strong for her mother so she burried her pain. Someone needed to take care of the house. Someone had to make sure all of the nieces and nephews her mother was raising got to school on time. The world was cold and cruel, and it would not stop turning while they grieved.
Morena made it her job to keep things going. She loved going to school and dreamed of going to a University one day. But there was no time for that now, only time for work... So when it was time to go back to school, she never went. When her mother asked her why she didn't go back she swallowed her tears and lied, "I never liked going anyway."
And that was that...
There was no time to be a teenage girl, no time to cry. Only time to be strong... So here she was 10 years later, crying for her loss for the first time.
She cried for her brother, and she cried for the mystery man who drove the crushed Civic.
"His family won't know what happened to him," she told me as the tears continued to stream down her cheeks. How could we know if this man did or did not have someone to call home for him? In Morena's mind he had nobody, and nothing I could say would convince her otherwise.
I didn't know what to do. I pulled into an empty parking lot and took her by the hand.
"It's so hard. It feels so helpless, so far away. And all you can do is wait... Wait for the phone to ring, wait for someone to call and say 'it's not true, it wasn't him', but nobody calls..."
She was not in my car, she was not even in this country right now. She was a school girl in El Salvador.
I let her talk. I could see the tenderness and the vulnerability that she tried so hard to hide. I was touched that she was sharing all this with me.
I thought about my own broken family... Her family was spread out across the continent but the passion and love that held them together was so much stronger than anything I had ever known.
Looking back on it now, that may have been when I really fell for her. I can't really pinpoint when it happened but if I had to choose one specific moment, that would probably be it; In my car, at night, in the middle of the ghetto, staring at MS-13 graffiti, and holding her hand as she cried...
I thought about that moment last night.
I crawled into bed where Morena was already fast asleep, the telephone and calling card still close by... She made it her duty to make sure nobody was at home in El Salvador waiting and worrying for news from Houston.
But what about all the people who didn't have una hermana o una tia to call back home? As I pulled myself under the blanket and next to her tired body, I took a hold of her hand.
I thought about all the people in Central America who can't sleep because they're waiting to hear news from their relatives... I thought about that mystery man from Guatemala who was driving the Civic. Where was he now? Did he survive the accident? Did he know anyone to call home and tell his mother what happened? Did he have a wife? Did he have kids?
Just before I fell asleep I said a short prayer. I don't know if I believe in God, and I can't remember the last time I prayed. But I hope someone somewhere was listening.
She is like the coordinator of all the family activities. It's not an official title, but it's usually up to my wife to be the conveyor of all family news, messages, and money to be sent home... She has 7 brothers and sister's in the US and 4 in El Salvador (I won't even begin to get into los tios, sobrinos y primos).
It's a big family and my wife is the one who keeps in touch with EVERYBODY.
Half of the family in the Los Estadios Unidos lives here in the DC area and the other half lives in the Houston... You can probably see where this is going... She spent last night on the phone tracking down and making contact with all of la familia in Houston. She had to make sure everyone was safe and had a ride out of the city and a place to stay. It was a long process with most of the phone lines jammed and people busy trying to pack up their lives into their cars... but finally, around 10:30 she had talked with everyone and could call mi suegra and let her know that everyone got out and was safe.
I guess my point is this... What about the families that don't have a Morena, a family coordinator?
I remember when we were first dating... We had just eaten at one of our favorite restaurants in Langley Park and were driving along University Boulevard. For those of you not familiar with the area, it's near the University of Maryland and is the hub of the Central American community in Maryland. There are lots of problems with poverty, unemployment, gangs, etc...
But for every gang member causing problems, there are 100 hard working families just trying to make enough money to pay the bills and hopefully a little extra to send back to mom...
So there we were driving along University Blvd when traffic came to a halt. As we inched along closer to our turn off, it became apparent that there was an accident. Eventually we passed right in front of what used to be a Honda Civic. Now it was nothing more than a twisted hunk of metal wrapped around a telephone pole...
There was a police officer sweeping up shattered glass, and the Civic's bumper was lying on the street with a "Yo Amo Guatemala" bumper sticker facing up.
All the remaining paramedics and police officers that were still on the scene went about their work in a quiet and diligent manner. The driver of the vehicle had most likely been rushed from the scene long ago. We didn't have to see him being taken away to know that he was probably in bad shape.
We drove past in silence... Morena was turned away, still looking out the passenger side window. Finally I tapped her on the thigh. When she turned to look at me I could see tears streaming down her face. I had never seen her cry.
"Que Paso?" I asked.
It was then she told me the story of her older brother Saul. He had died in Los Angeles several years ago in a car accident probably not unlike the one we had just passed. I had heard him mentioned by other family members, and I knew he had died young, leaving behind a wife and two sons. But I had never heard Morena talk about it.
She was about to turn 17 years old when it happened, just a school girl. Her father had also died in a car accident the year before, and now this... She told me about how crushed her mother had been.
Saul had left home at 16, trying to escape the war and maybe earn enough money to come home and start a business. "I'll be home soon," he told everyone as he left the house. They never got to see him again until 10 years later, when he returned in a coffin.
He got a job here in DC with his older brothers who had preceded him in coming to the US... Before he knew it he had a car payment, then a wife, and shortly after that, children.
Eventually he decided to move his family to Los Angeles. "Alla tiene buen trabajo!" he told everyone. His brothers didn't want him to go.
Then one morning they got the call... Morena wanted to be strong for her mother so she burried her pain. Someone needed to take care of the house. Someone had to make sure all of the nieces and nephews her mother was raising got to school on time. The world was cold and cruel, and it would not stop turning while they grieved.
Morena made it her job to keep things going. She loved going to school and dreamed of going to a University one day. But there was no time for that now, only time for work... So when it was time to go back to school, she never went. When her mother asked her why she didn't go back she swallowed her tears and lied, "I never liked going anyway."
And that was that...
There was no time to be a teenage girl, no time to cry. Only time to be strong... So here she was 10 years later, crying for her loss for the first time.
She cried for her brother, and she cried for the mystery man who drove the crushed Civic.
"His family won't know what happened to him," she told me as the tears continued to stream down her cheeks. How could we know if this man did or did not have someone to call home for him? In Morena's mind he had nobody, and nothing I could say would convince her otherwise.
I didn't know what to do. I pulled into an empty parking lot and took her by the hand.
"It's so hard. It feels so helpless, so far away. And all you can do is wait... Wait for the phone to ring, wait for someone to call and say 'it's not true, it wasn't him', but nobody calls..."
She was not in my car, she was not even in this country right now. She was a school girl in El Salvador.
I let her talk. I could see the tenderness and the vulnerability that she tried so hard to hide. I was touched that she was sharing all this with me.
I thought about my own broken family... Her family was spread out across the continent but the passion and love that held them together was so much stronger than anything I had ever known.
Looking back on it now, that may have been when I really fell for her. I can't really pinpoint when it happened but if I had to choose one specific moment, that would probably be it; In my car, at night, in the middle of the ghetto, staring at MS-13 graffiti, and holding her hand as she cried...
I thought about that moment last night.
I crawled into bed where Morena was already fast asleep, the telephone and calling card still close by... She made it her duty to make sure nobody was at home in El Salvador waiting and worrying for news from Houston.
But what about all the people who didn't have una hermana o una tia to call back home? As I pulled myself under the blanket and next to her tired body, I took a hold of her hand.
I thought about all the people in Central America who can't sleep because they're waiting to hear news from their relatives... I thought about that mystery man from Guatemala who was driving the Civic. Where was he now? Did he survive the accident? Did he know anyone to call home and tell his mother what happened? Did he have a wife? Did he have kids?
Just before I fell asleep I said a short prayer. I don't know if I believe in God, and I can't remember the last time I prayed. But I hope someone somewhere was listening.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Random Things I Thought About While...
... Basking in the glow of a Washington Redskins victory in Dallas last night!
First off, let me just say that I am a life long Redskins fan, and even though I love the tradition and history that goes along with the team, it must be said... We really, REALLY need to change the name of the team. Seriously, the "RED SKINS" with the picture of native american with a big nose and feathers in his hair on the side of the helmet?!? Come on...
I have good news on the "Hispanic Open House/Taco Hand Out" day... we took an office vote after the boss left and we're all against it. It's now up to Brian (Duck Fook) to tell el Jefe que we're not going to do it. However, we are all in favor of an open house that won't alienate half of our client base though...
I had the filling in one of my molars fall out about 4 years ago and every time I eat bacon now I get a little piece stuck in the hole, and I'm too petrified of the dentist to go get it fixed. I don't know why I'm sharing that with everyone...
How come nobody ever throws at Barry Bonds for standing at home plate and admiring his home runs for 20 minutes?...
So my sister read my blog entry about her... um that was awkward, but I'm glad she read it anyway...
And finally, I need cat advice. I'm hoping either Chancla or Sonrisa Morena will be able to help since they are cat owners. Anyway, my cat Rosie (the cutest cat in the world by the way) has a problem with knocking stuff of tables/desks/nightstands. Her main target seems to be glasses and cups, but she has not hesitated in pushing salt shakers and even a plant vases onto the kitchen floor. There is nothing worse than be awaken by a crashing sound at 3am and then having to go down stair and clean up a heaping pile of salt of the floor... The strangest part about her behavior is her reaction. Typically when she does something bad she takes off running and hides for a few minutes... but when she knocks a glass of milk of the table she just stares at me. She doesn't run or hide or act afraid... she just looks at me like, "wow did you see that?!" I think she's just fascinated with her ability to move objects and make them crash onto the floor, but I don't know. Is this typical cat behavior? She's going to be 2 years old soon and still hasn't grown out of this stage. Aside from hiding salt shakers and never leaving a glass/cup unattended, is there anything I can do to make her stop?
First off, let me just say that I am a life long Redskins fan, and even though I love the tradition and history that goes along with the team, it must be said... We really, REALLY need to change the name of the team. Seriously, the "RED SKINS" with the picture of native american with a big nose and feathers in his hair on the side of the helmet?!? Come on...
I have good news on the "Hispanic Open House/Taco Hand Out" day... we took an office vote after the boss left and we're all against it. It's now up to Brian (Duck Fook) to tell el Jefe que we're not going to do it. However, we are all in favor of an open house that won't alienate half of our client base though...
I had the filling in one of my molars fall out about 4 years ago and every time I eat bacon now I get a little piece stuck in the hole, and I'm too petrified of the dentist to go get it fixed. I don't know why I'm sharing that with everyone...
How come nobody ever throws at Barry Bonds for standing at home plate and admiring his home runs for 20 minutes?...
So my sister read my blog entry about her... um that was awkward, but I'm glad she read it anyway...
And finally, I need cat advice. I'm hoping either Chancla or Sonrisa Morena will be able to help since they are cat owners. Anyway, my cat Rosie (the cutest cat in the world by the way) has a problem with knocking stuff of tables/desks/nightstands. Her main target seems to be glasses and cups, but she has not hesitated in pushing salt shakers and even a plant vases onto the kitchen floor. There is nothing worse than be awaken by a crashing sound at 3am and then having to go down stair and clean up a heaping pile of salt of the floor... The strangest part about her behavior is her reaction. Typically when she does something bad she takes off running and hides for a few minutes... but when she knocks a glass of milk of the table she just stares at me. She doesn't run or hide or act afraid... she just looks at me like, "wow did you see that?!" I think she's just fascinated with her ability to move objects and make them crash onto the floor, but I don't know. Is this typical cat behavior? She's going to be 2 years old soon and still hasn't grown out of this stage. Aside from hiding salt shakers and never leaving a glass/cup unattended, is there anything I can do to make her stop?
Monday, September 19, 2005
Things My Boss Actually Said...
On Friday my boss suggested we have an open house next Saturday in order to attract new bussiness. They've apparently done this in the past with mixed results... But this time he wants to add a twist and call it "Hispanic Day!"
I guess this would be in celebration of the fact that I speak spanish or something, I don't know. He said we could "have free tacos," because afterall we know that "they" love tacos! I can neither confirm nor deny the rumors that he wants me to wear a sombrero while passing out the tacos... Needless to say I would quit before I participate in this day... I just wanted to share with everyone that I, in fact, work in Hell.
I guess this would be in celebration of the fact that I speak spanish or something, I don't know. He said we could "have free tacos," because afterall we know that "they" love tacos! I can neither confirm nor deny the rumors that he wants me to wear a sombrero while passing out the tacos... Needless to say I would quit before I participate in this day... I just wanted to share with everyone that I, in fact, work in Hell.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Evil Brother And The Bad Dad Saturday's
After reading Cracked Chancla's most recent post I was inspired to write this confession... Chancla was of course inspired something the El Mas Chingon wrote, and so it goes...
My confession is this: I was one of those evil brothers... sometimes.
My sister Jessica was 8 years younger than me, making her the logical object of much torment. Maybe not on the level of torment that EMC or Chancla faced from their brothers, but still, I was no stranger to the role of Big Brother Bully... That's not to say I was that way all the time. I had my good moments as well... But still, it must have been hard to grow up with me as a brother.
I guess my relationship with my sister can be summed up in a picture that my sister still has stashed away somewhere in her room. It's her at 5 or 6 years old. She's sitting on the concrete steps that led to the front door of our old house… She's leaning up against the black rusted railing… Her hair is an absolute train wreck; Unwashed, uncombed, and just in general un-kept... She's wearing a blue dress that was falling apart and barely hanging onto her shoulder. It was the dress she wore to play “tea party” with her dolls while she watched “Little Women” for the 800th time.
She'd wear it everyday if you let her.
The other thing that stands out about the picture is that Jessica is not wearing shoes... So there she sits on the concrete steps, barefoot, dirty, and wearing a gaudy play dress… And a big toothy grin plastered across her face. (She didn’t know enough to know she should have been embarrassed).
Nobody remembers who took the picture, why, or when it was taken.
But Jessica and I don't need any of those facts to know the story... We knew as soon as we discovered the picture that it was a "Bad Dad Saturday."
You see, Saturday's were my Dad's drinking day. Don't get me wrong, he drank on the other days as well but Saturdays were the days he really let loose!
He would down enough beer to kill an average man by mid afternoon. Then he'd make another trip to the liquor store for that dangerous second case.
Sometimes he'd get through that second case; sometimes he'd pass out halfway through. You could never tell. Saturday's were a crap shoot... Sometimes he was fun, "Let's throw the football around!”
Sometimes he was dangerous, "Stay the fuck out of my way!"
Have you ever had a friend that was so crazy that it made you nervous to hang out with him because you never knew what would happen? The kind of person who starts drinking and you just know that this night ends with either a police visit, a fight, or a shooting… Or maybe even all three!
Well that's my Dad. That’s what “Bad Dad Saturday” was all about.
So for whatever reason, no matter how much fighting had gone on between us during the week, I became Jessica’s protector on Saturday's. It didn't matter if she had spilt milk on my baseball cards and I had kidnapped her favorite Barbie the night before...
“Bad Dad Saturday's” erased all of that.
I made it my job to keep her occupied with board games, pillow fights, and Disney Movie's... The lunch menu for “Bad Dad Saturday's” consisted of two items, Cereal or Macaroni and Cheese (the only two things I knew how to make)... If she wanted to wear her old blue dress, then that was fine by me.
I just wanted her to be safe and happy, far out of reach of the Monster we called Dad.
Once my Mom got home, all bets were off and we went back to sibling rivalry.
I'd like to think however that the time we shared on "Bad Day Saturday" is what really counted. Right?
I want to believe that the memory of me on my knees teaching her how to box, far outweighs the times I convinced her there was a monster in her closet... And what about all the times we were watching Aladdin and she fell asleep, using my leg as her pillow? Shouldn't that be worth more than the times I made fun of her big forehead until she cried?
As the years went by our bonding moments became more frequent and the teasing was, for the most part, left behind.
Jessica is in her senior year of High School now... Dad has been pretty much absent over the last few years (which is a good thing).
In that time I've tried to be a something more than a brother but less than a father. I hope I've been successful at it.
Still though, the sibling rivalry occasionally rears its head.
Sometimes I'll give her a pinch on the side when what I really want to do is give her a hug... I’ll tell her she should be reading more books, when what I really want to say is “I’m proud of you.”
I'm pretty sure she knows how I feel about her, how important she is to me... but after reading what Chancla wrote I can't help but think, “maybe I should say the words that go unspoken…”
Maybe I should tell her that I’m proud of her. Maybe I should lose the big brother act sometimes and say tell her “I love you...”
Even if you do have a forehead big enough to land a helicopter on! (j/k)
My confession is this: I was one of those evil brothers... sometimes.
My sister Jessica was 8 years younger than me, making her the logical object of much torment. Maybe not on the level of torment that EMC or Chancla faced from their brothers, but still, I was no stranger to the role of Big Brother Bully... That's not to say I was that way all the time. I had my good moments as well... But still, it must have been hard to grow up with me as a brother.
I guess my relationship with my sister can be summed up in a picture that my sister still has stashed away somewhere in her room. It's her at 5 or 6 years old. She's sitting on the concrete steps that led to the front door of our old house… She's leaning up against the black rusted railing… Her hair is an absolute train wreck; Unwashed, uncombed, and just in general un-kept... She's wearing a blue dress that was falling apart and barely hanging onto her shoulder. It was the dress she wore to play “tea party” with her dolls while she watched “Little Women” for the 800th time.
She'd wear it everyday if you let her.
The other thing that stands out about the picture is that Jessica is not wearing shoes... So there she sits on the concrete steps, barefoot, dirty, and wearing a gaudy play dress… And a big toothy grin plastered across her face. (She didn’t know enough to know she should have been embarrassed).
Nobody remembers who took the picture, why, or when it was taken.
But Jessica and I don't need any of those facts to know the story... We knew as soon as we discovered the picture that it was a "Bad Dad Saturday."
You see, Saturday's were my Dad's drinking day. Don't get me wrong, he drank on the other days as well but Saturdays were the days he really let loose!
He would down enough beer to kill an average man by mid afternoon. Then he'd make another trip to the liquor store for that dangerous second case.
Sometimes he'd get through that second case; sometimes he'd pass out halfway through. You could never tell. Saturday's were a crap shoot... Sometimes he was fun, "Let's throw the football around!”
Sometimes he was dangerous, "Stay the fuck out of my way!"
Have you ever had a friend that was so crazy that it made you nervous to hang out with him because you never knew what would happen? The kind of person who starts drinking and you just know that this night ends with either a police visit, a fight, or a shooting… Or maybe even all three!
Well that's my Dad. That’s what “Bad Dad Saturday” was all about.
So for whatever reason, no matter how much fighting had gone on between us during the week, I became Jessica’s protector on Saturday's. It didn't matter if she had spilt milk on my baseball cards and I had kidnapped her favorite Barbie the night before...
“Bad Dad Saturday's” erased all of that.
I made it my job to keep her occupied with board games, pillow fights, and Disney Movie's... The lunch menu for “Bad Dad Saturday's” consisted of two items, Cereal or Macaroni and Cheese (the only two things I knew how to make)... If she wanted to wear her old blue dress, then that was fine by me.
I just wanted her to be safe and happy, far out of reach of the Monster we called Dad.
Once my Mom got home, all bets were off and we went back to sibling rivalry.
I'd like to think however that the time we shared on "Bad Day Saturday" is what really counted. Right?
I want to believe that the memory of me on my knees teaching her how to box, far outweighs the times I convinced her there was a monster in her closet... And what about all the times we were watching Aladdin and she fell asleep, using my leg as her pillow? Shouldn't that be worth more than the times I made fun of her big forehead until she cried?
As the years went by our bonding moments became more frequent and the teasing was, for the most part, left behind.
Jessica is in her senior year of High School now... Dad has been pretty much absent over the last few years (which is a good thing).
In that time I've tried to be a something more than a brother but less than a father. I hope I've been successful at it.
Still though, the sibling rivalry occasionally rears its head.
Sometimes I'll give her a pinch on the side when what I really want to do is give her a hug... I’ll tell her she should be reading more books, when what I really want to say is “I’m proud of you.”
I'm pretty sure she knows how I feel about her, how important she is to me... but after reading what Chancla wrote I can't help but think, “maybe I should say the words that go unspoken…”
Maybe I should tell her that I’m proud of her. Maybe I should lose the big brother act sometimes and say tell her “I love you...”
Even if you do have a forehead big enough to land a helicopter on! (j/k)
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Angry Rant
I'm fast approaching the end of a book that Loteria Chicana recommended on her blog... The Tattooed Soldier... Anyway, it's a fast read and like she has already explained it has a non-fiction feel even though it's fiction.
It's about a man who fled to LA after his wife and child were murdered in Guatemala during the civil war.
Antonio, the main character, ends up accidentally crossing paths with the soldier who was in part responsible for the atrocities that left him a broken man... Hence the name "The Tattooed Soldier."
I won't go any further than that but the story reminds me of the many stories of the El Salvadoran Civil War I've heard from my wife's family... Antonio's story isn't that different from my brother in-law's story, which isn't that different form the stories from Honduras, Nicaragua, or Columbia.
In The Tattooed Soldier, Antonio knows his wife's killer, but in real life the people who "disappeared" thousands of innocent civilians continue to go un punished.
For the most part, we don't even have any names of the people who committed the unspeakable atrocities in the mid to late 80s... There is one name however, that stands out to me... It's John Necroponte. He was the ambassador to Honduras during the time Central America was being raped... The Reagan Administration had an ally in Honduran General/Dictator Gustavo Alvarez and they used Honduras as the headquarters for their clandestine terrorist activities. Necroponte was put in place specifically because of his willingness to turn a blind eye to the paramilitary Death Squads.
Necroponte has always denied his involvement in these war crimes, but the facts tell a different story.
The Baltimore Sun investigated the Honduran situation and found declassified documents that clearly show that "U.S. officials knew what was happening in Honduras and engaged in a willful deception to avoid confronting Congress with the truth."
Not only did he turn a blind eye to the situation, he had his assistants fudge the Human Rights record of Honduras on annual reports to Congress. He knew that Congress couldn't legally authorize the insane amounts of money being allotted to the Honduran Military if they knew of their blatant violations... He did that becasue he knew that no money to Honduras meant no money for the secret war...
Where is John Necroponte now? That's the worst part... George W. Bush named him the ambassador to Iraq... He served 9 months there before being sworn in as the National Director of Intelligence!?!?
The mainstream press hardly even noticed that a war criminal and co-conspirator of mass genocide was rewarded for his work with two of the highest and most coveted positions in the US Government. Some reports made a vague reference to his controversial past, but that's it. Aside from the Independent Press, there was nothing.
I don't really know why I'm writing all of this... There isn't a whole lot that can be done from a blog... I guess my hope is that some people will click on the Baltimore Sun articles I've linked to and forever associate the name John Negroponte with the Central American massacres of the 80's... We can't go back in time and stop the terror that was inflicted, but maybe if we keep it fresh in our minds and not let the perpetrators be forgotten there won't be a next time. Maybe then the students, professors, campesinos, and los pobres of Latin America will be able to speak their voices without fear of retribution... Maybe...
Baltimore Sun Article with related articles listed on page.
John Negroponte's official US Gov Pic... or as I like to call it: The Face of Satan.
It's about a man who fled to LA after his wife and child were murdered in Guatemala during the civil war.
Antonio, the main character, ends up accidentally crossing paths with the soldier who was in part responsible for the atrocities that left him a broken man... Hence the name "The Tattooed Soldier."
I won't go any further than that but the story reminds me of the many stories of the El Salvadoran Civil War I've heard from my wife's family... Antonio's story isn't that different from my brother in-law's story, which isn't that different form the stories from Honduras, Nicaragua, or Columbia.
In The Tattooed Soldier, Antonio knows his wife's killer, but in real life the people who "disappeared" thousands of innocent civilians continue to go un punished.
For the most part, we don't even have any names of the people who committed the unspeakable atrocities in the mid to late 80s... There is one name however, that stands out to me... It's John Necroponte. He was the ambassador to Honduras during the time Central America was being raped... The Reagan Administration had an ally in Honduran General/Dictator Gustavo Alvarez and they used Honduras as the headquarters for their clandestine terrorist activities. Necroponte was put in place specifically because of his willingness to turn a blind eye to the paramilitary Death Squads.
Necroponte has always denied his involvement in these war crimes, but the facts tell a different story.
The Baltimore Sun investigated the Honduran situation and found declassified documents that clearly show that "U.S. officials knew what was happening in Honduras and engaged in a willful deception to avoid confronting Congress with the truth."
Not only did he turn a blind eye to the situation, he had his assistants fudge the Human Rights record of Honduras on annual reports to Congress. He knew that Congress couldn't legally authorize the insane amounts of money being allotted to the Honduran Military if they knew of their blatant violations... He did that becasue he knew that no money to Honduras meant no money for the secret war...
Where is John Necroponte now? That's the worst part... George W. Bush named him the ambassador to Iraq... He served 9 months there before being sworn in as the National Director of Intelligence!?!?
The mainstream press hardly even noticed that a war criminal and co-conspirator of mass genocide was rewarded for his work with two of the highest and most coveted positions in the US Government. Some reports made a vague reference to his controversial past, but that's it. Aside from the Independent Press, there was nothing.
I don't really know why I'm writing all of this... There isn't a whole lot that can be done from a blog... I guess my hope is that some people will click on the Baltimore Sun articles I've linked to and forever associate the name John Negroponte with the Central American massacres of the 80's... We can't go back in time and stop the terror that was inflicted, but maybe if we keep it fresh in our minds and not let the perpetrators be forgotten there won't be a next time. Maybe then the students, professors, campesinos, and los pobres of Latin America will be able to speak their voices without fear of retribution... Maybe...
Baltimore Sun Article with related articles listed on page.
John Negroponte's official US Gov Pic... or as I like to call it: The Face of Satan.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Letter to Myself in 8th Grade
So, "McSweeney's" is a humor based website for obscure (and sometimes not so obscure) writers that is nothing short of brilliant... You should go check it out if you haven't already... anyway they have a column called "Open Letters to People or Entities Who Are Unlikely to Respond"... it's pretty self-explanatory and I'm going to shamelessly rip them off with this post, "A Letter to Myself in 8th Grade"... so without further introduction here is my barely anticipated letter:
Joel,
You don't know me... well actually you do, sort of. I'm you at age 25 and I'm here to give you some advice...
First off, back away from the table! That may seem harsh but trust me. You're about to turn the corner and go from chubby to fat and it's gonna cramp your style in High School.
Secondly, forget that girl... and you know who I mean!
I'm not gonna name any names here so that you can save face... But the one you played basketball with everyday after school last year... Not ringing a bell?
How about this, the one whose picture you circled in your yearbook with a pink highlighter, (really lame by the way)... Look, don't deny it; you know who I'm talking about.
Fine! I didn't want to get too specific but you're forcing my hand here... The one you "dated" for 3 weeks before she dumped you the day of the dance b/c you were too shy to acknowledge to anyone else in school that she was your "girlfriend." Yeah her....
Look you blew it little buddy and you need to let her go. I know you think you'll be able to redeem yourself and get another shot, but you won't.
Next year she'll show up for freshman year with a woman's body and short memory. "Joel who?"
She'll be dating an upper classman with a Jeep by second semester... He's got a great tan, a baseball letterman’s jacket and a Dawson's Creek smile. You've got no chance. He's way cooler than you.
Her days of walking home with you and your group of loser friends are over... Dawson's Creek will be driving by you in his shinny red jeep, the stereo blasting as he places his hand on your girl's thigh... It won't be pretty... In fact it will feel like he's taunting you and your oversized Jansport book bag, but the truth is, he won't even know who you are...
I know, I know, that's difficult to imagine right now, but trust me.
And one last thing... You might want to stop ignoring Ms. Churchwell, the young lady who stairs longingly at you form the other side of the cafeteria at lunch... Yeah her... Let's just say things will be "developing" very nicely for her over the summer. She'll also be the first girl from your class to get a tongue ring, and you know what that means (wink, wink)... Actually you don't, but if you play your cards right maybe you might find out... (nudge, nudge). Keep your head up, there are tough times ahead.
Sincerely, You at 25.
Joel,
You don't know me... well actually you do, sort of. I'm you at age 25 and I'm here to give you some advice...
First off, back away from the table! That may seem harsh but trust me. You're about to turn the corner and go from chubby to fat and it's gonna cramp your style in High School.
Secondly, forget that girl... and you know who I mean!
I'm not gonna name any names here so that you can save face... But the one you played basketball with everyday after school last year... Not ringing a bell?
How about this, the one whose picture you circled in your yearbook with a pink highlighter, (really lame by the way)... Look, don't deny it; you know who I'm talking about.
Fine! I didn't want to get too specific but you're forcing my hand here... The one you "dated" for 3 weeks before she dumped you the day of the dance b/c you were too shy to acknowledge to anyone else in school that she was your "girlfriend." Yeah her....
Look you blew it little buddy and you need to let her go. I know you think you'll be able to redeem yourself and get another shot, but you won't.
Next year she'll show up for freshman year with a woman's body and short memory. "Joel who?"
She'll be dating an upper classman with a Jeep by second semester... He's got a great tan, a baseball letterman’s jacket and a Dawson's Creek smile. You've got no chance. He's way cooler than you.
Her days of walking home with you and your group of loser friends are over... Dawson's Creek will be driving by you in his shinny red jeep, the stereo blasting as he places his hand on your girl's thigh... It won't be pretty... In fact it will feel like he's taunting you and your oversized Jansport book bag, but the truth is, he won't even know who you are...
I know, I know, that's difficult to imagine right now, but trust me.
And one last thing... You might want to stop ignoring Ms. Churchwell, the young lady who stairs longingly at you form the other side of the cafeteria at lunch... Yeah her... Let's just say things will be "developing" very nicely for her over the summer. She'll also be the first girl from your class to get a tongue ring, and you know what that means (wink, wink)... Actually you don't, but if you play your cards right maybe you might find out... (nudge, nudge). Keep your head up, there are tough times ahead.
Sincerely, You at 25.
Random Things I Thought About While...
...Trying to figure out why my cat knocks the cup of pens off my desk every night:
- I wonder if I could get laser hair removal on my head? Razors are getting expenisve.
- Has anybody ever asked George Bush who Jesus would bomb?
- After the Marlins debacle, the Nats need to sweep the Braves to have a realistic hope of getting back into the Wild Card Race... In other words, the season is over and I'm hoping we can just manage to finish the season with a winning record.
- Watching Norv Turner's Raiders lose to the Patriots last night took me back to the Turner Era in Washington... Not good times, bad times... He reminds me of a gifted lawyer with a drinking problem. He could be great if he could pull himself together but until that day comes he just keeps showing up to court late with bed head and the wrong brief case... It's only a matter of time before Randy Moss throws a fit on the sidelines and Kerry Collins decides to skip a practice to go bar hoping.
- I'm always amazed at how many good people will blatantly lie to an Insurance Company... Don't get me wrong, even though I'm employed by one I think that they are basically evil... But seriously I get lied to everyday and it gets old, actual conversation I had the other day:
ME: So let me get this straight ma'am, you own 4 cars but you're the only one listed on the policy, and the only one who will drive the vehicles... [Heavy sarcasm in my voice]
Sweet Old Lady: Yes [serious look on her face even though we both know she's lying]
ME: And your husband's license is currently suspended, but you PROMISE that he's not driving any of your 4 cars?
Sweet Old Lady: Oh no, he won't drive any of the cars.
ME: So why do you have for cars, is it for work? [giving her the chance to somehow explain away her blatant lie b/c my Manager is now listening]
Sweet Old Lady: Oh I don't work...
ME: (disgusted and frustrated look on my face, screaming in my mind) THEN WHAT THE HELL DO YOU HAVE FOUR CARS FOR, AND WHY DO YOU KEEP ASKING ME WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF AN UNLICENSED DRIVER HAD AN ACCIDENT IN ONE OF YOUR VEHICLES!?!?!
- Do you think the Bush twins ever went through a rebellious stage where they plastered Che posters on the wall and threatened to join Amnesty International? Or was their rebellion more subtle, like joining a less-conservative branch of the Young Republicans and occasionally watching Bill Mahr with the volume turned down really low?
- Why are Guatemalans called "Chapines?" I always thought it was a derogatory but my wife saw a guy in the mall yesterday wearing a shirt that said "Yo Soy Chapin!"
- In "The Karate Kid", why did Daniel La Russo turn the hose on Johnny Lawrence while he was in the bathroom? Johnny had already beaten him up on the beach, pushed him down a hill while riding his bike, and frightened him into altering his path everyday just to avoid him... Did he really think that the hose would help the situation? Didn't Daniel on some level, deserve a beating for that?
- I wonder if I could get laser hair removal on my head? Razors are getting expenisve.
- Has anybody ever asked George Bush who Jesus would bomb?
- After the Marlins debacle, the Nats need to sweep the Braves to have a realistic hope of getting back into the Wild Card Race... In other words, the season is over and I'm hoping we can just manage to finish the season with a winning record.
- Watching Norv Turner's Raiders lose to the Patriots last night took me back to the Turner Era in Washington... Not good times, bad times... He reminds me of a gifted lawyer with a drinking problem. He could be great if he could pull himself together but until that day comes he just keeps showing up to court late with bed head and the wrong brief case... It's only a matter of time before Randy Moss throws a fit on the sidelines and Kerry Collins decides to skip a practice to go bar hoping.
- I'm always amazed at how many good people will blatantly lie to an Insurance Company... Don't get me wrong, even though I'm employed by one I think that they are basically evil... But seriously I get lied to everyday and it gets old, actual conversation I had the other day:
ME: So let me get this straight ma'am, you own 4 cars but you're the only one listed on the policy, and the only one who will drive the vehicles... [Heavy sarcasm in my voice]
Sweet Old Lady: Yes [serious look on her face even though we both know she's lying]
ME: And your husband's license is currently suspended, but you PROMISE that he's not driving any of your 4 cars?
Sweet Old Lady: Oh no, he won't drive any of the cars.
ME: So why do you have for cars, is it for work? [giving her the chance to somehow explain away her blatant lie b/c my Manager is now listening]
Sweet Old Lady: Oh I don't work...
ME: (disgusted and frustrated look on my face, screaming in my mind) THEN WHAT THE HELL DO YOU HAVE FOUR CARS FOR, AND WHY DO YOU KEEP ASKING ME WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF AN UNLICENSED DRIVER HAD AN ACCIDENT IN ONE OF YOUR VEHICLES!?!?!
- Do you think the Bush twins ever went through a rebellious stage where they plastered Che posters on the wall and threatened to join Amnesty International? Or was their rebellion more subtle, like joining a less-conservative branch of the Young Republicans and occasionally watching Bill Mahr with the volume turned down really low?
- Why are Guatemalans called "Chapines?" I always thought it was a derogatory but my wife saw a guy in the mall yesterday wearing a shirt that said "Yo Soy Chapin!"
- In "The Karate Kid", why did Daniel La Russo turn the hose on Johnny Lawrence while he was in the bathroom? Johnny had already beaten him up on the beach, pushed him down a hill while riding his bike, and frightened him into altering his path everyday just to avoid him... Did he really think that the hose would help the situation? Didn't Daniel on some level, deserve a beating for that?
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Battle Update
Well I lost "The Battle of My Alarm Clock" this morning.
Was it because I'm a lazy piece of crap that lacks self motivation? I don't know, I'd like to think that my loss was more a reflection on my disillusionment and lingering anger with RATM and their inability to put aside their personal gripes for the greater good of America's politicized youth.
That's right, it couldn't be because I'm lazy. Not at all...
Now on to something far more uplifting, the man (boy really) who will be the first Washington Nationals Superstar (unless I jinx him), Ryan Zimmerman, aka The Savior, aka Baseball Messiah:
Was it because I'm a lazy piece of crap that lacks self motivation? I don't know, I'd like to think that my loss was more a reflection on my disillusionment and lingering anger with RATM and their inability to put aside their personal gripes for the greater good of America's politicized youth.
That's right, it couldn't be because I'm lazy. Not at all...
Now on to something far more uplifting, the man (boy really) who will be the first Washington Nationals Superstar (unless I jinx him), Ryan Zimmerman, aka The Savior, aka Baseball Messiah:
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
"The Battle of My Alarm Clock"
At 4:51am our alarm clock goes off for my wife to get up and go to work... The clock is on my side of the bed... My wife has an alarm clock on her side of the bed as well but she never uses it ("este pinche alarma no sirve para nada").
Really she just can't figure out how to work the thing, but we both pretend that the problem is the clock and not her wild incompetence when it comes to anything that uses electricity, but that's another story.
Anyway, I have to badger her into getting up so that I can then reset the alarm for 7:51 and go back to sleep... My goal every morning is to hit the snooze button one time and then get up at 8:00. That gives me 50 minutes to brush my teeth, take a shower, shave, get dressed, and eat a quick bowl of cereal before I drive to my office- which is only 2 miles away.
It sounds like a lot to do but if I stick to the schedule I can pull it off with no problem.
For the first 2 months at this new job I had no problem getting motivated to get to work and take on the day... But now the novelty has worn off and I have returned to my slacker ways.
Every morning has become a negotiation with myself for 9 more minutes of sleep...
"Okay, if I hit the snooze button once more I can just shave really quickly in the shower and that will save time. It won't be a perfect shave job, but it'll be good enough..."
9 minutes later, and I'm thinking, "okay, I won't eat a bowl of cereal, I'll just grab a granola bar on my way out the door..." 9 more minutes.
Before I even realize what's happening It's like 8:30 and I have to do a dead sprint to the shower for a speed wash and a sloppy shave before running out the door with no food.
As crazy as it sounds, last week I actually got into my car and was halfway to work when I realized I hadn't even taken my morning piss! What kind of man doesn't go directly to the toilet to relieve himself as soon as he wakes up?!? But that's how panicked and rushed I was...
This morning I came up with a name for this snooze button game I play. After finally sitting up in bed and pausing to stare angrily at the alarm clock, I noticed that it was sitting on top on a CD case. I picked up the clock and looked at the CD... Rage Against the Machine, "The Battle of Los Angeles."
I wasn't even trying to come up with a name for this game; it just hit me, "The Battle of My Alarm Clock." Damn, I think of the dumbest shit first thing in the morning... But none-the-less I now have my motivation to wake up at 8:00am tomorrow morning. I'm going to do it for the memory of Zach De La Rocha and my beloved Rage Against the Machine!
Tomorrow morning I'm serious, I will wake up at 8am exactly, not a minute later... well maybe 8:09, I can always just brush my teeth really quickly!
Really she just can't figure out how to work the thing, but we both pretend that the problem is the clock and not her wild incompetence when it comes to anything that uses electricity, but that's another story.
Anyway, I have to badger her into getting up so that I can then reset the alarm for 7:51 and go back to sleep... My goal every morning is to hit the snooze button one time and then get up at 8:00. That gives me 50 minutes to brush my teeth, take a shower, shave, get dressed, and eat a quick bowl of cereal before I drive to my office- which is only 2 miles away.
It sounds like a lot to do but if I stick to the schedule I can pull it off with no problem.
For the first 2 months at this new job I had no problem getting motivated to get to work and take on the day... But now the novelty has worn off and I have returned to my slacker ways.
Every morning has become a negotiation with myself for 9 more minutes of sleep...
"Okay, if I hit the snooze button once more I can just shave really quickly in the shower and that will save time. It won't be a perfect shave job, but it'll be good enough..."
9 minutes later, and I'm thinking, "okay, I won't eat a bowl of cereal, I'll just grab a granola bar on my way out the door..." 9 more minutes.
Before I even realize what's happening It's like 8:30 and I have to do a dead sprint to the shower for a speed wash and a sloppy shave before running out the door with no food.
As crazy as it sounds, last week I actually got into my car and was halfway to work when I realized I hadn't even taken my morning piss! What kind of man doesn't go directly to the toilet to relieve himself as soon as he wakes up?!? But that's how panicked and rushed I was...
This morning I came up with a name for this snooze button game I play. After finally sitting up in bed and pausing to stare angrily at the alarm clock, I noticed that it was sitting on top on a CD case. I picked up the clock and looked at the CD... Rage Against the Machine, "The Battle of Los Angeles."
I wasn't even trying to come up with a name for this game; it just hit me, "The Battle of My Alarm Clock." Damn, I think of the dumbest shit first thing in the morning... But none-the-less I now have my motivation to wake up at 8:00am tomorrow morning. I'm going to do it for the memory of Zach De La Rocha and my beloved Rage Against the Machine!
Tomorrow morning I'm serious, I will wake up at 8am exactly, not a minute later... well maybe 8:09, I can always just brush my teeth really quickly!
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
My New Job
So, about 3 months ago I started my new job... I don't really want to get too specific so lets just say I do customer service along with some selling... I'm not a salesman in the sleazy sense of the word that conjures up images of short sleeve dress shirts with a ties and suspenders... It's not that kind of job. I don't have to bother anyone or make calls or anything like that... okay fine, twist my arm, I work at an insurance agency (which shall remain anonymous).
My friend Duck Fook hooked me up with this job because he knew I was moving back to Frederick and wasn't thrilled with a potential daily commute to DC... So here I am. My job is basically to help out with the growing Spanish speaking client base.
I spent the first month or so studying up on my licensing exam and playing translator, which brings me to my story:
It's my first day and I'm understandably nervous, but not for the typical "I want to make a good impression", "I hope I like the job" reasons... No, I'm nervous about my Spanish holding up.
If you need me to talk to some cute girl you like who doesn't speak English, If my brother-in-law needs me to read a letter he got from his bank, if I have to call in an order of papusas de ribuelta, I'm your guy... Talking to my wife or her family, I'm pretty damn money... but translating insurance policies?!?! who knows?
But the bottom line is, it's show time... I need to be able to get the job done or Duck Fook and I will find ourselves down at the unemployment office.
Nobody wants to hear me bitch about how I have trouble understanding the Puerto Rican accent because I'm used to only talking to people form Central America... My boss has trouble getting the concept that not everybody who speaks Spanish is a Mexican... seriously I've told him my wife is from El Salvador like 8 times and I'm almost positive that he thinks El Salvador is a city near Cancun... Do you think THAT guy will understand if I struggle to understand the accent of a peasant farmer from Argentina?
So you can imagine how petrified I was the first time I was called over to translate... It was 2 guys, one of whom was acting as pseudo translator for his uncle who spoke little English. They were very surprised when the Gabacho Gordo walked across the office and begin speaking Spanish to them... So surprised in fact that they began speaking to each other very excitedly in a hushed tone. As I attempted to join there conversation it became very apparent to me that I had no idea what the f-ck they were saying! Their words were quick and high pitched...
For a moment I was panicked. "Oh my god I can't do this job, it's too hard." I wanted to hide under my desk... Then the pseudo translator turned to me and explained, in broken Spanish, that they were "indios", or Indians [his choice of words not mine]... Spanish wasn't there first language either, in fact the uncle didn't speak Spanish at all! Eventually we were able to get through the experience using a mix of Spanish and English that was, I'm sure, unimpressive to everybody nearby listening to hear how I did.
When the men finally left I explained the situation to everyone, but I'm not sure they believed me... They probably thought I was making up an excuse for why things got so complicated. I have since shown that I can hold my own, but at the time I could see the panic hidden behind their "Oh I understand" eyes.
Alas I learned two valuable lessons in this situation [1] Latin America is very diverse, way beyond the common perception of most Gabachos, and [2]I have terrible first day luck.
My friend Duck Fook hooked me up with this job because he knew I was moving back to Frederick and wasn't thrilled with a potential daily commute to DC... So here I am. My job is basically to help out with the growing Spanish speaking client base.
I spent the first month or so studying up on my licensing exam and playing translator, which brings me to my story:
It's my first day and I'm understandably nervous, but not for the typical "I want to make a good impression", "I hope I like the job" reasons... No, I'm nervous about my Spanish holding up.
If you need me to talk to some cute girl you like who doesn't speak English, If my brother-in-law needs me to read a letter he got from his bank, if I have to call in an order of papusas de ribuelta, I'm your guy... Talking to my wife or her family, I'm pretty damn money... but translating insurance policies?!?! who knows?
But the bottom line is, it's show time... I need to be able to get the job done or Duck Fook and I will find ourselves down at the unemployment office.
Nobody wants to hear me bitch about how I have trouble understanding the Puerto Rican accent because I'm used to only talking to people form Central America... My boss has trouble getting the concept that not everybody who speaks Spanish is a Mexican... seriously I've told him my wife is from El Salvador like 8 times and I'm almost positive that he thinks El Salvador is a city near Cancun... Do you think THAT guy will understand if I struggle to understand the accent of a peasant farmer from Argentina?
So you can imagine how petrified I was the first time I was called over to translate... It was 2 guys, one of whom was acting as pseudo translator for his uncle who spoke little English. They were very surprised when the Gabacho Gordo walked across the office and begin speaking Spanish to them... So surprised in fact that they began speaking to each other very excitedly in a hushed tone. As I attempted to join there conversation it became very apparent to me that I had no idea what the f-ck they were saying! Their words were quick and high pitched...
For a moment I was panicked. "Oh my god I can't do this job, it's too hard." I wanted to hide under my desk... Then the pseudo translator turned to me and explained, in broken Spanish, that they were "indios", or Indians [his choice of words not mine]... Spanish wasn't there first language either, in fact the uncle didn't speak Spanish at all! Eventually we were able to get through the experience using a mix of Spanish and English that was, I'm sure, unimpressive to everybody nearby listening to hear how I did.
When the men finally left I explained the situation to everyone, but I'm not sure they believed me... They probably thought I was making up an excuse for why things got so complicated. I have since shown that I can hold my own, but at the time I could see the panic hidden behind their "Oh I understand" eyes.
Alas I learned two valuable lessons in this situation [1] Latin America is very diverse, way beyond the common perception of most Gabachos, and [2]I have terrible first day luck.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Maybe I Was Wrong
I’ll be the first to admit that when it comes to roster moves by my favorite sports teams I’m pretty pessimistic. I always assume disatster. But how could you blame me?
I mean, just look at the recent history of Washington area sports teams… The Bullets/Wizards are the team that traded Rasheed Wallace for Rod Strickland, Chris Webber for the AARP member Mitch Richmond, Richard Hamilton for Jerry Stackhouse, and worst of all Ben Wallace for Ike "Eat My Way Out of the League" Austin! As an added bonus we got to watch the Detroit Pistons win a Championship with a bunch of guys who couldn’t even take us to the playoffs!
And don’t even get me started on the Redskins... Desmond Howard, Heath Shuler, Michael Westbrook… it’s painful. They actually drafted a guy in the 1st round of the1996 draft named Andre Johnson who never even played a down in the NFL! And that’s just the drafting woes!
I could write a 10,000 word column on the Free Agency brilliance of “The Dan" Snyder… Deion Sanders, Bruce Smith, Jeff George, Laverneus Coles, and Michael Barrow, all of these names spoken out loud to a Redskins fan will cause a grimace followed by a string of curse words.
So when the Washington Nationals (in the midst of a pennant race) traded to get the injury prone Colorado Rockies outfielder Preston Wilson, you can imagine how I felt. “Here we go again!”
Don’t get me wrong, I was in favor of trading Zach Day. Any snot-nosed young pitcher who can’t find the strike zone yet has the nerve to turn his back on Frank Robinson needs to go… but for Preston Wilson!?!? The Zach Day trade talks had been hot and heavy all year and some of the names that were tossed around included Ken Griffey Jr, Willy Mo Pena, and some serious Minor League prospects. So when the Day for Wilson deal actually went down it was a bit anti-climactic. It was like going to a Ford Dealership hoping to buy a Mustang and then coming home with a Taurus.
Sure Preston has had some nice years, but seriously, the guy has a limp! If you go to a game at RFK, just watch him walking around during BP. He walks like Gayle Sayers… Seruiously, how many Center Feilders in MLB walk like a retired grandfather? He only managed to play 58 games last season, and his best year 2003 was inflated by the fact that he played in Colorado… and it’s not like he was setting the world on fire this year. He batted only .258 with 14 HR’s in the thin air of the "Mile High City."
So no, I wasn’t buying this deal and I’ve criticized his every move since he got into town... I've used everything from his steal ratio (1 stolen base vs 4 times caught stealing) to the way he wore his uniform as ammo against him. Every time he struck out or failed to move a runner over I would turn to my friend Brian (a proponent of the Wilson deal) and make some kind of sarcastic comment.
But the truth is, Preston Wilson has come up HUGE in the 2 biggest games of the season. With the wildcard leading Phillies in town and the Nats in danger of falling out of the race, Wilson put the team on his back. Two nights ago he drove in a run in the 1st inning, and then the game winner with a bloop single in the bottom of the 12th.
In his encore last night he put the game away with one swing of the bat, driving in 3 runs on a gargantuan blast that landed in the upper deck! I could be wrong but I’m pretty sure it was the longest blast in RFK this season. What made the moment even more fitting was the fact that I was riding in a car with my friend Brian when it happened. This time it was his turn to turn to me and make a sarcastic comment. All I could do was nod my head, shrug my shoulders and say something I hardly ever say, “I was wrong...”
I mean, just look at the recent history of Washington area sports teams… The Bullets/Wizards are the team that traded Rasheed Wallace for Rod Strickland, Chris Webber for the AARP member Mitch Richmond, Richard Hamilton for Jerry Stackhouse, and worst of all Ben Wallace for Ike "Eat My Way Out of the League" Austin! As an added bonus we got to watch the Detroit Pistons win a Championship with a bunch of guys who couldn’t even take us to the playoffs!
And don’t even get me started on the Redskins... Desmond Howard, Heath Shuler, Michael Westbrook… it’s painful. They actually drafted a guy in the 1st round of the1996 draft named Andre Johnson who never even played a down in the NFL! And that’s just the drafting woes!
I could write a 10,000 word column on the Free Agency brilliance of “The Dan" Snyder… Deion Sanders, Bruce Smith, Jeff George, Laverneus Coles, and Michael Barrow, all of these names spoken out loud to a Redskins fan will cause a grimace followed by a string of curse words.
So when the Washington Nationals (in the midst of a pennant race) traded to get the injury prone Colorado Rockies outfielder Preston Wilson, you can imagine how I felt. “Here we go again!”
Don’t get me wrong, I was in favor of trading Zach Day. Any snot-nosed young pitcher who can’t find the strike zone yet has the nerve to turn his back on Frank Robinson needs to go… but for Preston Wilson!?!? The Zach Day trade talks had been hot and heavy all year and some of the names that were tossed around included Ken Griffey Jr, Willy Mo Pena, and some serious Minor League prospects. So when the Day for Wilson deal actually went down it was a bit anti-climactic. It was like going to a Ford Dealership hoping to buy a Mustang and then coming home with a Taurus.
Sure Preston has had some nice years, but seriously, the guy has a limp! If you go to a game at RFK, just watch him walking around during BP. He walks like Gayle Sayers… Seruiously, how many Center Feilders in MLB walk like a retired grandfather? He only managed to play 58 games last season, and his best year 2003 was inflated by the fact that he played in Colorado… and it’s not like he was setting the world on fire this year. He batted only .258 with 14 HR’s in the thin air of the "Mile High City."
So no, I wasn’t buying this deal and I’ve criticized his every move since he got into town... I've used everything from his steal ratio (1 stolen base vs 4 times caught stealing) to the way he wore his uniform as ammo against him. Every time he struck out or failed to move a runner over I would turn to my friend Brian (a proponent of the Wilson deal) and make some kind of sarcastic comment.
But the truth is, Preston Wilson has come up HUGE in the 2 biggest games of the season. With the wildcard leading Phillies in town and the Nats in danger of falling out of the race, Wilson put the team on his back. Two nights ago he drove in a run in the 1st inning, and then the game winner with a bloop single in the bottom of the 12th.
In his encore last night he put the game away with one swing of the bat, driving in 3 runs on a gargantuan blast that landed in the upper deck! I could be wrong but I’m pretty sure it was the longest blast in RFK this season. What made the moment even more fitting was the fact that I was riding in a car with my friend Brian when it happened. This time it was his turn to turn to me and make a sarcastic comment. All I could do was nod my head, shrug my shoulders and say something I hardly ever say, “I was wrong...”
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