The 'Rona Diaries, Day 2

Woke up at eight, and decided to stay in bed til one, it was worth it.  Cuddled and watched Endless Love videos, old ads for Made-for-TV CD compilations, and an old Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell video (they were so young!). We got nostalgic for an era we never lived.  Then I put on my new Bob Marley Kaya shirt and played the song– feeling irie now. More to come...

The 'Rona Diaries, Day 1

The city of Boston is in quarantine.  Schools are closed until the end of April, so at least six weeks at home. Has it really even sunk in yet? The initial feelings are those of fear for the more vulnerable folx who are not in a situation like our family, countered with a sense of overwhelm –euphoria-like– that our family will have six weeks to pursue personal interests and growth, all while not having to worry about finding money, as we will still be paid.  Most families are not at all in this situation–I consider us to be so fortunate. Ela and I went out, and observed that there were less people out, and some folx were really careful to keep their distance. There was one woman who maintained at least six feet between herself and anyone else. I wonder if she should have even come out– Ela asks me is it worth risking it all for a Starbucks coffee?

Please don't go girl

It was 3rd grade and even though they were in different classes, Judd and Matt still saw a lot of each other at recess and in the hallway cubby area that connected the classrooms. They were also still really into hometown heroes New Kids on the Block. Their own fandom started in 1st grade, and kicked into high gear the year later, the night that Matt's mom walked him over for a sleepover with a surprise for them both- she rented the New Kids Live on VHS, from Blockbuster, where else. They played it and gave their own live show jumping on Judd's parents' bed all night long.

But this year the cutest girl Kelsey made it known in the hallway that these two kids still like the New Kids, and it stunned them like a phaser. They carpooled home and got all their cassettes by the boy band- and they snapped them in two.

They put all the spindles of tape and snapped cases in Kelsey's locker with a note that said, "Kelsey, this is how much we like the New Kids on the Block, signed Judd and Matt"

They reflected solemnly as they immediately lost touch with one of their favorite things, and moved on. They most likely forgot all about this whole episode, but every once in a while they'll tune into the radio to hear this song and it all comes back. And truly the saddest part is that neither of them won the girl's favor, those tapes snapped in vain.

I wrote a poem - GIrasol

This poem was a gift for St. Valentine's Day (2010) for my wife, Ela.

Girasol is an original work, but was largely influenced by Cultivo una rosa blanca by the Cuban poet José Martí. Note the similar rhyme scheme (ABBA) and imagery. However, whereas the white rose of Martí could represent the amicable nature of the poet towards friends and adversaries alike, the sunflower of Girasol represents a very significant bond that I share with my wife. See if you can guess what (who?) it is!

Girasol

Siembro una semillita

en tierra conocida,

y en aquella que la cuida,

pongo mi fe infinita.

Ella brilla en cumplir su rol,

da a luz a un plantín perfecto.

Le damos amor y afecto;
cultivamos un girasol.

Sunflower

I plant a little seed

in familiar ground,
and in the one who cares for it,
I put my infinite faith.

She shines as she fulfills her role,

she bears a perfect seedling.

We give love and affection;

we cultivate a sunflower.

Today, while on my home computer facing the 2nd floor window, I heard the POP! four times. I thought they were just firecrackers, which tend to fill the air on this block as the weather gets warmer. I also remind myself that even though we live within earshot of H-Block's core, our Hollander St. has been pretty calm for the past several years. My attention is drawn back to the street when I hear a car peel off, and then immediately after, the moaning for help. I look through the window, half way down the block, to see a man lying on the sidewalk, face down. From the other room, my wife is asking if I heard the gunshots. She gets my response as I throw on some sneakers and race out to join my neighbors in helping the young man.

I soon see that he is the relative of my good friends from across the street. His family members are either weeping or cursing, while the patriarch clasps the victims hand tight. The victim is lucid, telling us that he was rolled up on by men who jumped out of a car and rushed him. He instinctively turned to run, but was struck by one of the four bullets. His demeanor is calm; if he is in pain, I can't tell, that is until he says that he can't feel his legs and that his back stings.

Within minutes an unmarked car arrives, the cop urges us to get back. He also asks us if anyone saw anything, to which we all say that we only heard the shots fired. Moments later, back-up arrives, followed by the ambulance. They yellow tape the entire corner and keep moving us back. I watch as an officer systematically frisks the victim, gently. I know it is a matter of protocol, but it still makes my stomach muscles clench tight. The victim is then lifted onto the stretcher and taken off. I return home, but from my computer room window I can still hear the same cop telling people to back up, that they need to look for evidence.

I keep thinking about how astonished I was that the victim didn't even let out anything more anguished than a low moan- an "owww" that reminded me of myself after stubbing my toe this morning. I think about how different it would be if I were there lying on the sidewalk, how I would undoubtedly be crying, tears and blood staining the concrete, my clothes. I also think about where those other three bullets struck. They could have lodged into the house behind the scene of the crime; they could have hit my house. This thought disturbs me, so I try to get back to work, but my three year old daughter, whom I assumed to be napping, opens the computer room door to ask me what happened. Struck by her awareness, I hesitated. She knows her grandmother is no longer with us, that her "Nonna is in the sky". She also knows what happened when Scar turned on Mufasa in that animated classic. I can imagine that she would grasp what happened, but I am just not ready for that conversation. So I decide to tell her that some neighborhood kid hurt his hand by lighting off fireworks.

I go to the pharmacy to get a sympathy card for the family. I will never forget how shaken up they were. They are a family of several generations that seems to always accommodate more members. Their home is like the HQ for extended family. Some of my best memories of the summer-time took place during their backyard cookouts. Cracking crab legs among friends, family. The head of the household, retired last year, learned me everything he knew as a gardener. I owe my last year's harvest, my first, to him. I never had collared greens until this southern native gave me three seedlings. I was picking leaves off those plants well into December, leaving him mighty impressed. He and his family always asking about my little girl; they need to know that my family is here for theirs. I want to remind them that we live in a good neighborhood...but how can I sound convincing when this tragedy went down on our very own block?