For the past 20 years, I have been training out of Betances, St Mary’s, Pops, Ft. Apache, World Wide, Juan Laporte’s and John’s Boxing gym. There were seven gyms within a three-mile radius of one another in the 10455 zip code of the South Bronx — the Boxing Mecca. Many have since closed down.
So many memories emerge from these sites of triumph and tragedy, grit and struggle. Diametrical opposites meet in the boxing gym — heroin addicts and heroic world champions, convicted rapists and proven role models, sneaky snakes in the grass and stand-up, loyal friends. Here PTSD-afflicted veterans of the invasions of Vietnam and Iraq, prostitutes, single-parents, thieves, hustlers, 9 to 5’ers, murderers and the ghosts of the murdered come together. You name it — the good, the bad and the ugly — we’ve seen it and we’ve lived it. This is not hyperbole. This is the environment that has given birth to some of the greatest fighters to grace the canvas.
I have strung together a collage of photos and memories so that the reader can enter into our small world — where everybody knows each another. What a journey it has been! I have come a long way as a fighter, father, and man since my first fight at Kingsway Boxing Club in 1999 against a 260 lb. brawler. My story is one of passing from mentee to mentor.
How many local and international legends have come out of these gyms? Here is a sprinkling of the names of warriors who honed their craft in these bare-bones gyms on a daily basis: Kinda “Bombaye” Issouf, Emmanuel Gonzalez, Keith Tapia, Stivens “Superman” Bujaj, Joshua “Hitman” Clotty, Juan Celin Zapata, Nisa Rodriguez, Sadam Ali, Danny Jacobs, the Livingston brothers, Eddy Gomez, and Joseph “King Kong” Agbeko. In the entries that follow, I will take you into the ring — where the young gladiators do battle— but also into the back streets where they came of age. I divided up the “Dollar and a Dream in the South Bronx” series into six rounds, or entries. When the character portraits are less than flattering, the names and details have been changed to protect the privacy of our protagonists.
Madison Square Garden 2005. I was the Daily News Golden Gloves fighter of the Year. I received $10,000 for this fight.
Fighting a former Golden Gloves champion out of Morris Park Boxing Club.The best part of a fight — when it is over and you can exhale and reflect on all of the hard work that went into it.
Puttin’ in Work
Whenever I am lacing up my boxing shoes to work out, I tell myself “Time to put in work.” For a fighter, entering the gym is like going to work. It is not a choice but a necessity. Don’t analyze it too much or you might lose steam and never make it in the front door.
When Gary came out of prison after a bid for heroin possession, his first stop was the boxing gym. He came out of jail 40 lbs. overweight and without a dollar in his pocket. I remember shadowboxing and wondering if he had a chance to make it.
Four months later his Riker’s, starch-filled belly was gone. With his six-pack re-solidified, he was ready for a fight. Gary received $800 bucks for a four rounder. He lost but the check earned him some temporary breathing room. The only money in boxing is high up on the totem pole. Gary was back in jail two months later for possession. This is not Rocky. This is reality.
Killing Ourselves
Little Soto lived in a shelter. Every day in the gym, he fought for both his sanity and a shower. One late summer evening after Soto finished his sparring session, he felt on top of life. He had just received money on his food stamp card so he sent a younger fighter to buy a bunch of food and drinks for everyone in the gym. The delivery boy disappeared and never returned. Little Soto went into the streets with vengeance in his eyes. There were efforts to restrain him and explain that going back upstate to jail over $50 was not worth it but vengeance prevailed.
A shoot out ensued two hours later on 3rd Ave. and 149th St. The statisticians chalked up the numbers. They added another Puerto Rican to the murdered list. The state sentenced another Puerto Rican to serve life in prison.
Oppressed people specialize in killing one another. Cowering before the insurmountable conditions that tower over them, they take out their anger and pain on those who are closest to them. The boxing world is just one microcosm of a world where unemployment, addiction and humiliation cut people down on a daily basis.
Boo Boo Smooth and I “getting it in” on a cold January day. In the Bronx, no matter how bitter and cold it is outside, the fighters heat it up in the ring.
This is legendary Cuban fighter and my trainer Lazarro Almanzar. I’m proud of Lazarro because post-fighting his weight increased drastically. He lost 50 lbs. in the last year making more conscious decisions about his “jama” or food. Stay away from those chicharones y tostones asere!
Located a few hours north of Port-au-Prince, Lestè is an area of Haiti that has been periodically ravaged by droughts, hurricanes and flash floods. There are stories of families who have ate dirt cookies to get through the famine. The geophagists warn of the damage that this can do to young tummies without asking why families are forced to resort to these survival tactics in the first place. Never is there any mention on CNN or in USA Today of the five-century long colonial earthquake that has shook and ravaged Haiti long before the natural disaster that occurred in January of 2012.
I first came to Lestè in the year 2000. I had met a Haitian friend Widson Etienne who was studying at a monastery in Santo Domingo where I was a teacher, journalist and organizer. We worked together in defense of Haitian people’s human and constitutional rights in the Dominican Republic. He invited me to travel with him and meet his family in Haiti. We developed some curriculum together that exposed Columbus and the rest of the colonial bandits for the rapists and tourists that they were. He had invited me to dialogue with some peasant organizations who were struggling against the privatization of their land. I learned a great deal from Widson’s family and community.
Though I had fond memories of my visit, I was not able to return to Widson’s village for many years. This past summer I found myself back in Haiti doing work against the U.N./U.S. occupation. It dawned on me that I was only a few hours north of Lestè. I was not able to call or give any advance notice to Widson’s family of my arrival. I thought “Well what the heck? What is 14 years in the grand scheme of things?” In a city of only 40,000 someone is bound to know someone. Otherwise I can just make some new friends, right?
Lestè
Reunited
A pickup truck — functioning as a bus — transported us across a bridge marking the dividing point between Gonaive and Lestè. The bus ride reminded me of the fascination many Haitians have with foreigners. There are a number of reasons for this. Haitians have been taught they are inferior. Many people see migration to the US — or really to anywhere outside of Haiti — as the only way to save themselves and their family. An average American’s purchasing power is 100 to 300 times that of the average Haitian. Any interaction with a foreigner then is a step in the direction of hope.
Many Haitians have only seen foreigners in the World Cup or in a movie so they would compare me to television personalities. Some kids said I looked like Zinedine Zidane — the Algerian soccer player — while others argued that I was a clone of Jean Claude Van Damme the actor. Haiti is good for one’s self-esteem in that way, you always get compared to somebody famous.
The skies were overcast and I asked if they thought the skies would soon open up. “No. It never rains here” was the reply. I forgot where to get off to find my old friends. I waited until there was a big gathering of people and I dismounted the vehicle. A traveling companion inquired if I know where I am going? I respond with a feigned confidence “Yeah I’ll figure it out.” I took three steps and asked a young man with headphones and a hoody if he knew Widson Etienne. His face lit up. “That is my uncle. Is that you Dan-yel? It is me Samson.”
“Jackpot!” I thought. I knew I could track the Widson’s family but I never thought it would be that easy. It was almost a letdown. Part of the adventure is being lost in time, in another galaxy. Three steps and three seconds? I thought I would have to dig a bit more. Samson skipped his return to Gonaives to study and led me back to his family’s home.
As we walked through the market, the cutest 2 1/2 year old baby boy appeared by my side and took my hand. An outsider would have sworn he was my nephew the way he latched on to me. “Where is his mother?” I asked Samson. “Why is he clenching my hand and walking with me?” Soon we were now 10 minutes walking from where I found him. Samson told me his name was Ti-Ralph, laughing and assuring me “your new-found companion will find his way home. In Lestè, everyone knows everyone.” We picked up an assortment of Haitian fruits, including a watermelon with the seeds in tact which you can rarely find in the U.S. now-a-days.
Ti-Ralph
We reached Widson’s home. I had not seen them in over a decade but they instantly recognized me. They welcomed me back into their home. I sat down and we began to reminisce. They asked me all about Widson and his beautiful wife and children in Hartford, Connecticut. They took me in like family. Neighbors and their children gravitated over to the house to see what the commotion was. A friend from far away was big news in Lestè.
It was time for a shower. There are different notions of privacy in the countryside. Granmè or Nana Yvonne gave me a bucket of water and instructed me to bathe in a little makeshift chamber right behind where the children were playing and the adults were preparing dinner. I was just out of the view of three generations of a family and I was expected to shower?
Tonton Makenley struck up a conversation with me about Haitian women as I bathed. “Do you like Haitian women? How are they in bed? Sweet, aren’t they?” Highly embarrassed, I carried on with my shower. People were accustomed to having less privacy. Going to the bathroom was similar. People just didn’t look. Sometimes children wandered around out of nowhere and began to stare at me in compromising moments.
No shower ever felt as cleansing as that bucket shower after taking on the dust and devastating sun of Okap Aysyen. A majestic peace came over me as I sat down to share some dinner with my long-lost friends and enjoy the evening serenity.
A Quiet Night Interrupted
Barely thirty minutes had elapsed when Tonton Makenley passed me a cell phone. Widson’s brother and other nephew motioned for me to bring it to my ear. I heard a familiar voice in Kreyol half yelling and half laughing at me on the other end: “You white bastard who doesn’t bathe you! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Haiti you old vagabond! You have ruined my life.” It was Widson calling from Hartford, Connecticut. He has discovered that I was back in his hometown. So much for my quiet entrance and departure. My cover was blown!
Did I mention that Widson was running for national senator in representation of Lestè?
No. I chose to forget that. The elections were supposed to have happened two years ago. After U.S. marines illegal ousted the democratically elected president Jean Bertrand Aristide and kidnapping him, their Haitian underlings suspended elections. As the October date approached, twenty-eight different candidates shored up all of the support they could for the coveted position. I suspected my old “friend” wanted to enroll his unsuspecting guest in his campaign.
The pleasantries were over. Widson fed me rapid-fire instructions: “Dan-yel you are a white man. People listen to white men in my town. You must go out and campaign for me. Do you drive stick? If not no problem. I am sending for a car for you now. Do you want your own driver?” I couldn’t keep up with the bombardment of questions: “What are you wearing? When do you depart for Port-au-Prince? Can you campaign for me there? I will have my cousin pick you up. Do you need a cell phone? Do you need money? Women? How many women do you want?”
A quiet night visiting old friends and cracking jokes was suddenly transformed into a campaign opportunity. I listened to my orders intently. He sent me out with a make-shift campaign team. What had I got myself into? Wait, I never consented to any of this. And what about our watermelon? Forever the adventurer, I thought “Ah why not? Let me see how long I can ride this out before I compromise my principles. Roll with the punches, right?”
We were off. A Suzuki jeep swept us up and we sped away. I turned, waved goodbye and blew a kiss to everyone but no one could see me through the tinted windows. The driver never even introduced himself. He cranked the AC all the way up, the perfect contrast to the sleepless humidity on the other side of the tinted windows. The kompa blared out. I went from rags to riches in a matter of seconds. Momentarily I felt how Rick Ross must feel. One phone call had shifted my destiny. Excitement was in the air. I’m somebody. I’m taken care of. Who doesn’t want to be a made-man? We passed by some other homes to pick up some other “members” of the “team.” Our chauffeur George, Widson’s cousin, slowed down and called the “volunteers” over. He introduced me as a campaign boss from New York who had been sent over to supervise their activity. I reached over the chauffer’s body to extend a hand to our volunteer team. They assured me they were working their hardest as one hid a bottle of kleren or moonshine behind his back.
We continued making the rounds. In many areas of Haiti, once the sun goes down there is no electricity. George’s headlights along with candles lit up local homes where women sold griyo and bannan (Slices of fried pork served with fried plantain). Throngs of young men gathered around us on a bridge in the pitch darkness. People saluted one another but I wondered how they recognized each other. I could not see 5 feet in front of me. I shook so many hands I thought I was the one running for office. George presented me as some type of celebrity. Suddenly, I was again whisked away and then deposited in front of a local disco and introduced to a group of 15 men hanging out on the sidewalk. The disco was completely empty. No one had the money to afford the cover and cold beverages served inside. George introduced as Widsons’ right-hand man. All eyes were on me.
A Tribune of the People
I introduced myself and defined my mission in Haiti — to learn, to listen, to write, to grow and to share. I launched into my usual berating of foreigners who exploit Haiti. I knew that I was supposed to sing praises to our candidate and promise whole-sale change to one of the most exploited corners of the western hemisphere. My heart refused to follow orders. My own political training kicked in:
“Politicians play games of false promises and politricks.” “Mwen pa konfye avek politik yo. Mwen konfye ak pep-la. Se selma pep-la ki ka sove pep-la. Ki sa ki Dessalines toujou ap di. Nou beswen yon lot dechoukaj.” (“I don’t trust politicians. I trust the people. Only the people can save the people. What did Dessalines teach us? Only masses of people can effect deep-rooted change. Radical! That means to lift things up from the roots. That is the only change I believe in.”)
George tugged at my arm: “Ok Dan-yel time to get going. Say bye to everyone.” “But George I am just getting started,” I retorted.
The crowd was fired up. We were all having fun. I redefined what it meant to be a politician. I paraphrased Amilcar Cabral and his explanation of what it means to be a revolutionary:
“We always should say what is. Honesty is first and foremost. We cannot make promises but rather chart out what it will take for a united people to make gains through struggle. A real leader of the people does not aspire for anything for himself. He aspires for everything for everyone. “A tribune of the people,” a re-imagined, re-defined “politician” responds to everyone’s pain making connections between the struggles of battered women, landless peasants, irate students, slum dwellers and every other oppressed group.[1]
My instinct was to lump Haitian politicians who sold out into my invective. But I learned a valuable lesson on prior occasions. It is ok to insult foreign devils but leave their local sycophants and puppets alone. You never know whose territory you are in. You never know who pays whose salary and who wants revenge against who. On another occasion in Site Sole — Port-au-Prince’s sprawling slums that constitute the largest ghetto in the world — the political bosses of the local gangs pressed guns to my head for committing this misstep. That is a story for another time but the lesson was clear: focus your harangues on the foreign bloodsuckers.
By this time George has grabbed my arm trying to lead me away. The crowd cheered and the youth threw up some fists. The Rastas in the crowd wanted to hear more of the white man’s denunciation of Babylon.
In the last exchange, I had not even mentioned our dear candidate’s name. Widson’s wanted to hustle me but I had thrown a wrench in his nascent political machine. I guess just the mere presence of the white man somehow connected to Widson was still worth some political capital because we were off to our next campaign stop. But not before George passed me the cellphone. My would-be sponsor again admonished my every action.
[1] Term coined by Vladimir Lenin in What is to Be Done?
Jaspoa comes from the word diaspora; Haitians use it for their countrymen who live in Miami, Flatbush, Montreal or anywhere outside of Haiti. Many Jaspoas have a reputation for being show offs and forgetting about their families and the homeland they left behind. As more and more instructions and commands came in from far-off Hartford, Connecticut, I was reminded of the heavy influence Haitian Americans and other jaspoas play in the Haitian economic and political arena. Widson, a security guard in the richest state in the richest country in the world, was a powerbroker in the poorest town in one of the poorest countries in the world. The most oppressed in Hartford metamorphosed into a potential politician on the national stage in Haiti.
Widson ran a campaign from a reality far removed from that of his former neighbors. He only visited several times a year yet exercised this inordinate influence. The power came from money. Remittances from the United States are the number one source of income in Haiti. A state of complete and utter dependency exists on the neo-colonial scavenger whose economy was built up on the backs of Haitians, Dominicans, African-Americans and other oppressed nations. Many were afraid to bite the hand that fed them.
The Final Phone Call
There was another phone call from our main protagonist who intended to oversee my every move and breath: “No No Dan-yel. I like what you said but no. That is social work Dan-yel. This is politics. You cannot talk like that.” I tried to respond but our aspiring careerist did not take no for an answer. Widson delivered a fresh set of directives.
“You know Dan-yel the rich men from Haiti they like visits from the white man. They feel more important. Dan-yel what are you wearing? Oh no this will not do. We are sending for someone to retrieve new clothes for you. You are a distinguished guest Dan-yel. I need you to meet this rich man. You tell him I love my home town. You tell him everything I do here for Haiti.”
My sarcasm was now full blown: “So I tell him you work odd jobs as a security guard and mechanic in Connecticut and import cars to Haiti? That you largely neglect your two beautiful children and wife because you are too busy chasing other women then hiding your sins in the Catholic church?” He laughed nervously: “No. Dan-yel. That is very funny. Please take this seriously. You tell him I do so much for Haiti that I give money to street children. That I have a foundation. Please do not mention any of that other stuff Dan-yel.”
He instructed me to pass the phone back to George. He blamed George for our lack of success thus far: “Cousin: Give him food. He is moody when he is hungry. You know how white people are without food. Find out what he wants to eat.” I chuckled at the fact that he chalked up my epic failure to conform to his plans to the fact that I might be hungry. Widson refused to accept that I could only be who I am. I could only say what I believed in. So opportunistically focused on power, he was blind before all other perspectives.
It was clear Widson’s hard-headedness rivaled my own. I took the phone and stealthily put it on silent and buried it in my pocket. I told him we should go get a midnight snack ignoring the appointment that had been set up. Widson called back 17 times. This was far cry from the first time we visited Haiti together in 2001. Cell phones didn’t even exist then in Haiti. Now there were real time conversations occurring on Facebook and WhatsApp, traversing oceans and continents and deciding people’s fate. What to me was a joke and sheer carpetbaggery was the one political opportunity many people in Leste had.
Just as there had been a fusillade of phone calls recasting my destiny a few hours before, there was another flurry of ringing phones and Facebook exchanges. Just as quickly as Widson had bestowed gainful employment on me, he now relieved me of my duties. All I wanted was some griyo ak bannan with some friends to begin with.
(People’s names have been changed to protect their privacy)
No one Prays Harder than the Poor
This past week I was overjoyed to visit my niece Leticia and other family in the Dominican Republic.[1] I had not seen Leticia since she was the ring bearer at my wedding in 1998. She was the cutest little girl one could imagine — the perfect reflection of childhood, life, innocence and beauty.
Leticia came from a desperately poor family. The chips were stacked against her from the beginning. Her story deserves to be told because is reflective of the story of millions of people across the Dominican Republic.
Several years after the wedding, Leticia’s mom Margarita died of AIDS. Struggling to put food on the table for her three children, Margarita found herself in debt to the local butcher Miguel Angel and colmadero Fausto.[2] She was coerced into sleeping with them in return for the sums unpaid. She contracted the virus. Leticia’s father Felix had never recognized her. He was nowhere to be found. Leticia’s stepfather Onu sent for her. She left the village of Pontoncito where she grew up and moved to El 27 de Febrero neighborhood. Onu’s intentions were good but unemployment and underemployment pushed him into selling marijuana. He found himself in prison. Leticia was again an orphan.
We tried to send for her from New York but bureaucracy showed little interest in the plight of the poor. Leticia had to go back to her village just outside of Navarrete, Santiago. She was raised by her uncle Juan Carlos who did everything in his power to give her the affection and instruction he gave to his own four children. She had another uncle Roberto who lived next door and was an alcoholic and known sexual predator. Sometime between the age of 8 and 9 she was tied down by Roberto and his wife and sexually abused. How many times was never clear but it was not a one time occurrence.
At 12 years of age she got married to a 14 year old motoconcho to escape the horror.[3] She was pregnant at 13. A child was left to raise a child. With her own self-esteem un-constructed and dismantled, how would she build up the self-image of her newborn baby Marlenis?
Seventeen years later, the parishioners of her church led me to her doorstep for a visit. She had moved over 200 kilometers away to los Frailes II, a peripheral neighborhood of Santo Domingo. Her mouth was agape and tears surfaced in both of her eyes when she realized her uncle had tracked her down after so much time.
Here was Leticia before me, pregnant with her third child, renting a room with her husband who had been deported from New York City because of involvement with drugs. The petite little 6 year-old was now obscenely over weight. This cruel life had taken its toll on both her mind and body. Penniless, she still honored the tradition of offering a snack to her guests. She mustered up some change to offer my son Ernesto (her cousin) and I some grape soda and cookies. How could one decline given the sacrifice and pride it took to offer up the merienda?[1] She told me about her journey and of her recent turning to God.
Her two-year old son Morocho ran around naked, perilously close to a steep staircase with no rail. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her nine-year old Marlenis playfully chase a neighbor’s daughter around. Whack! She slapped her in the back of the neck, bestowed curses upon her and turned back to talk to me. She told me, as if entranced, that all of the tragedy and catastrophe we were seeing in the world had been predicted. “It is all explained in the bible. Ebola, the war in Jerusalem, the earthquake in China, the poverty in Africa.” She explained that this is what her pastor says.
I asked her about her husband and how their marriage was going. There had been a lot of violence and she lost a pregnancy from the force of some of his blows. She said his behavior has improved since they joined the local Evangelical church.
An afternoon onslaught of rain poured down. Left with no toys or space to play, Marlenis created fun out of nothing and ran around the two-room hovel. Again, a mother’s impatient hand struck down on Marlenis’ head, cursing “Mira maldita prieta!”[2] Like Leticia, Marlenis was the darkest-complexioned in the family. The harshest life sentences are always reserved for the darkest children. Taught to hate themselves, they hate that which most closely mirrors their own pain.
Finding a Purpose in a Purposeless World
With so many family members “finding” themselves in God, it is important to reflect on this all-too-true social reality. Every day the church distances more people from gaining control over their immediate surroundings. Across Latin America, families fall deeper into superstitious beliefs that an almighty being will make things better. A study published by Humanists UK shows that the poorest sections of the U.S. (the Appalachian mountains and the deep South) are also the most religious. From Santo Domingo to the Bronx, the popular creed is “Jesus is coming. Everything will be ok.”
The German poet Henrich Heine explained that religion for the poor is a comfort where there is no logical reason to feel comfort:
“Welcome be a religion that pours into the bitter chalice of the suffering human species some sweet, soporific drops of spiritual opium, some drops of love, hope and faith.”
When all people have known is tragedy, don’t they need something to believe in? Everyday more and more Evangelical churches pop up in our barrios and campos absorbing the time, energies and dreams of the most beaten-down social class.[3] The churches’ continued success is the continued failure of their alternative; fight-back organizations that can rechannel the energies of the dispossessed towards social transformation.
Revolutionaries have an iron-clad belief that another world is abloom. Diametrically opposed to spiritual idealism, this world view provides explanations for the most simple and complex social phenomena. If the revolutionary forces of the Dominican Republican were winning the war of faith, the multitude of barrio and campo inhabitants would line up to hear a different analysis of shifting world events; the displacement of the Palestinian people, the centuries-long underdevelopment of the African continent, the white-supremacist media’s obsession with disease, famine and Africa and the colonial earthquake that left Haiti vulnerable to a natural disaster.
Imagine if they were then positioned and empowered to throw off the restraints of poverty. Who could be against that goal?
The pastors and churches play a very important role in diverting the energies of the poor into the blind alley of surrendering power to “the almighty.” Forking over their destiny to the omniscient, they cease to be self-determining. This view is not synonymous with a blanket condemnation of all religions. Independent of one’s spiritual faith, one can be a fighter and defender of humanity. There needs to be unity with anyone that is willing to organize against the structures that oppress us. Latin America has given countless examples of fighters who emerged from the church: Oscar Romero, Ernesto Cardenal, Camilo Torres and so many other practitioners of Liberation Theology.
A resurgence of this type of socially-committed congregation could challenge the dominant church which intentionally foments social dissociation, disconnecting the causes from their effects.
The Institutionalization of Hopelessness
On every corner of an oppressed community, there is a church, a place to play the lottery and a liquor store. These three social institutions — parachuted down upon the poor — are three types of booze that disempower us. Lenin — reflecting in 1905 on the role of religion in the lives of the Russian peasantry — wrote:
“Religion is one of the forms of spiritual oppression which everywhere weighs down heavily upon the masses of the people, over burdened by their perpetual work for others, by want and isolation. Impotence of the exploited classes in their struggle against the exploiters just as inevitably gives rise to the belief in a better life after death as impotence of the savage in his battle with nature gives rise to belief in gods, devils, miracles, and the like. Those who toil and live in want all their lives are taught by religion to be submissive and patient while here on earth, and to take comfort in the hope of a heavenly reward. But those who live by the labour of others are taught by religion to practice charity while on earth, thus offering them a very cheap way of justifying their entire existence as exploiters and selling them at a moderate price tickets to well-being in heaven. Religion is opium for the people. Religion is a sort of spiritual booze, in which the slaves of capital drown their human image, their demand for a life more or less worthy of man.”[4]
Local “bank” where residents play the lottery. Many youth work in these “banks” earning $1,250 pesos or $29.50 a week. They work over 50 hours a week, often on Saturdays and Sundays as well.
Alienated by this concrete world, the oppressed search for and retreat into an imaginary world. “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions.”[1]
In Revolutionary Suicide, Huey P. Newton writes:
“My opinion is that the term “God” belongs to the realm of concepts, that it is dependent upon man for its existence. If God does not exist unless man exists, then man must be here to produce God. It logically follows, then, that man created God, and if the creator is greater than that which is created, then we must hold that man is the highest good.”
A people’s religious fanaticism is a direct measure of their social alienation. Dreams —stagnant and frustrated — remain stubborn and take off nonetheless, but into orbits alien to their own interests. “Serving God” becomes a raison d’etre for those who feel meek and disempowered by material reality. Huey P. Newton called this “the tyranny of the future” (179). The hope of heaven and fear of hell demobilize people. The “I am weak and though art mighty” mentality only helps those in power.
And here before us is a strange God indeed. Witnessing the triumph of greed and exploitation, wouldn’t God summon us up off of our knees towards action to free ourselves from this condition? “Less singing and more swinging” as Malcolm X put it. Imagine if Leticia and the majority of “the wretched of the earth” believed in one another and their capacity to organize together for change as fervently as they believe in the ever-after? How invincible would the toiling classes be before their oppressors?
The church’s existence and towering presence in the lives of the poor is no coincidence. As missionaries are lauded as heroes, revolutionaries are picked off and beheaded. Just in the “twelve years of terror” of dictator Joaquin Balaguer, 3,000 Dominican leftist leaders were assassinated for daring to defy dictatorship. Of the generation I came of age with in the anti-imperialist organization El Frente Amplio de Lucha Popular, dozens are dead, others paralyzed from the waist down, others in exile while others still languish in the La Victoria and El Rafey prisons. Those in power pretend to encourage activism and political engagement but when it challenges their stranglehold over power, they strike back with vengeance.
The Central Question before Us
If the world is awash with abundance — of water, of agriculture, of resources, of land and of life — why then do so many children suffer? This is the central question for any student of Dominican studies or any of the social sciences.
Our people have been left with no way of understanding the cruel machinations of power and inequality. Christianity and other organized religions explain this all away. Dominant reasoning is that humanity is collectively being punished for its lack of faith. Evangelical minister Pat Robertson’s went on a rant about how the earthquake in Haiti was a consequence of this people’s “godlessness.” His insistence that “we need to pray for them a great turning to God” reflects this racist mode of thinking. If Robertson had ever spent time in Haiti, he would know that Haiti is a country of great faith. Some ethnographic studies estimate that 80% of Haiti practices Christianity.[2] No one prays harder than the poor. If faith and praying were to earn a nation freedom from want, Nicaragua, the Philippines, Ireland and so many other “good Christian nations” would be paradises on earth.
A revolutionary then is a relentless atheist, looking deep into history and science in order to explain all social phenomena. This is not to say that they do not have our own private beliefs or faith. Everyone can cherish and depend on their own spirituality and connection to nature to endure the doldrums of everyday existence in the way that they define. But one’s world view cannot pivot on spiritual faith alone. If we don’t believe in ourselves and our people, we are doing ourselves a historical disservice.
To wrench power away from its thieves and restore it back to the Leticias, Margaritas and Marlenis — this is the mighty task of immeasurable faith that is before us. If your congregation fails to understand this, then who are you serving?
As a student, practitioner and chef of Life Foods living, I strive to grow younger every day. At thirty eight, I feel lighter and younger than I did at twenty one or twenty eight, or at any age for that matter. I want to share my story with you and the steps I took to emerge as the Life Foods chef, boxer, yogi, professor, father, runner, author, mentor and revolutionary that I am today. What follows in my new book is a combination of storytelling, testimony, autobiography, nutritional analysis and what motivated this book in the first place — the Destarchifyer’s own Recipe Book. Here within, I share with the world what I put into my tank to achieve supreme training results, a high amount of energy and production and maximum whole brain functioning.
Training in preparation for a cruiser weight fight under 200 lbs. in 2013.
What does Life Foods consist of?
The premise of Life Foods—the school of nutrition founded by Dr. David Jubb and Annie Padden Jubb — is that the best foods for our minds, our bodies and our environment are fruits, vegetables, seeds, sprouts and nuts that are living foods in nature and have their life force and digestive enzymes intact. This facilitates the digestive process freeing up energy for the brain and central nervous system to function at optimum capacity. We do not use dairy, meat, or any cooked food. Cooking food kills the digestive enzymes and alters the chemical structure of the food. What animal in history has ever used a stove besides us humans? My journey has taught me that as I let go of cooked food I was able to experience life more vividly. What could radically altering your sustenance do for you?
Unlike veganism, Life Foods living discourages the consumption of rice, oats or any grains. Life Foods also rejects legumes such as chickpeas, beans or lentils. Both grains and legumes are strange indigestible proteins that are taxing on the liver and gall bladder and can cause degenerative effects on brain and digestive functioning over time. As many people can testify, beans can cause flatulence and distention.
Life Foods differs from Raw Foods because it rejects “starchy hybrid foods with runaway sugars such as potatoes, rice, corn, wheat, all grain-flour products, all tuberous vegetables like carrots, beets, commercial bananas and dates. Other hybrids to avoid, especially by those healing cancer, are commercially grown strawberries, pineapples, mushrooms, kiwi and soybeans.”[1] Hybrids are foods that are man-made, meaning that have been cross bred over time. According to Dr. Jubb’s microscopic investigation these selectively bred items are not as easily absorbed as cellular fuel and are spit back out into the bloodstream in the form of indigestible runaway sugars.
A basic premise is that less is more for the body. By saying no to harmful foods, through proper Life Foods fasting, the body can heal itself from any manifestation of dis-ease. Say goodbye to indigestion, heartburn, stomachaches, headaches, acid reflux, gastritis, ulcers, constipation, gout, diarrhea, nausea, and fatigue. The key to health is digestion. All these unnatural conditions are localized expressions of the reality that we are introducing harmful things to our bodies and overburdening our digestive tract.
At first glance, I can relate to how unrealistic and austere this must appear to the average American. When I first learned about natural healing, I dismissed it as some crazy, bizarre hippie thing. I wrote this book to share with you my story and what elevated me to where I am today. I would not approach Life Foods as if you are going straight to step 10. It took me years of experimenting and zigzagging to get to where I am today. In another ten years, I will surely have grazed previously undiscovered lands. We never stop growing. Life is not a linear path but rather a dialectical maze where we learn from our missteps and continue to push forward. Today, I am grateful for my mistakes because without them I could have never grown. Take your first steps at your own pace. Even if you only take away a few life-lessons from this book, you will be taking steps in the right direction. You cannot go wrong. You have nothing to lose but your gastric chains and your gut!
[1] Annie Padden Jubb and Dr. David Jubb’s Lifefood Recipes Book Living on Life Force provides a more complete explanation of this nutritional school of thought which grows out of Ann Wigmore’s Living Foods movement. Berkeley: North Atlantic Books. 2003.
I wrote these reflection in Belfast, occupied Ireland in July and August 2012.
Along with the fellow Celtic warrior, Scotland, Ireland is a land that I am connected to through my ancestry. Every day I feel the murmurs of the Wolftones, Connlies, Farrels, Sands and all of the martyred giants rising up in me like a volcano, demanding complete unification and freedom. I wanted to share with the reader some of my impressions from visiting a divided republic that strives to be one.
The Irish Nation
Ireland is the oldest colony in the world. The year 1191 marked the initial invasion by marauding Vikings who plundered the coasts of Ireland. For the past 800 years, Britain has quelled every attempt on the part of the Irish to free themselves from foreign rule. To this day, Ireland is divided between the 26 counties of the south (The Republic of Ireland) and the 6 counties of the north, artificially referred to as “Northern Ireland.” There is no “Northern Ireland” any more than there is a “North Korea or a North Vietnam.” The dismemberment of one united nation is a tactic to divide and conquer a fighting people who stand for their self-determination. “Northern Ireland” is still considered part of the United Kingdom or the old English empire much like Puerto Rico is considered part of the United States. Any map shows the unnatural divide that continues to be imposed.
A people with its own language, land, customs and history, Ireland, is its own nation. Irish Republicanism is the belief in and movement for one united Socialist Ireland. Republicans, or Irish Nationalists, seek to drive out of Ireland all of the forces which subdue and stunt the Irish will to be free and to culturally and economically empower themselves. Like Palestine, the Basque country and the Native American nations, Ireland unfree will never be at peace.
Bandit Country & Memory
Today I attended a march in “Bandit Country,” South Armagh, to commemorate the 30th anniversary of the death of the Long Kesh hunger strikers. The British had to airlift their soldiers to this insurgent country from Whales and Belfast, because by land they were continually ambushed by the local flying guerrilla squads. Throughout colonial history, “the Murder Triangle” — as the area between Portadown, Banbridge and Newry is known — was the most dangerous place on earth for an occupying British soldier. The locals made their own street signs in the countryside which read: “SNIPERS AT WORK,” telling the enemy soldiers just how they felt about their presence. The Palestinian, Iraqi and Afghan people have been sending a similar message to their invaders for decades now, lest we forget.
Snipers at Work
A youthful Sinn Fein counselor explained to me that there was a move away from armed struggle as a tit for a tat left so many families shattered. Many “dissidents” saw the situation differently. Deep in Bandit Country they never decommissioned — the British term for disarmament. The song “Stick your Decommission up your Arse” offers a sense of how many in the nationalist community feel about peace with the British crown.
The natives of Bandit Country never had any respect for the laws and impositions of the invaders. From the slave plantations of Haiti to the back streets of Baghdad to South Armagh, guerrilla squadrons have been the tactical necessity of the oppressed to wage war against their invaders. Fearless. Relentless. Unyielding. How many thousands consciously chose death over submission? It reminds me of the slogan from Managua. In reference to Augusto Sandino, Carlos Fonseca and the fallen warriors, the the next generation of fighters pledged: “To live like them. To live as the saints lived.” Tradition and ancestral honor make today’s Irish rebels just as tenacious as their forefathers.
Do not March through Our Communities!
Tonight, I was in Ardoyne. Ardoyne is the interface of a Protestant and Catholic community in North Belfast. There are rebellions every July 12th during marching season to protest the Orangemen, who insist on parading through their neighborhood. Before centuries of hate and exclusion, the “minority” Catholics have learned to be valiant. Stone-throwing ten-year-olds, resolute in their mission, spearheaded the effort to push the police back.
The issue of the highly contentious Loyalist marches is simple. If the Unionists stay clear of the Nationalist neighborhoods, there would be no clashes. The descendents of the Protestant “conquerors” do it to rub their supremacy in the face of the native people. The Nationalists see it as the KKK marching through Harlem. The settler analogy extends to Zionists building homes in Gaza or Afrikaneers waving their flags of white supremacy in Soweto. The Irish do not march with their tricolor flag through Protestant neighborhoods. There are still five contentious marches every year which inevitably end in violence. Why do the Orange men provoke the Irish people? Colonial arrogance.
Pulled into the Ring by Day, the Pubs by Night
I couldn’t take in the full breath of the struggle without entering the pubs. That is where the rebel music was, such as “Go on Home British Soldier Go On Home.” My nine year old son Ernesto Rafael entertained himself with the taytos (potato chips) and beyblades, as I listened to the locals’ testimonies and anecdotes. The pubs are community gathering grounds, where people catch up, exchange information and “break balls.” The lack of sun on the island drives people indoors. Even when the sun pokes its face out, inviting people to take their coats off, shortly after, it withdraws behind layers of clouds, pregnant with rain.
The bar scene was intense. There was chest thumping, as men squared off to see who could take a stronger punch to the gut. I met veterans — tortured by the Brits and the touts (snitches) — who worked with the highly revered Blanket men and hunger strikers. A former political prisoner, nicknamed Geek, slapped me in the back of the head when I said “Northern Ireland.” Six pints to the wind, he grabbed me by my neck and said: “Lad we don’t recognize foreign control here. It’s all Ireland.”
These snapshots of Belfast give the reader a sense of how the war is still fresh in the natives’ minds and how the conflict continues to play out.
We walked down Springfield Road last night in Belfast at 9:50 pm in plain view of the Loyalist neighborhoods. There was a giant wall and gates that the peelers (the Police Service of Northern Ireland, PSNI) closed at 10 pm. A group of Protestant kids between the ages of 12 and 17 threw rocks in our direction. Stones rained down on the Catholic side. The towering, Israeli like-wall wasn’t enough to divide Falls Rd. from the Shankill (The Protestant area), so the authorities built a massive fence on the top of it to further divide the communities. A dozen or so local kids quickly assembled and launched back bricks, stones and bottles. Sirens appeared in the background. Everyone scattered then reassembled. A 50 year-old Nationalist veteran strolled by and remarked: “The Huns again? Fuckers!” He too jumped into the fray. My son, Ernesto and I followed the lead of our hosts, joining the swelling crowd.
The next night, I entered a local West Belfast pub. A burly, bald-headed, rambunctious reveler questioned the Cuba jersey I had on. He rebuked me for wearing any blue or orange, the colors of the “orangies, the blue snouts, the Huns.” He knew I was not from Belfast. It was all in jest but with an undertone of seriousness. He slapped my shoulder and bought me an Irish cider. 90% of my clothes are no good in the six counties. Between the freezing, rainy “summer” weather and the blue colors on the Cuba and Knicks jerseys, I didn’t know what to wear.
“I cannot fly my flag in my own land?”
Giant’s Causeway
Today, the members of the Immaculata boxing gym took Ernesto and I on a road-trip to see Giant’s Causeway. I trained and stayed with the Immaculata Boxing Club on the Falls Road, in the heart of an anti-imperialist community which continues to dream of and strive for a United Ireland.
Before we set out, Gerry and Liam began to argue. They both had Irish boxing jerseys on. Liam, who was preparing for the European championships, insisted on putting a coat over his jersey when we left the Falls Road area for the Protestant outskirts of Belfast. Gerry, not half as experienced in the ring, exclaimed “For Christ’s sakes, who cares? I’m Irish. I can’t wear this?” They went back and forth, weighing the risks that were entailed in wearing their nation’s colors. Even in 2015, a Irishman cannot wear his own flag in his own land?
Outgunned but Never Out-Hearted
Today in the gym I met Martin Rogan — “the toughest man in Belfast, the Iron Man, the Irish Tyson.” He was from Croydon, a neighborhood that was burnt to a crisp in 1969 by Loyalist gangs. I watched him train in the gym getting ready for a heavyweight fight in London. I asked the famous local trainer, Nugget Nugent, about Marty Rogey and what made him so tough. He responded: “Ay! Oh Rogey…they burnt ’em out of his home in the Falls. He hates the fuckin’ huns. Fuckin’ hates ’em.” In his punches, one could feel the built up fury of a people denied their sovereignty. Unremitting, this is why he won. It was more than talent. It was sheer determination not to be beaten. A fitting metaphor for a people outgunned but never out-hearted.
My main contact from the local friends was Paddy. What a story! Flagged as a ‘troubled child’ amidst “The Troubles,” the local school committee chose him for a scholarship program and sent him to Southie in Boston “to scare him straight.” He returned to his native Portadown and continued to burn and loot the British out. As a teenager he grew up near Garvaghy Road, a Catholic neighborhood the Orangemen insisted on marching through. He was beaten off and removed from the road by the authorities from the time he was 6 years old, alongside his family and community. Paddy’s father walked me to the doorway and showed me how he makes the sign of the holy cross before leaving to try and make peace with Ireland’s ancient enemies.
Internationalism
Community leaders painted a mural on a Derry community center with Mark Twain’s words: “Traveling is fatal to hatred, bigotry and prejudice.” I wish my friends who I grew up with in the Bronx and Brockton were here to see what I am seeing.
Being in Ireland was significant to me because it was the first time I ever listened to workers — socially defined as “white” — connect with Palestine, the Basque struggle, Venezuela, Malcolm X and Libya. Irish militants explained to me that historically they were never “white” until the British-imposed hunger (famine) pushed them over the sea to America. They see themselves first and foremost as a people struggling against oppression who are involved in something much broader than just the unification of the 32 counties of the Republic of Ireland. In the Nationalist areas, I saw murals paying tribute to international struggles. In contrast, in the Loyalist areas I only saw British, Israeli and UVF paramilitary flags. There were also murals of men in balaclavas (ski masks), threatening the Irish community. The oppressors have their tenor; the oppressed have theirs. One perspective is based on hatred; the other on love.
I set out with my hosts for a march to remember the political prisoners. Today promises to be peaceful as it is led by Sinn Fein. There is a tense divide between the masses of youth and the official Sein Fein movement. When the sun descended, it was unclear if there would be another round of violent clashes with the British-trained police.
Traveling Rejuvenates the Spirit
As I sent off quick dispatches from South Armagh, I remembered the computers I jumped in front of in Rio de Janeiro, Managua, Port-au-Prince and beyond. What an honor to be here and to connect different struggles striving for the same goal!
It is important that the reader familiarize themselves with Ireland’s inspiring history of resistance. A Black and Latino audience is often shocked to learn that British soldiers opened fire on a peaceful march in Derry on “Bloody Sunday,” hunted down anyone who stood up to colonialism in Belfast and used Irish natives for medical experiments. My students’ knee-jerk response is usually disbelief: “Wait! white people caught hell like that too?”
As Ireland teaches us, oppression is about one social class exploiting and controlling another. The colonial slavocracy introduced racism in the 1600’s in order to justify their exploitative economic system and drive a wedge between the masses of workers. It was only upon arriving in Jamestown, Virginia in 1680 that the slave-owning aristocracy of Virginia told the Irish that they were white. This was written into color-coded laws because the colonizers’ greatest fear was that the poor of Europe would identify and fight alongside the Native maroons and the rebellious slaves, just as they did in the 1667 Bacon’s Rebellion. “whiteness,” in the words of W.E.B. DuBois became “a psychological wage” so that labor in white skin felt superior to labor in Black skin. What was introduced in the realm of ideas, was then enshrined into the laws and attitudes of a society, and hardened over centuries into the racially-divided America that we see today. As author Noel Ignatiev explains, upon crossing the Atlantic, the Irish underwent a “sea change of identity,” adapting over the course of generations to their new found privilege as “white Americans,” losing sight of their humble origins.
An Emotional Anniversary
Last night, August 8th, was the 40th anniversary of “Internment.” Internment was the British policy of arresting any “suspect” accused of IRA involvement. The British paratroopers invaded Catholic neighborhoods harassing the population and locking up thousands of young men who they falsely accused of being IRA soldiers. This cruel policy was carried out without formal charges or trials, popularizing the anti-occupation struggle and radicalizing the occupied areas.
As the sun set over West Belfast, the multitude gathered around the bonfire. The youngsters started their own mini-bonfires as the crowd increased. By sundown, the scene was somewhere between a club, riot, protest and block party. House music was blasting across the crowd which by then had spilled over onto the main strip shutting down traffic. As the crowd grew in number they grew in boldness and shut down the entry way into the largest Catholic neighborhood in Belfast. This is where the IRA had most of its leadership during the troubles. The police tried to intimidate the community. As guests to the Falls Road area, we followed everyone else’s moves. When the police circled around a third or fourth time, kids, teens and adults came flying out of the crowd yelling “Fuckin’ Peelers” and bombarded them with rocks and bottles. This was my son’s cue. Ernesto ran to the traffic light and hurled everything in sight at the police. He emulated the fearless example of a chubby little ringleader who had emerged. The young boy, who could not have been older than twelve, picked up a 2-by-4 and bashed the windshield of the police patrol van which was trapped at the intersection by the crowd.
Ernesto taking in the ancestral vibes.
Contrary to the spirit of the past generation’s fighters, from the 70’s and 80’s, the youthful crowd drank, smoked marijuana and some did drugs at the bonfire. The IRA’s Green Book outlined very specifically the consequences for volunteers who engaged in “drunk, loose talk.” This took away from the political edge of the event. The bonfire was ignited at twelve midnight. A DJ spun the hottest club music, adding to the ambiance of defiance and revolt. What an empowering feeling to go the community go toe to toe with the police. I imagined 149th street back home, mobilized in defense of the hood. If the police retaliated against the bottle-throwing protesters, they would have had to contend with the anger of thousands of the battle-tested Belfast youth. It was a feeling of empowerment similar to what the silenced rebels of London, Manchester and beyond must have felt in those same August, 2012 days across the English Channel.
A Bonfire that Rages On
When the protest organizers lit the bonfire, the music reached its crescendo and everyone started chanting “Whoop there it is.” Meanwhile Ernesto and his crew of young rebels — ranging from 8 years old to grown teenagers — tempted the police. The local youth burned tires in the street and then began to launch petrol bombs (Molotov cocktails).
Ernesto, at one with the flames.
It was 3 a.m. My host and main contact — a washed-up boxer, Kealim who took a few too many punches and plates of Chinese food in his day — was drunk. Bottles were flying everywhere and the god-fearing mothers and fathers had long since retreated to their homes. One stray bottle struck seven-year-old Curtis in the leg. Someone asked me where I am staying. I pointed over at my host. Precisely at that moment, Kealim tumbled to the ground, embraced in drunken revelry with his mate. The timing was impeccable. I was not sure where and when we would eventually lay our heads down that night.
As this generation of fighters kept the tires lit, three older gentlemen approached us and introduced themselves as former volunteers (armed IRA urban guerrillas). They shook our hands and told Ernesto: “Keep it up lad…You and the lads are doing a great job.” I struck up a conversation with the only other sober people still gathered before the blaze. Tommy — who was older than 50 — was a former IRA fighter whose hand was blown off by a bomb that went off prematurely. He also had scars dotting his face.
We plunged deeper into the state of the struggle and the separation between Sinn Fein and the community today. He talked about the splits that have occurred and how he joined Eirigi — a socialist and nationalist political party. He pointed at the police and said “If it was up to us veterans lad…” and he used his two remaining fingers to motion as if he was firing a bullet.
Ernesto Che Guevara Lynch’s grandfather once stated: “The blood of Irish rebels flows through my grandson’s veins.” As Tommy and I watched over my Ernesto and the other youth, I felt a great deal of pride and joy at being alive in a world that hosts so much determination to be free. The bonfire and electric music raged on, towering above us. I stared into eternal flames that can only be appeased by complete victory.
Saturday night was an evening of social reckoning in Casablanca. I had just arrived on a train from Marrakesh, the entry point into the Sahara. It was an hour before sundown & I had a few hours to kill before my train departed for Chefchaouen, the blue city of the north. I wandered out of the train station to visit some friends I had met the previous week.
Finding the crew in their usual spot preparing for the evening’s feast, I sat down dreaming about outsmarting Ramadan and inconspicuously sneaking some watermelon into my growling stomach. I was approached by a stranger who asked me in French what languages I spoke. This gentleman, who happened upon the scene, had no way of knowing that I was protected by the locals, who I had shared some beers, laughs and moonlight with on previous nights. Due to the fact that they didn’t recognize him from the neighborhood, they insisted he leave. Lost in the Arabic, I asked in Spanish and French if they could let him stay. He seemed harmless enough and helped me translate. His name was Mohammad and he began to tell me his story. I pleaded with the impromptu neighborhood watch group to let him hang around.
Nabil, the spokesman of the group, was particularly belligerent before the “stranger’s” presence in his neighborhood. Nabil’s mean-mugging sent a message that things could soon escalate. I implored him to keep it cool. My “longtime friends” — I had spent two nights with them the previous week — looked on with great suspicion. I was new to this sense of territorialness.
Mohammad’s enthusiasm and story won me over. He lived some years in Italy and Spain before he was deported. He spoke a rare combination of French, Italian and Spanish. When he invited me to hop on his moped and set out in Casablanca for the night, I leaped at the invitation. I was en route to the eminent Blue City for some natural healing with Raw Foods Steve Melken — a legend in the world of natural medicine — but this sounded like an offer too good to turn down. I procrastinated between a train, about to depart for Fes, or taking Casablanca by storm with Mohammad. I had no illusions. Seeing a foreigner in this neighborhood, he was “on his hustle.” But so was I. If he was poised to gain a few extra bucks, I was now positioned to experience a night out in Casablanca. In a split-second decision, I elected to stay.
A question of loyalty
I assured the crew that I would be safe hanging out with Mohammad. They were irate. What guarantees did I have? Well, none really, but what assurances did I ever have gallivanting across the globe? With fear at the helm, a journey is only half-lived. Mohammad invited me to dinner with his family and told me I could sleep there, if I wanted to. It seemed honest enough.
Mohammad had a moped in its final stage of deterioration, hanging on for dear life. He had a makeshift, elevated wagon structure in the back that he dragged along in order to offer taxi services for three or four dirhams, roughly thirty five cents per passenger. When Nabil — the leader of the group and my self-appointed protector — saw me throw my gym bag into the wooden box attached to the moped, he went into a full sprint towards Mohammad.
The two protagonists faced off. Mohammed initially remained calm, ignoring Nabil’s yelling in his face. But then Mohammed snapped. He dismounted his taxi service and the two men grappled with one another rolling on the ground. Nabil’s crew was not long behind. I was baffled by the frenzied exchange, as it all unfolded in Arabic. Four of Nabil’s mates wrestled the over-zealous bodyguard off of his opponent. Another local enforcer emerged, who I had seen selling tobacco on the corner. His name was also Mohammad. He yelled my way in French: “this guy” — motioning to my new acquaintance, Mohammed — “your friend?” I shrugged my shoulders, then gave a reluctant thumbs up as if to say How can I vouch for him? I’ve known him for 20 minutes. The rest of the crew finally separated the two grapplers, leaving me to think: How admirable the loyalty is in Morocco!
Ramadan’s short-fuse
These street squabbles were not uncommon. What was the most peaceful month, was also the tensest. Local wisdom teaches that during Ramadan everyone is at their wits’ end because of the fasting from food, drink, smoke & sex. The sheer quantity of street confrontations — even by Bronx standards — was impressive. It was commonplace to see angry posturing and yelling, completely devoid of any listening. I respect Ramadan as a religious exercise. But many families starved and dehydrated themselves by day, only to gorge three meals in the middle of the night. Was the time-honored month of fasting a recipe for both social and nutritional disaster?
Mohammad — the man who the locals sought to push into the background of the night — was now at the helm of our evening. We were free to embark upon our journey. I thought I was to be the sole privileged passenger in his wagon but I was mistaken. Within minutes, our protagonist had spotted fellow travelers who were headed our way. Four young gentlemen, Ahmad, Khalid, Amal and another Mohammed mounted the wooden compartment. How I learned their names will soon become clear. Our captain’s moped teetered on the brink of disaster. Suddenly it sputtered to a stop. I thought maybe I should have gone to Chefchaoien after all. Mohammad had a spare plastic bottle with twenty ounces of gas. We again moved forward but we needed fuel. We arrived at the two closest Oilibya stations but they were out of gas.
We rolled down a hill and before we came to another complete stop, the freshly recruited troops hopped out and scattered off. I thought they had found their escape from the inevitable collection of the fair. How I underestimated their sense of solidarity!
Ahmad tried to stop the motorcycles that sped by to retrieve a fresh injection of fuel from their tanks. The other crew-members split up in search of petroleum. Khalid and Amal sprinted into a garage. Mohammed — at this point vexed by the onslaught of misfortune — raced up a private staircase and knocked on the door of a residence with the same mission. What teamwork! It was as if it had all been coordinated. I was left to ponder the unfolding dynamics as the squad of five shot off in every direction in search of hope.
The entourage came back empty handed, at least in terms of gasoline. Mohammad — transformed into the happiest and most energetic of characters — brought back an entire tray of food with seven mini bowls full of shibakiya sweets, slilo (ground almonds and wheat), hariro soup, prickly pear, mesimane pita bread, chicken & dates. A family sent a Ramadan buffet with him when they learned of our troubles. Mohammad laid the tray over the passenger bench constructed in the wagon. The six of us stood around the banquet like a reunited family and feasted.
Now it was as if there were no stress or worries. This was all part of the everyday journey. It reminded me of experiences I had before in Havana, Praia, Istanbul and Guatemala City. The solidarity, at a society-wide level, was beautiful.
We Americans could learn a thing or two from this impromptu, collective “rolling with the punches.” Upon finishing the great spread, we returned the tray and the team returned to their assignments. They flagged down a father, who came sputtering down a hill on a motorcycle with his son on his lap. He donated some gas from his tank to get us up and going again.
Five minutes later the motor again died. Fortunately, this time we were on a decline and glided into an open gas station. As Mohammad pumped the gas, another family donated a tray of food to our cause. I liked the quickly-assembled crew and their temperaments. They were a solid squad from what I could gather in the last forty five minutes. I didn’t want us to separate but everyone headed in their own separate way. It was an all-too-quick farewell.
Meeting the family
We were now en route to meet Mohammad’s family. I wondered what their perception of me would be. He quickly coordinated these very details with me. “Tell my father and my brothers we met in Spain.” I responded, “Ok, which part?” “Barcelona,” he said. “Perfect” I retorted, as it was the only city I could think of quick besides Madrid anyway. I reflected some more and asked “Well, what were we doing there?” Mohammad responded: “That’s too many questions. My father is from the desert. He is very suspicious.” “Ok I got it,” I said, wondering if this personality trait was typical of all people from the Sahara. In the back of my mind, these small details were further guarantees that Mohammed’s intentions were sincere.
Meeting Mohammad’s family was a true privilege. The intimacy offered a snapshot of family life in Morocco. Upon my entrance, the husbands ushered their wives and sisters into the other room so I did not interact with them. They talked back and forth to each other through the walls. Mohammad’s brothers sat down with me and we conversed in broken French over dinner. Another sublime spread was laid out in front of us; it was my third feast of the young evening.
It was midnight now. Barcelona had just beat Casablanca´s soccer team 7 to 0. I was exhausted but destiny urged me on. There was a city before us to explore and no stone could be left unturned. I tossed a fresh bucket of water over my head, put on some clean clothes and off we went.
Repatriated
Always chasing a few extra dirhams, Mohammad picked up another crew. It was a group of teenagers out to smoke some hashish. I observed that Mohammad was both their supplier and their ride. When one youngster was slow to pay, I witnessed the second confrontation of the evening. In the middle of the teenagers’ Saturday night parade, Mohammad dismounted his moped and threatened the young man if he didn’t pay. I offered a few dirhams to the collective cause to try to calm the waters. The chauffeur interpreted my donation as an affront. I retreated back into my rectangular box disgusted at Mohammad’s yelling and bullying antics over what seemed like petty change. He was twice the kid’s age. The brouhaha stole some of their high but within due time they compensated for the missed puffs.
It was clear now that Mohammad was a hot head. His story was quite different than those of his deeply religious family members. After dinner, he told me about his stint in Italy and Spain. He grew frustrated with the low paying service jobs that the economy offered North African immigrants and found himself with a foot in the hashish trade. He rose up in the drug trade dealing light and heavy drugs. After a drug deal gone bad and an armed confrontation, the authorities imprisoned him for two years. He was then deported and banned from Spain for ten years.
The Vengeance of the Poor
Amidst the tension, we cruised into to La Corniche. La Corniche is Casablanca’s main drag, the Sunset Boulevard of Northern Africa so to speak. Some guys showed off their new Lamborghinis, others their girlfriends and others their sharpest clothes. There was a giant stretch of hotels, restaurants and recreation. Couples, groups of youth and entire families strolled up and down the strip. We made a stop to pick up some of Mohammad’s money at a local smoking den. The smoke was overwhelming. As I coughed, I took in the ambiance. Some of the den dwellers had a look of elation, others that of zombies.
Before the collective merriment, our main character was clearly depressed. Picking up a few coins here and there for rides and selling small quantities of hashish was a far cry from where he had been. His rage before life’s chances was latent. His attitude and grimace told me things were again about to explode. I was on the opposite side of the tavern when I saw him slam his fist down before a table full of smokers, warning them to give him his money.
I should have known, he had come to collect. The owner and an entourage of security guards surrounded him and spit him back into the night. Now he was fuming. He again took his anger out on the teenagers waiting for us by the moped. At this point, I stopped counting the confrontations.
I wanted him to calm down but he insisted we keep moving down La Corniche to take our modest place in the fashion shows that the night unveiled. Mohammed’s humble vehicle was locked in traffic with BMWs, Ferraris and other luxury cars. The tension was pulsating in the scowl on his face.
Impatient at the seemingly endless line of vehicles, Mohammad elected to follow the mopeds and create a third lane. There was only one issue, his ride came with an extension, the very wagon in which I found myself. From my view in the back, I thought he was cutting it close. Then, sure enough “Clank!” He yanked the passenger’s side mirror right off of a brand new silver bullet Fiat. I caught a glimpse of the horrified faces of three women as we zoomed by. This did not slow our bitter chauffeur’s pace down one bit. It only infused fresh, acrimonious winds in his sails. He wore a viscous smile as he sailed off victoriously with the wind at his back. Again, his ungraceful taxi tore a mirror off of a blue Citroen. I yelled to get his attention but his imagination was off and running. He laughed uproariously as he continued unimpeded. Powerless, I sat back wondering what to make of Mohammad’s strange brand of revenge. Our Casablanca ride — the Scourge of the Rich — had the final laugh that evening. Mohammed cruised along the coast of the Mediterranean, the master of La Corniche’s destiny.
It was a wild gathering indeed last night with the Palestinian comrades to usher in the new year! I couldn’t resist capturing it all for the close friends who were not present in New York City to engage in the debauchery. No one can deny that 140th st. has established itself as among the chief dwellings of decadence in this fine city of ours.
Dear 9th cousin:
Indeed you missed a fine spectacle on the eve of 2012. I fear not even centuries of cleansing and flushing could begin to undo an iota worth of the decadence that prevailed last night on Brooklynites and Bronxites alike! It was a fairy-tale like evening that our 12th grandfather from Helsinki and our 26th great uncle from Belfast would have thoroughly enjoyed. I felt their judgmental presence looking over me at every turn as though they were Yoda and Obi One Kenobi and I was a young Skywalker — half-witted and half-hearted — won over to the dark side.
There was no lack of upright men in midnight-flight mode, fleeing the wrath of certain offspring of slain civil rights martyrs. Not even the hallways were safe from a woman who would multiply and bestow upon many a unsuspecting martyr the most righteous of family names. Proud we would have been to join her legacy, had she not mixed sloppy spirits with the sharpest of all spirits.
Our hostess—known popularly as the conductor of uptowns’ underground railway—was in fine form. Never one to shy away from a squabble, she threw down with what was purported to be a divine influence at 3 a.m., only to be escorted back into reality by her companion. As he smoked his 17th blunt, 9th joint and 2nd spliff of the evening, all that was intelligible under his virtuous breath was “Clowns all up in my shit tonight.” Fearful of being associated with said cast of inauspicious holy characters knocking on heaven’s door, I contemplated joining him in his 167th inhalation of the night to avoid suspicion.
Having seemingly blended in with the after-hours indulgence, I headed east in search of the holy land of nourishment. There was a self-proclaimed anti-Zionist fat man who patrolled the hummus scene as if it were national sovereignty itself that was at stake. One had to lay their convictions out on the table, just to take an inglorious cuuk to the hummm. He shouted at me with a rage inconsistent with the evening’s glee: “What to do with these miserable white settlers of far-off origins who have now resided in the promise land for several generations on top of the bones and land of the native peoples?” Caught off guard, I mustered the only response that came to me in that moment: “Ah are you going to eat those grape leaves you’re presiding over? Apparently this was not the answer he was looking for. 6 polemics later I was still addicted to the Sabra brand of revival, but ever-more desirous of redemption for our people.
I fear to tell you that there were allegations against the Irish that interrupted the very flow of happiness and good cheer that had commenced. The assertion that they themselves had colonized Jamaica and influenced the very foundations of Patua persisted well into the night. That there were individual Irishmen of blood-sucking and parasitic origins is not in question here. Every nation has its sellers of souls and homelands. But how a nation could colonize others, when they themselves had yet to decolonize their own shores, continues to bewilder me.
And there were words brethren! Words that have no place in a dignified dwelling nor in a gentleman’s vocabulary. “Cunt, fart, queef, cougar, milf”… What are the origins of such mischievous utterances? Where do we place such filthy expressions? Do they deserve a place in the spectrum of human expression? To censor them would only guarantee their place in martyrdom. Alas, it is true, if they are the zenith of vulgarity, where then do we assign the F-16 jets, the white phosphorus, the nuclear hypocrisy, & the murderous occupations? Surely this is a realm of vulgarity that the liberal apologists for recolonization are content to overlook as they sip their tea of antipathy and dip their hypocrisy into their dilettantish babaganoush.
No. No brother. The dawn was not without its folly. Some quality Jordanian and South African cadre and countrywomen fell and they fell hard. Citizens and comrades among them, they took to the hard wood, seemingly in protest of the scourge of alcohol and the iron clenched grip it has on our community’s soul.
Yes brethren yes. I hear your objections. Yes there was kombucha and there was kale. I made sure they were present. However, they were but a seagull’s tears in the vast oceans of booze that had flooded the popular consciousness. It was as if destarchifyer’s very presence and example had been drowned out in the feverish, lumpen pitch of the night.
I fear our PSL mentees did not escape unscathed either. For he who entered a lad of naïveté, left a veteran of the 21st century. The mighty Red Guard troops had their righteous hands full, proselytizing the word of George Habash, Ho Chi Minh and Leila Khaled to a crowd who class instincts were dulled by licentiousness.
By sun up, proletarian discipline itself had given up hope in this feeble generation and set out onto Broadway in search of a new mission. Countrymen—not content with the company of one female relation—nestled in between vallys of sensuality, causing rifts in our class that promise to reverberate far into the daylight. I fear for the future of our class brother. We request your return from self-exile in Mooseland as soon as it is humanly possible. Surely Putin will foot the bill. You can return to moose-hunting, commiserating with Gus Hall and hiding from the sun when 140th St. and Amsterdam are again under working-class control.
