Fence

We the lucky ones, the ones born on the right side of the fence, in the greatest garden on the face of the Earth, we, who now find ourselves in the throes of economic desperation, look toward that same fence, xenophobia’s darkness shading our thoughts. Our problems are real; tears, never before tasted, briny, salty, curl our lips into malformed shapes and our drenched eyes are myopic at best. We, like a pugilists in the final round, sensing imminent defeat, lash-out with bone-crushing blows, inflicting pain with no thought of consequence or injury.

Yes, we perceive the enemy, and they're from the wrong side of the fence. They are the reason for our economic desperation, for our lifestyle degradation, and for our tears. Blame them. Punch to the midsection.

“But they have ‘no rights’ for they have not shared our struggles,” we say. Another lightning jab.

“Nor have they shared our culture and language ,” we spit.  An overhead blow makes thunderous contact. There bodies are now weak and frail.

“ Good…. Take their jobs, their homes and throw them out. Their children can stay. That is,  if they were born on ‘right’ side of the fence —nothing we can do about that now.”

“We are defending what is rightly ours: A garden of miracles.”

Yet, our garden, it would seem, began with a simple act: fate, it seems, uprooted or forefathers, abruptly and ferociously, from lands on the wrong side of the fence. Adrift, sailing in the indifference of the cold wind, only to be drop on this side of the fence, there journey was never easy.

Indeed, here our forefathers landed, and here they toiled, endlessly, creating with callous hands and aching backs.  They have worked and struggled and survived, and it has taken many drops of sweat and blood to nourish this land. To see their fruition, they worked harder still. The work has not been easy— hard indeed—but the prospect of creating a better tomorrow in this wonderful garden has been theirs goal; and now  this goal should also be ours. 

Behold now the garden at our sight.  The sturdy Oak, steady in its bearing, rests easy in a a field of beautiful Lilacs, and the  verdant Pine, peaceful among  a swath of   yellow Roses, for they see that  variety is  nature’s blessing. 

Rightly so, we have built a fence to protect our garden. It stands as a symbol and as a warning to those who would destroy: here we will not yield, for this is ours. We raised our callous fist as proof. Courage, indomitable spirit and faith—all have contributed in defining who we are.

Now, at this moment of slippery economic footing, shall we render apart this definition? Shall we destroy all the goodness that was intended by our forefathers.

We are a land of many and we should be pro- immigration; however, xenophobia should have no place in our hearts and minds.

Cool Kids

A little over a  month ago, on my way home ,while traveling  through what some would call a “dangerous” part of town, I spotted a group of young people putting up these murals.  In a neighborhood where gang graffiti is prominent, these image now beautify the area.  

Now, I don’t have permission to post these pictures, but I am going to post them anyway—hope I don’t get into too much trouble. I felt compelled to share these wonderful images with whomever. It is my hope that these images inspire, for considering the young artist and their neighborhood, they have done a number on me.  They are located in North Las Vegas on Pecos Road, a couple of blocks south of Las Vegas Blvd.

1. 

Las Dos Linternas




 

"...Y es que en el mundo triador

nada es verdad o mentira;

Todo es segun el color del cristal
con que se mira."
-- Ramon De Campoamor (1817-1901)





Cuando este Americano de raices Indias y Españolas

se encuentra perdido en tierras lejanas

busco tus linternas.

Cuando este alumno no puede ver la noche o la madrugada

que defina esta vida prestada

busco tus linternas.

Cuando esta alma no puede contener los llantos y la furia

que sofocan  a este espirito en esta civilizacion moderna

busco tus linternas.

Cuando el futuro sequro se encuentra oculto y lleno de preguntas

perdidas en el viento tan silencioso

busco tus linterna, amigo, maestro, filosofo, poeta.

America's workforce

Whether the masses work in offices or manufacturing or service-oriented businesses, they operate at maximum efficiency, yet they are miserable. Routine, tedious, tiresome, dull, boring, grinding, everyday, familiar—these words are all well known to the masses who labor under the rote of corporate America, and yet the irony is that these very same masses are thankful, oh, so thankful, for their employment, for food will still decorate their kitchen table and smiles will still blossom.

So what’s the problem? Corporations and their desire for gluttonous profits is the problem. Status quo is the problem. Complacency is the problem. Education is the problem.

Corporate profits is the problem.

Profits can be insured with different strategies: maximum income for merchandise and services; and minimal workforce expenditures being the two primary ones. Of course there are other determining factors, but bear with me. Every day we read news articles indicating that corporate profits are up but hiring is still down. Might I suggest a reason? Corporations are demanding more work from their ever thining, skeleton crews. Everywhere you go, you see a person doing the work of two, possibly more—it’s becoming the American way. I have no hard evidence, if that is what you seek, nor statistic, nor have I polled anyone. This is an assumption base on my readings and observations.

Status quo is the problem.

Simply put, the rich want to stay rich and they will use their position and their money to lobby for and to enforce laws which will allow them to continue to be rich. Self-explanatory, right? Again, I am neither a statistician nor an economist, but I do have a question: Do you want to take on the oil companies, or the pharmaceuticals, or the entertainment industry? I don’t think so. How about another question? Do you know the definition of “oligarchy?”

Complacency is problem.

At the end of their grinding day the energy is depleted, the masses yearn for comfort and distraction, so they settle into their own robotic routine. Turn on the TV, pop in a movie; consume a little more, right on time as always. It’s a habit that encourages complacency; still, despite their exhaustion, if the masses are to rise above their dim situation, they need to change some of these negative habits into positive ones.

Education is a problem.

Education does not stop with one book or a hundreds or thousands; neither does it end at high school or college. Learn a new trade, adopt a new hobby, research a field of study. There is no red stop sign; it’s always a green light. Education is a life long process. We learn, and we die. And if at all possible we will continue to learn in hereafter.

Conclusion

The problem and solution is on both sides. Corporations can be more understanding and patriotic, a word not usually found in business terms, and American masses can offer solutions and educate themselves better to build a greater good on both sides. Corporations can sacrifice some small monetary profits for richer spirits, and the masses can try to see the corporation's position as they struggle in a larger world arena. After all this is or should be the American way.

We are all in it together.

A game in life

Bounce, Bounce, Bounce

Martin Luther King recreational park thrives with activity. Small dogs prance about in exaggerated steps, swarms of pre-teenage children buzz the background beyond the basketball court, fathers busy themselves at the barbeque pits, but my interest is held by the six young men on the basketball court whom seem to be making last minute battle preparations—tying and retying shoe lace, stretching arms and flexing hips. It is a nostalgic moment for me, for I remember similar playgrounds of my youth. I take a seat on the soft green grass aligning the basketball court—opting to leaving the benches open for the young warriors.

“Take it out,” someone says.  A long-legged kid makes his way to center court and calls out, “Ball in.” Then the battle is on in earnest.  Bounce, bounce, bounce, between the legs and feign to the right. “Set it up,” a teammate reminds him. Quick as lightning, another young man dashes to side perimeter and the basketball appears in his hands, having sliced through air but a heartbeat ago. The young man catches and bounces his way toward the basket; simultaneously, a defender mimics his every movement. The attacker glides to the left only to realize that his defender has anticipated his direction. He then abruptly stops and reverses direction, his defender heads toward the right side, but no the attacker is feigning that the direction. What going on? Is he going left or right? Eternal drama and conflict concentrates into the tiniest particle of time. The attacker jumps skyward, his fingertips caress the basketball as his body continues skyward. The release is a thing of beauty; it is arcing toward the rim a few feet away. A scream pierces the blue sky as the defender’s hand swats the ball away at the last possible moment. A chorus of deafening “oohs” follows the block shot. The ball sails out of bound and both players touch back down to earth, their eyes lock on each others and a half grin-half smile appears on their faces, mutual admiration it would appears. With a nod of his head the attacker concedes the battle but not the war; the war is never lost.

Bounce, bounce, bounce, the ball is put into play from the side, once again by the long-legged kid. The ball zigs-zags in and out it, probing strengths and weaknesses, analyzing hundreds of possible permutations. Suddenly there is an opening—the smallest of opening—the basketball is bounced-passed through that impossibly small opening to the attacker on the wing. Confident, the attacker positions himself for the easy shot. Franticly, three defenders (with unthinkable speed) converge on the wing attacker.  The attacker is inundated and temporarily loses that very same confidence that had reined just a breath ago. He bounces the ball between his legs, away and toward the long-legged kid whom stood ready in the rear. One of the defender immediately darts toward the long-legged kid. It’s a long shot but the long-legged boy’s eyes light up with the color of glory as he jumps up and releases the ball toward the basket. The onrushing defender has almost managed to catch up to the ball; still, he misses it by a hand and crashes on top of the long-legged kid. The ball “swishes” beautifully as it goes through the net. From their position on the ground both boys react to the ball.

“Yeah!”

 “Damn... Great shot.”

The defender gets up and extends a hand toward the long-legged kid to help him up. There is no animosity, just intense love of spirit and physical prowess that is brought about only through intense competition.

The six young man huddle at the center of the court. All of them are nodding their heads up and down as if they had just discovered a weakness in their opponent’s game, all smiles, and all confidence is back. “Give me a sec,” one of the boys says, and bends down to retie his shoelaces. Another boy takes this opportunity to touch the sky and still another one bounces up and down on his toes like a prize fighter.

From the side, I tilt my head side to side and smile wondering what each boy must be thinking about at this very moment. Are they appreciating the beauty of basketball and the lessons that this simple game will teach them? Will they be back, hopefully, to admire future generations of younger players? It seems so unfair, but the game, like life itself, speeds by so quickly. And I hope that these six boys grow up slowly, wrapped in the wonderful memories that they are creating at this very moment. For in this game they will find the strength, the intelligence, and the humility to endure the unrelenting war that is life.

Again, the tall-legged kid makes his way to the center line. The attackers prepare themselves; the defenders become shadows. Strategy surges forward and defensive schemes leap into action.   “One- nil.” Everyone agrees. “Ball in,” he yells out, and immediately minds and bodies are put on high alert. I inhale deeply, rooting not for the defender nor for the attacker but rather for the game.

Then the battle is on in earnest.  Bounce, bounce, bounce, between the legs and feign to the left. “Set it up,” a teammate reminds him. Both the attacker and the defender bolt into battle. “He’s coming around, watch that back door. NOW. NOW.  Bounce, bounce, bounce…