What Really Matters [Asalto de Navidad/ Christmas Assault]

¡Hola mi Gente!

Here’s my annual tribute to the Black Urban Experience that was part of the backdrop to my development… The following is based on true events. I have taken some liberty with the timeline and characters, but it’s all true. LOL

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In terms of the revolution, I believe that the revolution will be a revolution of dispossessed people in this country: that's the Mexican American, the Puerto Rican American, the American Indian, and black people.

 -- H. Rap Brown

My best friend (we were inseparable) when I was growing up was Al. We were born on the same day, one minute apart. He was born on a Monday morning June 6, 1955 at 3:28 AM and I was born a minute later. Al was a dark-skinned African-American with fine features. He played trumpet and I played trombone and percussion. We wanted to become Latin Jazz musicians and Al came from a family of musicians. We were night and day, yin and yang, if you saw one, you were certain the other was somewhere nearby.

And we were trouble: devious Geminis to the core.

Al had 15 brothers and sisters and they all lived in this huge 23-room house in the Brooklyn neighborhood known as Bushwick. I know it had 23 rooms because I counted. Ms. Pearl, Al’s mother, would tire of throwing me out of her house. She used to refer to Puerto Ricans as, “All you mira-miras.” I think she got that from constantly hearing PRs exclaim, “¡Oye mira, mira!” on the streets of what was then a diverse neighborhood. She would chase me out of her house, but would send out her sons to look for me if I stayed away too long and then scolded me for staying away. Of course, she would throw me out the door and I would climb through the windows. Al got all his looks from his mother, she was a very dark-skinned, fine featured, woman with long, fine hair, still beautiful in spite of all the children. Her house was run like a conglomerate, with varying levels of management. I was totally fascinated.

She didn’t like PRs and let me know it, but I think she loved the heck out of me. She would call me “Black” and laugh because I was so light-skinned. The name stuck, I was known as “Black,” as in “Yo, Black,” in her house. However, she always made sure she let me know she couldn’t abide by those noisy “Mira-mira Po’ Reekans” as she referred to us.

Therefore, it didn’t surprise me when she was initially outraged when my family decided to show up on her doorstep one Christmas Eve in observance of the Puerto Rican tradition of the paranda. She looked at me and said, “Nigga, what the fuck are all them mira-miras doing out there on my front door?” My family also had its share of musicians, my uncle having led a salsa band for decades. My stepfather was also something of a musician and my mother, much to my embarrassment, can’t sing to save her life. But there they were, on Ms. Pearl’s doorstep singing some whacked out PR Christmas song with Al, her favorite son, at the head of that mess, playing trumpet.

For Puerto Ricans, the celebration of Christmas is more of an assault than a normal celebration. You see, la paranda goes like this: an initial small group will get together and march en masse to each doorway. They come complete with instruments, real and makeshift. Puerto Ricans consider pots and pans, for example, instruments. As are beer bottles (full or empty) or anything else that makes a percussive sound. There are, of course, the real instruments, guitars, congas, cowbells. For Puerto Ricans, anything -- any kind of instrument -- is considered game. If you played an accordion and had one handy, you would be “encouraged” to tag along, intrument and all.

So, there they were, my whole family and what looked like the rest of the PR community, banging on pots and pans, congas, bongos, and guitars, with my mother in rare form, screeching at the top of her voice. Now here’s the real kicker: PR paranda tradition holds that as you go from door to door, each household gets hit (el asalto). Once outside your door, Puerto Ricans will not leave until you feed them and get them drunk and then you have to go out there with them to the next house.

“Edward,” Ms. Pearl said (you know you’re in trouble when grownups use your full, real name), “Tell them muthafuckas and my son to get the fuck out of my door before I call the police.” This is where I had to explain the part where they wouldn’t leave until they were well fed and drunk and, with a “Hell no,” under her breath, she opened the front door to give my people a piece of her mind and that’s when the whole group just rushed in, mistakenly thinking they were being invited.

That was a helluva Noche Buena, as PRs call Christmas Eve. Ms Pearl ate lechon (pork suckling) and pasteles (meat embedded in mashed plantains and yuca wrapped in plantain leaves) for the first time and her sister, Aunt Gerty, got so drunk, she literally lost her wig. In the process, traditional PR food collided with soul food. Flan mixed with sweet potato pie, greens crashed with arroz con gandures, James Brown mixed with Willie Colon, the rum and the vodka flowed, and through it all, Ms. Pearl and my mother formed an uneasy truce, each knowing that their sons were inseparable.

There were easily over 100 people there that night, some we didn’t even know. Every Christmas Eve after that, I know Ms. Pearl would anxiously await the ruckus of “All dem mira-miras.” She would never admit it, but I know she loved those parties. She would say that “Porter Reekans” knew how to party like black folk and that’s probably the greatest compliment Ms. Pearl could give.

Eventually, Ms. Pearl would lose that big house on Bushwick Avenue. I remember she could be stern, but she was also so supportive of the young people in the neighborhood. She would allow, for example, her son George’s band, The New Breed, to practice in her basement. Now, you have to understand this was a 16-piece band with Marshal amps. We also played loud, performing songs from diverse sources, like Buddy Miles, Grand Funk Railroad, Kool & the Gang, Curtis Mayfield. Her son, George, was a gifted drummer who practiced at least 8-10 hours a day -- every day. Ms. Pearl supported all of that.

Eventually, George would go on tour with Gloria Gaynor. Al and I worked as freelancers for various local bands, mostly salsa. Some of the horn players of The New Breed would break off and eventually play with BT Express and other groups of the day. Eventually, I would become discouraged with the music business and leave it all behind. When Ms. Pearl lost her house, she moved to a smaller one further away -- somewhere in Queens. I would visit, but not as often. Al and I would go our different ways, with Al beginning a life in crime that would eventually lead him to the revolving door of the prison/ industrial complex.

The last time I saw Ms. Pearl, she hugged me and tenderly caressed my face. She told me to make sure to take care of myself. Shortly thereafter, I left New York for some time. The last time I spoke to anyone from the family was when George called me while I was living in Houston. He was on a world tour with Gloria Gaynor and had left some tickets for me at the Forum. When I saw him, I hugged him as I would a brother.

I never saw any of them again...

I look back now and realize, as I did then, that those were special days. I lived during a time where there was community and while times were hard (they always were), people somehow looked out for one another's children. Today, I don't see these traditions practiced as much as in those days, and I'm saddened a bit because our children will never know how much they're missing...

Felíz Navidad,

Eddie

What Really Matters, pt. I [The Inner Holidays]

¡Hola! Everybody...
If you’re sad or stressed do some service. It's better than any medication known to humankind...

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-=[ The Inner Holidays ]=-

The holiest of all holidays are those… Kept by ourselves in silence and apart… The secret anniversaries of the heart.

-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The holidays are an opportunity for us to set aside our work and routines -- to give ourselves permission to put away, for the moment, our problems, and burdens. They are a time for joining with others in the celebration of life. However, this is not such an easy thing to do. Maybe together we can learn from each other how to do it.

Perhaps our holidays are clouded by sad and painful memories of the past. We miss loved ones who have passed on, or with whom we have cut ties or have lost contact. For me, the holidays are a mixed bag because they are the firmest reminders of my past excesses. I have come to understand that, if anything, the holidays are more about excesses rather than a celebration of life. There is the excess of consumption, of giving in to attachments whether in the form of food or material things.

This emphasis -- this obsession on getting and giving can become quite stressful: our lives are invaded by a mob mentality that can be, well... literally murderous. And, of course, mindlessness is encouraged everywhere, threatening to destroy all that we hold precious. To add to his, the whole message of Christianity is somehow lost in the shuffle of commercialism. It’s not about peace and goodwill; it’s really about -- well, at this point in time who really knows? This can present an even greater sadness for those of us who may be experiencing financial difficulties, adding to the holiday stress. Fact is that the glitter of the holidays is oftentimes an ornamental disguise for quiet despair.

It’s almost obscene.

What to do? Well, I have long ago learned that the holidays don’t have to be perfect. Sure, there is all this commercial crap diluting what is in essence a beautiful message, but I can create my own meaning. Perhaps together we can make that effort to turn within and share, not so much what can be measured materially, but the piece of ourselves that connects us all. A small gesture, a smile, an attempt to reach out, even a small acknowledgment can be ten times more powerful than the latest gadget. It’s all within our grasp. At work, for example, a colleague and I are leaving anonymous notes and simple gifts of candies in the mailboxes. Nothing extravagant, merely gentle reminders that people are valued for who they are. Imagine if you found a note on your windshield one cold morning that said some thing like:

You're receiving this note simply because you're beautiful as you are, and while I don't know you, I believe that as human beings we all have the potential to commit acts of kindness, works of beauty, and that we all have the potential to change lives for the better. This note is a reminder of the beauty and power you possess.

Yeah, I realize that many of us have become so cynical that such a note wouldn't make much of a difference, but don't tell me it would touch in a way your hard-won cynicism wouldn't let you admit. Somewhere inside of you, you would appreciate the the note, corny as it might seem. Try it some day: leave such a message for a stranger, friend, or colleague, watch their reactions...

The real message is that a man -- really an ordinary man, a mere carpenter -- who never owned his own home, who never wrote a book, or invented anything -- a poor man born of a single homeless mother, in fact, was able to change the world with a message of love. Now, that’s some gangsta shit right there.

Love,

Eddie

Sunday Sermon (Asalto Navidad/ Christmas Assault)

¡Hola! Everybody...
Well, I went to see Nothing Like the Holidays yesterday, and while it won’t win any awards (or probably won’t be seen by too many people), it was a delightful little holiday movie. It had some decent comic relief (supplied mostly by Luis Guzman) and it’s core message is universal. I guess someday I’m going to have to write the definitive Nuyorican Christmas story myself.

Later, a good friend took me to dinner and we walked arm-in-arm around Fifth Avenue in the cold, checking out the store fronts... If you have never done this, it should be on your list of things to do before you die... The photo is not mine, I didn’t have my camera with me (the decision to go to Fifth Avenue was extemporaneous), the photo of a 5th Avenue storefront was taken from the 'net.

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-=[ Asalto de Navidad/ Christmas Assault ]=-

My best friend (we were inseparable) when I was growing up was Al. We were born on the same day, one minute apart. He was born on a Monday morning June 6, 1955 at 3:28 AM and I was born a minute later. Al was a dark-skinned African-American with fine features, very handsome. He played trumpet and I played trombone and percussion. We wanted to become Latin Jazz musicians and Al came from a family of musicians. We were night and day, yin and yang, if you saw one, you were certain the other was somewhere nearby.

And we were trouble: devious Geminis to the core.

Al had 15 brothers and sisters and they all lived in this huge 23-room house in the Brooklyn neighborhood known as Bushwick. I know it had 23 rooms because I counted. Ms. Pearl, Al’s mother, would tire of throwing me out of her house. She used to refer to Puerto Ricans as, “All you mira, miras.” I think she got that from constantly hearing PRs exclaim, oye mira, mira! On the streets of what was at the time a diverse neighborhood. She would chase me out of her house, but would send out her sons to look for me if I stayed away too long and then scolded me for staying away. Of course, she would throw me out the door and I would climb through the windows. Al got all his looks from his mother, she was a very dark-skinned, fine featured, woman with long, fine hair, still beautiful in spite of all the children. Her house was run like a conglomerate, with varying levels of management. I was totally fascinated.

She didn’t like PRs and let me know it, but I think she loved the heck out of me. She would call me “Black” and laugh because I was so light-skinned. The name stuck, I was known as “Black,” as in “Yo, Black,” in her house. However, she couldn’t abide by those noisy “Po’ Reekans” as she referred to us.

Therefore, it didn’t surprise me when she was initially outraged when my family decided to show up on her doorstep one Christmas Eve in observance of the Puerto Rican tradition of the paranda. She looked at me and said, “Nigga, what the fuck are all those mira miras doing out there on my front door?” My family also had its share of musicians, my uncle having led a salsa band for decades. My stepfather was also something of a musician and my mother, much to my embarrassment, can’t sing to save her life. But there they were, on Ms. Pearl’s doorstep singing some whacked out PR Christmas song with Al, her favorite son, at the head playing trumpet.

For Puerto Ricans, the celebration of Christmas is more of an assault than a normal celebration. You see, a group will get together and march en masse to each doorway. They come complete with instruments, real and makeshift. Puerto Ricans consider pots and pans, for example, instruments. As are beer bottles (full or empty) or anything else that makes a percussive sound. There are, of course, the real instruments, guitars, congas, cowbells. For Puerto Ricans, anything – any kind of instrument -- is considered game. If you played a harp and had one handy, you would be “encouraged” to tag along, harp and all.

So, there they were, my whole family and what looked like the rest of the PR community, banging on pots and pans, congas, bongos, and guitars, with my mother screeching at the top of her voice. Now here’s the real kicker: PR paranda tradition holds that you go from door to door. Each household gets hit (el Asalto). Once outside your door, Puerto Ricans will not leave until you feed them and get them drunk and then you have to go out there with them to the next house.

“Edward,” Ms. Pearl said (you know you’re in trouble when grown ups use your real name), “Tell them muthafuckas and my son to get the fuck out of my door before I call the police.” This is where I had to explain the part where they wouldn’t leave until they were well fed and drunk and, with a “Hell no,” under her breath, she opened the front door to give my people a piece of her mind and that’s when the whole group just rushed in, mistakenly thinking they were being invited.

That was a helluva Noche Buena, as PRs call Christmas Eve. Ms Pearl ate lechon (pork suckling) and pasteles (meat embedded in mashed plantains and yucca wrapped in plantain leaves) for the first time and her sister, Aunt Gerty, got so drunk, she literally lost her wig and actually pissed on herself. In the process, traditional PR food collided with soul food. Flan mixed with sweet potato pie, greens crashed with pasteles, James Brown mixed with Willie Colon, the rum and the vodka flowed, and Ms. Pearl and my mother formed an uneasy truce, each knowing that their sons were inseparable.

There were easily over 100 people there that night, some we didn’t even know. Every Christmas Eve after that, I know Ms. Pearl would anxiously await the ruckus of “All dem mira, miras.” She would never admit it, but I know she loved those parties. She would say that “Porter Reekans” knew how to party like black folk and that’s probably the greatest compliment Ms. Pearl could give.

Eventually, Ms. Pearl would lose that big house on Bushwick Avenue. She could be stern, but she was so supportive of the young people in the neighborhood. She would allow, for example, her son George’s band, The New Breed, to practice in her basement. Now, you have to understand this was about a 16-piece band with Marshal amps. We also played loud, performing songs from diverse sources, like Buddy Miles, Grand Funk Railroad, Kool & the Gang. Her son, George, was a gifted drummer who practiced at least 8-10 hours a day -- everyday. Ms. Pearl supported all of that.

Eventually, George would go on tour with Gloria Gaynor. Al and I worked as freelancers for various local bands, mostly salsa. Some of the horn players of The New Breed would break off and play with BT Express and other groups of the day. I would become discouraged with the music business and leave it all behind. When Ms. Pearl lost her house, she moved to a smaller one further away – somewhere in Queens. I would visit, but not as often. Al and I would go our different ways, with Al beginning a life in crime that would eventually lead him to a life spent in and out of prison.

The last time I saw Ms. Pearl, she hugged me and tenderly caressed my face. She told me to make sure to take care of myself. Shortly thereafter, I left New York for some time. The last time I spoke to anyone from the family was when George called me while I was staying in Houston. He was on a world tour with Gloria Gaynor and had left some tickets for me at the Forum. When I saw him, I hugged him as I would a brother.

I never saw any of them again...

I look back now and realize, as I did then, that those were special days. I lived during a time where there was community and while times were hard (they always were), people somehow looked out for one another's children. Today, I don't see these traditions practiced as much as in those days, and I'm saddened a bit because our children don't realize how much they're missing...

Love,

Eddie