Sorry I haven't updated in a while... As for today, it was one of those not so good, everything at work falls apart, can't drill a straight fucking hole, or cut a straight line days. Those suck!!!
anyway, a story it's long but I hope you like it. it happened to us last October:
************************************************
The slick sheen of the mixed gasoline, oil, mud, and water is still clinging to the streets in little pockets of resistance. It's the first day in about five that the rain has let up, and so a walk was in order. Up through the maze of one ways, alleys, railroad tracks, and industrial short cuts that is our neighborhood. Then back again... We've had a few beers, not to many, not to few, everything is just right but we're getting a little close to 7th St., and it's time to make a decision.
Do we walk past the super market after dark, on a nice night, or not. We do, of course! We're fucking invulnerable, two kids taking on the world with no worries and love in their hearts.
Joe looks up at us through a slight alcohol haze and walks towards us. The gardening tools he uses at 7-11 to trade for food sticking randomly from the pockets of his Veitnam issue jacket. The limp, the hunched back, and the slow methodical walk coming straight towards us.
He want's to talk about Bush, and about Kerry. The war wounds never healed, and his beautiful soul struggles daily to recover from the horror inflicted upon him by a government he thought he trusted. He wont let it happen again... Those piercing blue eyes, those beautiful eyes, covered slightly by his newly formed dread locks, three of them made from the tufts of hair left where flowing blond curls use to be before he started thinning.
Mainly Mogwa and Joe talk. They are old friends, known eachother for about three years now, he feels like he watches over her, she him. Back and forth they jive, illuminated by the harsh light of the empty parking lot.
A yell. A cry for help. Someone wants a smoke, and they're not having any luck. A hundred yards down the lot we see him stumble. He's pissed, the kid's he'd just asked walked by like he wasn't even there. The light catches on the glint of a 24 oz Bud can, a barely controlled stance, weight heavy on one foot, the man scans the lot for someone else to ask. The anger that radiates from him is malevolent, it splits the people around him like waves. We're the only one's left in the lot, stuck in the middle of a sea of asphalt like a bear in a trap.
I really wish I hadn't just lit up that smoke...
The shadows of the night eventually pull back to show us our new companion, the person that will be with us for the next twenty minutes starts to walk our way. Tall, taller then me by about two inches he comes close asking if we have a smoke. His arms, his hands, his build all scream the life of a migrant worker. Tough and drunk, his request is more of a demand then a question, and unlike the people prior we will not get out of this by looking at our feet and walking off.
I start to roll the smoke, quickly but not to quickly. Every look I send his way is controlled and planned, coming from years of experience I'm not about to let this guy smell fear. He's drunk, so I could knock him over, probably knock him out with a single punch. But if I don't, if I can't, we're dead. Defensice thoughts running though my head while he stands awkwardly before us. The anger that flares in his eyes everytime we make eye contact is testament to the fact that he will not be ignored any longer. As I bring the smoke up to my lips to lick the paper for him I notice Joe start to walk off.
There we are two kids with love in their hearts and no wish for violence, being held static by an incarnate of anger. This man, with his black mat of hair, his worn shirt, and barrel arms is like a meter for our emotion. When we tense, he tenses. His eyes roll in his head, his fists clench and he starts to talk faster, and faster, the words coming out in broken english mixed with spanish, and combined with a horrible stutter.
Slowly step by step he is inching himself between me and Mogwa. He's leaning into her, trying to explain his sittuation, pulling on his fresh smoke with an intensity that hurts to watch. After about every five words his voice raises to a throaty yell, Mogwa isn't understaning him. He leans in closer, trying to explain, striving to be heard. Grabs her hand, pulls it to his chest, and slowly the look goes from anger to fear.
Without even missing a beat she says "What's your name?"
"Jose," a long pause and the anger returns. He backs away, throws his hands by his side and rages once more, "fuck, fuck, fuck that's my brother's name, that's my fucking brothers name. I can't remember my fucking name, i can't remember my fucking name." His eyes dart to mine, searching for the smirk he thinks is going to come, itching to beat the frustration of his life out on anything that shows the least bit of contempt for his existance. He sees nothing, and again leans closer to her, talking with his hands little drops of beer falling from his can. The mixture of english and spanish keeps coming, he keeps telling his story....
I stand rigid waiting to strike, scared out of my mind at how this happened and replaying the moments over and over again in my head. I'm so focused on hitting his jaw quick and hard, that the conversation flows over completely past me. Mixed languages, the familiar sound of Mogwa taking on the accent of the person she's speaking with. The conversation goes up, and down, the entire time she's looking for an out, but still she talks. If she looks my way, he freaks, the violence back in his tone, the frustration and anger thick with potential.
"Why did I leave my knife at home fuck, we're gonna get hurt I fucking know it." All I can think about is defense, defense like I learned back home. This is a fight waiting to happen, I see it, I know it...
Five minutes, ten minutes. He leans in, he leans out, he works around her in a little circular dance, the whole time they're speaking in a form of language only they can understnad...
She starts to tell him about Looking Glass. "No, no, no, no cops, no po po. They're cool, they're cool. They'll help you out, I promise, I promise you." He looks at her, starts to notice that she walked around him this time, that we're standing together for the first time in twenty minutes and that we want to leave. The boiling point is now, like static we can all sense the end of this brief, yet long incounter. The tantrum frustration so visible in his body that every muscle is tensed, ready to take both of us to the ground for no reason at all. He stands, stares at her, that look of fear is back, for a second, not even a second he calms down.
"You sur'?"
"Yea, no cops... They're good people." She gives him directions. He turns to leave, and we start to say a rushed good bye, neither of us thinking it's over we watch him walk four steps in the direction she pointed. I watch in horror as his back turns rigid again, he convulses, does a 180 and walks straight back at her. A smile like that of a five year old boy is plastered on his face.
"Ricardo, Ricardo, Ricardo... " the words come out of his mouth like he has just learned to speak, he picks up his pace until he reaches her feet. Dropping to one knee he grabs her hand, kisses it softly, and says:
"Ricardo, my name is...is....is....Ricardo. Jo-jo-Jose is my...my...my... MY FUCKING BROTHERS NAME!!!! Jose is my fucking brothers name. You helped me remember my name, you helped me remember my name." The last sentence is the first one out of his mouth all night that did not consist of a series of stutters, the smile widens on his face and he stands up swaying a little. Correcting himself he points child like in the direction she offered earlier and quickly walks off towards the clinic. He stops, turns again, and waves.
I look at her, at this girl, my lover, the sigh of relief still coming from her mouth. She looks up and smiles, grabs my hand and walks the other direction never looking back. The shock to my system was so immense at this moment that I found myself staring, dumb founded. "This woman, my lover, just disarmed the most violent human being I have ever seen........with love? With patiance, with compassion?????" I smiled to myself, knowing I was walking alongside one of the strongest people I had ever known.
We paced a little ways both looking at the ground, thinking about the experience. Knowing we were lucky not be in the hospital, we stroll for a few blocks and start to talk....
********************************
It turns out that while I was waiting for a fight, and she was talking to him, that she actually figured out how to understand his stuttered english and spanish. He didn't want to talk with me from the start, he was picking fights with all the men he could find. She knew she had to talk. Here's what she learned:
Ricardo is natural born US citizen. He doesn't have any papers, and members of his family are illegaly working in the US. He is 35. He suffers from extreme violent schizophrenia, and the first time he got deported for it was 17 years ago. He has been deported 28 times, all for fights with white men, all because of his speech promblems, and his violence once arrested. Despite the fact that he is a US citizen the government keeps sending him to Mexico. He recieves his medication about once a year, for about a month, and it is usually from a clinic that can only give out small hand outs. When he doesn't have it, he freaks. He started self medicating with beer, and coke, and a day before we met him he had gotten into a fight. The cops came and his deportation trial was in two days. He was being deported because he couldn't identify himself. He had been wandering the streets trying to find his lost identity since he got out of jail in the morning....
A beautiful woman later returned it to him that night, in a dark parking lot, while he was looking for fight.
anyway, a story it's long but I hope you like it. it happened to us last October:
************************************************
The slick sheen of the mixed gasoline, oil, mud, and water is still clinging to the streets in little pockets of resistance. It's the first day in about five that the rain has let up, and so a walk was in order. Up through the maze of one ways, alleys, railroad tracks, and industrial short cuts that is our neighborhood. Then back again... We've had a few beers, not to many, not to few, everything is just right but we're getting a little close to 7th St., and it's time to make a decision.
Do we walk past the super market after dark, on a nice night, or not. We do, of course! We're fucking invulnerable, two kids taking on the world with no worries and love in their hearts.
Joe looks up at us through a slight alcohol haze and walks towards us. The gardening tools he uses at 7-11 to trade for food sticking randomly from the pockets of his Veitnam issue jacket. The limp, the hunched back, and the slow methodical walk coming straight towards us.
He want's to talk about Bush, and about Kerry. The war wounds never healed, and his beautiful soul struggles daily to recover from the horror inflicted upon him by a government he thought he trusted. He wont let it happen again... Those piercing blue eyes, those beautiful eyes, covered slightly by his newly formed dread locks, three of them made from the tufts of hair left where flowing blond curls use to be before he started thinning.
Mainly Mogwa and Joe talk. They are old friends, known eachother for about three years now, he feels like he watches over her, she him. Back and forth they jive, illuminated by the harsh light of the empty parking lot.
A yell. A cry for help. Someone wants a smoke, and they're not having any luck. A hundred yards down the lot we see him stumble. He's pissed, the kid's he'd just asked walked by like he wasn't even there. The light catches on the glint of a 24 oz Bud can, a barely controlled stance, weight heavy on one foot, the man scans the lot for someone else to ask. The anger that radiates from him is malevolent, it splits the people around him like waves. We're the only one's left in the lot, stuck in the middle of a sea of asphalt like a bear in a trap.
I really wish I hadn't just lit up that smoke...
The shadows of the night eventually pull back to show us our new companion, the person that will be with us for the next twenty minutes starts to walk our way. Tall, taller then me by about two inches he comes close asking if we have a smoke. His arms, his hands, his build all scream the life of a migrant worker. Tough and drunk, his request is more of a demand then a question, and unlike the people prior we will not get out of this by looking at our feet and walking off.
I start to roll the smoke, quickly but not to quickly. Every look I send his way is controlled and planned, coming from years of experience I'm not about to let this guy smell fear. He's drunk, so I could knock him over, probably knock him out with a single punch. But if I don't, if I can't, we're dead. Defensice thoughts running though my head while he stands awkwardly before us. The anger that flares in his eyes everytime we make eye contact is testament to the fact that he will not be ignored any longer. As I bring the smoke up to my lips to lick the paper for him I notice Joe start to walk off.
There we are two kids with love in their hearts and no wish for violence, being held static by an incarnate of anger. This man, with his black mat of hair, his worn shirt, and barrel arms is like a meter for our emotion. When we tense, he tenses. His eyes roll in his head, his fists clench and he starts to talk faster, and faster, the words coming out in broken english mixed with spanish, and combined with a horrible stutter.
Slowly step by step he is inching himself between me and Mogwa. He's leaning into her, trying to explain his sittuation, pulling on his fresh smoke with an intensity that hurts to watch. After about every five words his voice raises to a throaty yell, Mogwa isn't understaning him. He leans in closer, trying to explain, striving to be heard. Grabs her hand, pulls it to his chest, and slowly the look goes from anger to fear.
Without even missing a beat she says "What's your name?"
"Jose," a long pause and the anger returns. He backs away, throws his hands by his side and rages once more, "fuck, fuck, fuck that's my brother's name, that's my fucking brothers name. I can't remember my fucking name, i can't remember my fucking name." His eyes dart to mine, searching for the smirk he thinks is going to come, itching to beat the frustration of his life out on anything that shows the least bit of contempt for his existance. He sees nothing, and again leans closer to her, talking with his hands little drops of beer falling from his can. The mixture of english and spanish keeps coming, he keeps telling his story....
I stand rigid waiting to strike, scared out of my mind at how this happened and replaying the moments over and over again in my head. I'm so focused on hitting his jaw quick and hard, that the conversation flows over completely past me. Mixed languages, the familiar sound of Mogwa taking on the accent of the person she's speaking with. The conversation goes up, and down, the entire time she's looking for an out, but still she talks. If she looks my way, he freaks, the violence back in his tone, the frustration and anger thick with potential.
"Why did I leave my knife at home fuck, we're gonna get hurt I fucking know it." All I can think about is defense, defense like I learned back home. This is a fight waiting to happen, I see it, I know it...
Five minutes, ten minutes. He leans in, he leans out, he works around her in a little circular dance, the whole time they're speaking in a form of language only they can understnad...
She starts to tell him about Looking Glass. "No, no, no, no cops, no po po. They're cool, they're cool. They'll help you out, I promise, I promise you." He looks at her, starts to notice that she walked around him this time, that we're standing together for the first time in twenty minutes and that we want to leave. The boiling point is now, like static we can all sense the end of this brief, yet long incounter. The tantrum frustration so visible in his body that every muscle is tensed, ready to take both of us to the ground for no reason at all. He stands, stares at her, that look of fear is back, for a second, not even a second he calms down.
"You sur'?"
"Yea, no cops... They're good people." She gives him directions. He turns to leave, and we start to say a rushed good bye, neither of us thinking it's over we watch him walk four steps in the direction she pointed. I watch in horror as his back turns rigid again, he convulses, does a 180 and walks straight back at her. A smile like that of a five year old boy is plastered on his face.
"Ricardo, Ricardo, Ricardo... " the words come out of his mouth like he has just learned to speak, he picks up his pace until he reaches her feet. Dropping to one knee he grabs her hand, kisses it softly, and says:
"Ricardo, my name is...is....is....Ricardo. Jo-jo-Jose is my...my...my... MY FUCKING BROTHERS NAME!!!! Jose is my fucking brothers name. You helped me remember my name, you helped me remember my name." The last sentence is the first one out of his mouth all night that did not consist of a series of stutters, the smile widens on his face and he stands up swaying a little. Correcting himself he points child like in the direction she offered earlier and quickly walks off towards the clinic. He stops, turns again, and waves.
I look at her, at this girl, my lover, the sigh of relief still coming from her mouth. She looks up and smiles, grabs my hand and walks the other direction never looking back. The shock to my system was so immense at this moment that I found myself staring, dumb founded. "This woman, my lover, just disarmed the most violent human being I have ever seen........with love? With patiance, with compassion?????" I smiled to myself, knowing I was walking alongside one of the strongest people I had ever known.
We paced a little ways both looking at the ground, thinking about the experience. Knowing we were lucky not be in the hospital, we stroll for a few blocks and start to talk....
********************************
It turns out that while I was waiting for a fight, and she was talking to him, that she actually figured out how to understand his stuttered english and spanish. He didn't want to talk with me from the start, he was picking fights with all the men he could find. She knew she had to talk. Here's what she learned:
Ricardo is natural born US citizen. He doesn't have any papers, and members of his family are illegaly working in the US. He is 35. He suffers from extreme violent schizophrenia, and the first time he got deported for it was 17 years ago. He has been deported 28 times, all for fights with white men, all because of his speech promblems, and his violence once arrested. Despite the fact that he is a US citizen the government keeps sending him to Mexico. He recieves his medication about once a year, for about a month, and it is usually from a clinic that can only give out small hand outs. When he doesn't have it, he freaks. He started self medicating with beer, and coke, and a day before we met him he had gotten into a fight. The cops came and his deportation trial was in two days. He was being deported because he couldn't identify himself. He had been wandering the streets trying to find his lost identity since he got out of jail in the morning....
A beautiful woman later returned it to him that night, in a dark parking lot, while he was looking for fight.
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
annalee:
That was very observant of you as I didnt even write his name! Yeah I havnt seen anyone who lists him either. thanks for commenting on my set too! 
deusexmachina:
hey man, thanks for looking at/signing the petition. I actually heard about it through my sister who works for the Portland Chapter of United Cerebral Palsy...I guess the disabled, mental and otherwise, are going to be hit pretty hard by this if it goes through....total bummer. anyway, I figured if it was big enough to get the attention of the people my sister is working with/for, then it was worth passing on. I might even try to link to it in some of the other groups like liberal politics and the disability group...what do you think?