There is, apparently, a misconception going on about me, if I read the reviews correctly of the people who have read Iguanas. “Moving and brave,” says one reviewer; “a story of great love and courage,” says another.
Wrong.
That was desperation, those months in spring of 2010, when I / we figured out what we were going to do with “old Mother,” as Franny deprecatingly called herself. And it was easy to be courageous around her—if she could do it, how could I not? And no, writing the book was also not brave—it was just a purging, in a way.
“Courage is knowing what to do in a dangerous situation,” Harry once told me—and he should know. He’s a philosopher; he’s told me a million times what the Platonic forms are (even now, I’ve only a muddled idea); this definition was some Ancient Greek’s, perhaps Plato himself.
OK—so let me tell you how dangerous the situation is.
Three weeks ago, a couple hundred thousand drunks decided to invade my neighborhood in order to progress to greater levels of inebriety, hear noise and make still more, as well as to expel body fluids in forbidden places. They called this Las Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián.
And one of the body fluids was blood. Yes, a man bumped into another man, an argument ensued, and the bumper ended up shot, with two different guns, and left dead on the pavement. The killer(s) logically left the scene, the mood of the crowd became a bit dampened, people whipped out their cell phones and took pictures to tweet and facebook. What didn’t they do?
Talk to the cops.
Yes, the “festival” was weeks ago, and no—nobody’s been arrested. People are afraid of retaliation.
Not convinced?
OK—there is a lovely town in the southwest of Puerto Rico. It’s historic; both Raf and I think it’s the second oldest town on the island. And the people there are gentle, sweet. Once, when Raf and I were looking at (and exclaiming over) a wonderful old house, the owner hailed us, brought us in, gave us a tour, and then made us coffee.
Welcome to San Germán!
Where there was a little basketball game that turned bad. Very bad. One player fouled another player, a discussion ensued, and the guy who had been fouled walked to his car, opened it, took out his gun, and killed the guy who had fouled.
Guys? A little tip, here. It’s a game, got it? Not something to shed blood for.
But there’s a lot of blood shed around here. Consider this…
About one in thirty murders in the United States occur in Puerto Rico. Compared to California—which has 11% of the population—we have about half as many murders. But our population is 1.19% of the US population.
Or this. New York City has three times the population of Puerto Rico and half the number of murders.
“So I can read those names, right?”
I was busy seeking free legal advice from my brother—hey, didn’t I nurse Franny all those weeks? I think of it often: my finest hour as a nurse, though the patient did die….
“Just a sec, I gotta take this call,” he said.
I felt a bit bad for him. He had been on a conference call earlier; he keeps getting interrupted by affairs oddly more important that mine; he has not so much taken a vacation as moved his practice to Mexico, which is where I have tracked him down.
“Everybody thinks I’m crazy, but I’d think strongly about it.”
In legal terms, that means “no.”
I’ve told him the plan. Thirty thousand people die of gun shot wounds every year. I want to wake up every morning, take a público (the minivan that gets the un-carred around the island—eventually) to a different town, set up my video camera on the tripod, sit in the plaza and read 100 names. This I will do for three hundred days. And around about the time Christmas is running in, I’ll be done. Hopefully, people will come by, ask questions, tell their stories. Lots of material for the blog, and I can also stick the footage on YouTube, where it will instantly turn viral—who can resist a mad gringo running around Puerto Rico reading thirty thousand names! Wow!
I was, of course, filled with excitement—as fervid as I was when I announced the plan to the CEO of Wal-Mart Puerto Rico to get the annual bonus. Just build an extra supercenter and Sam’s club, and don’t tell Bentonville. See? Thinking outside and OF the box!
My question to Johnny—who was probably salivating for a golf course—was whether I could use the names of actual victims that I had found on a website. The names had been submitted by the mourning families—to me it was public record, or implied consent, or something, but what do I know? This is why I have a lawyer brother—though he may not see it quite that way….
Well, Johnny had a reaction essentially similar to the CEO’s.
“You know, it’s possible that one member of the family put the name of the victim on the site and it was really another member of the family who shot the victim by accident and that guy is a member of the NRA so he goes running to them and they file a lawsuit and they’ve got bigger pockets than you, pal!”
Right, it’s also possible that the pope is conducting satanic masses in the basement of St. Paul’s Basilica.
Well, we agreed—if I use those names, I’ll first put all my money (about 300 bucks) in a Swiss numbered account.
“You know, I just can’t stand bullies and bastards getting away with it,” I said.
You know of whom I was speaking….
“I have only a voice,” I thought today, on the trot. And then wondered—where’s that from? Feels like a poem or something. Well I googled it, and couldn’t find it. But I did find a little gem, with which I leave you.
Making Amends
The night is caught
like a mouse’s tail caught
between a cat’s shining teeth.
Once I believed in recognition
and the glory of making a name.
Now it’s only time before me,
and the ashes of my loved one.
The world and its shallow passions
is not a place to put my hopes in,
is only the grand flame of ‘me’
and my short span.
Loving a child is what matters.
No words, no pat-on-the-back,
no cry out for justice or the soft sniffles
of fickle brilliance.
Soon I will join a tree or even a flower.
The sloping roof with the snow on top -
that is stillness.
The wind pushes its way under my door
like a maddened bird.
I have no ambitions. I have only a voice
that must continue its singing.
