That’s my first reaction, on hearing the news.
A couple kids in Australia decide to have some fun. Call up a hospital in London, imitate—apparently atrociously—the Queen and Prince Phillip and see if they can get through. Fun, hunh? Hey, cool, let’s try that.
You know how it played out. The call was transferred by a nurse—and no, I think I won’t give her name. She’s suffered enough. Why, even in a blog post that perhaps only a hundred people will read, should I drag her further down?
She’s dead, you see, and apparently by her own hand. She leaves behind a husband and two young children. She was, apparently, an excellent nurse. The court at Saint James insists they had put no pressure on the hospital, which says there was no disciplinary action taking place or planned at the time of her death. She had, as well, the complete support of her colleagues.
The radio station says that the two kids have voluntarily taken themselves off the air, and they express, of course, deep regret.
I believe that.
And when I say that it’s maybe to grow up, I don’t necessarily refer to the kids.
They’re kids—right?
What about the rest of us?
Down here in the island surrounded by mirrors, I was busy with a more grisly affair—the story of a publicist and his horrific death. And a scandalmonger in the form of a transvestite with a foam head who repeated all of the worst gossip about his death.
Today, the widow appears in the newspaper and says no. My husband was NOT on that nice-by-day-vice-in-the-night street after dark. It was a carjacking, that and nothing more—except for a vile, vicious, horrendous crime (I quote her directly, though her words were horrendo, vil y vicioso crímen).
A carjacking is a federal offense. Thus, they are being investigated by the FBI, and may be subject to the death penalty. There is therefore every reason for them to paint the picture of a man in search of illicit and paid pleasure, rather than a man standing at an ATM who feels a gun poked in his lower back.
Oh, and by the way, who might be the more credible witness—the wife-now-widow who has a job like the rest of us (well, most of us) or these four people, two of whom—I believe—are kids turned in by their parents, the other two who are low-lifes?
The widow is asking space for the family to grieve—certainly a reasonable request.
Though it may be a bit difficult on the day of the planned march, when the Todos Somos José Enrique group urges all Puerto Ricans to take to the streets and protest the tsunami of violence that has devastated the island.
Or when the boicotalacomay group continues its pressure to rip corporate sponsors from the transvestite’s show.
May I say something?
Corporations act—in general—on strictly economic principles. If there were a show on TV that everybody in Puerto Rico watched that was devoted to ornithology, guess what? Wal-Mart would sponsor it, and have an aisle full of binoculars in every store.
Jump to another island. If everybody in London / Great Britain read only The Economist, would the nurse have killed herself? There being no tabloids to play the story up?
And no, living as I am right here in my own little left field, I probably won’t march. What will it do? Will people—being generous here—who value human life at 400$ say, ‘wow, gee, maybe I should get an MBA!’
Let me propose something instead: the social contract. Let’s set up a booth along the way of the march, and get people to sign it.
Here goes….
I, a proud Puerto Rican, commit to the following:
- I will say about people only things that I would say to their face. I will only listen to the same—no bochinche.
- I will drive courteously and safely.
- I will park legally.
- I will clean up the island and keep it free of trash
- I will behave in a way in public that draws no attention to myself—no loud music, loud voices. Oh, and I won’t be drunk in public.
- I will greet people, even strangers, who are near me, and offer help when needed.
- I will do my job fully, and give full value for what I am paid for.
- I will assume that my politicians, my government, and my police are honest and hard working, and I will expect and demand courtesy and efficiency in return.
- I will raise my children to respect authority, teachers, policemen, and adults in general, being always vigilant for the rare person who does not deserve this trust.
- I will assume that everyone is operating on these principles, again being alert for those who are not.
I suggest these simple rules, because I have an answer to who killed José Enrique, and who killed the nurse.
We did.
We have blood on our hands, those of us who watch La Comay or read the tabloids. Or dish up a bit of chisme—that’s gossip for you guys up there—or refuse to stop when a cop flags us down. Or park on the sidewalk so that a pedestrian—his name would be Marc Newhouse—has to walk in the street. Oh, and it’s 5PM, and the sun is right in my eyes….
They’re little things, these ten things that I cooked up this Saturday afternoon. Little until the drunk gets in the car that careens out of the blazing sun and hurtles itself onto the pedestrian. Little until a nurse makes a simple mistake and cannot walk to buy milk for her children without seeing her shame screamed out at her.
Little things. But I’ll spend an afternoon under the sun, passing out the social contract, asking everybody to read and sign.
Anybody want to join me?
