Obituary Delayed 1984: Remembering Angelita Perez

Growing up in a single parent household run by my mother was very complex to understand. Especially for one who is searching for his identity in Washington Heights, New York City, like myself. As a 1st generation Dominican-American, not only was I looking for my identity and independence through my surroundings (both inside and outside my household), but I was also being held to a standard as the eldest “man” in a broken household. “Tu eres el hombre de la casa ahora…”; I would hear this several times during my adolescence not knowing what it meant. My mother set those standards immediately after our worlds changed in 1984. I was only 11 years old but as I grew older from the ‘absolute point’ within my Marvel timeline did I realize where these ‘standards’ were coming from. These expectations were created in a realm of abuse and trauma. I’m not talking about my own, but I’m talking about my mother’s.

To be fair, as the first born I reaped some benefits of a two-parent household for 11 years, most of its focus was on me. I am grateful for that time since the future did not spare its luxury after their divorce. My dad was the blue-collar working man taught to care and provide for his family. He did just that; confidently, with assurance. Meanwhile, my mom was the caretaker and the ruler of the household. My earliest memories of understanding my mothers’ role in the house was strangely…; I was looking up at her while on the livingroom floor in our Nagle Street apartment. Long black straight hair up in a ponytail, wearing shorts, a tank-top, chancletas; mopping around me, wailing “Algo de Mi” by Camilo Sesto. Her expression did not scream happy but by the way she belted the chorus, it let me know she was not unhappy. My dad would get home and she got into her ‘husband is home routine. She’d collect whatever she had asked him to bring home, she had his meal prepared, she’d ask him how his day went and then proceeded to set-up my meal for me to eat. There was little to no conversation but there wasn’t any animosity in the air. She would direct and demand; and my dad was a willing participant. Ridged, structured, prompt. Her routine was rock solid and tight; left no room for adjustment. She would stay this way in my eyes for the rest of her life. 

The aesthetics of life she had maintained and cared for were ones of luxury. Cleanliness was mandatory and a character trait. Our home represented that through and through; you could eat off the floors, window sills and toilet if you wanted to. Our furniture was “imported from Europe”; “Italy” as the salesman’s stated in the raggedy furniture store from the neighborhood; whether it was true or not, She picked them. The floors of our apartment; polished and waxed to a high shine on a yearly basis smelled like Pine-Sol and Mistolin every day; she cleaned. Satin drapes, tailored made by the skillful Cubana who would entertain her bonchinches and quips; she ordered. You swear she was one of Capote’s swans but on a beer budget. I would reap those benefits too as she would keep me nitido! In style of the corresponding year, I had the gear! Osh-Kosh, Carter’s Pro-Keds, Adidas, Le Tigre, Lacoste... todo de marca! She was a woman who loved the luxuries of life; she kept herself up to date and in style, always. And she did not mind showing it off. As a kid, I remember her taking me to 6-hour shopping sprees in downtown Manhattan. The Dominican Carrie Bradshaw walking into Macy’s, going floor by floor and always ending our trips by having lunch or dinner at Tad’s Steakhouse. We may not have lived on Park Ave or Central Park West, but dayum….she sure made me feel like we did. 

Affectionate, she was not. I would be lying to you if I could tell you a memory where I remember the hugs and kisses. I am sorry but I can’t. But I do remember she would buy me all that I wanted, dress me up like a prince in the best clothes and make sure all the food I ate was stocked and ready. Hugs? Kisses? Only special days. Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years for sure. Toys, games, music…that was Pops; fun Dad 101 since he wanted to be a kid himself! Mom on the other hand, half smiled during those moments. “Too many toys. So unnecessary.” She never held back her opinions; they were always dry and flat. Severely unimpressed by laughs and giggles, she would sit on a chair and watch as if she was studying human behavior and the elements of happiness like a doctor. It was only later in life that I would learn and understand that her affection came from words and actions. They were subliminal rather than direct. It was like learning another language. For example: If she wanted to say “I miss you, let’s spend time together”, she would say “Tu no busca tu madre, eh? Que? Parece que tienes algo conmigo?” Or another example: “I love you, I am so proud of you”, “Tu no me quieres a mi! Pues joderte!” Again affectionate she was not. 

Her love was never easy to get, you had to work hard for it. At first, I thought her materialistic side was the way to her heart, but I remembered all the times my dad would try to give her money and gifts when she was pissed off; she would tear money in his face, flush it down the toilet and fling gifts out of our apartment windows. “A mi no me importa ni un coño!” This happened often. I do believe after the divorce, these actions turned into something else. Maybe to hide the pain of what was yet to come, but I understood very early on her formula: 

“Break my heart = you can’t win it back unless you mend it.” 

Her love really didn’t have a price, she just wanted love back. REAL love. Not that fake kind. 

She would host friends and family on occasions. My dad was the life of the party and my mom was the chef, the maintenance crew and the bouncer. She would dance and laugh on occasions during these gatherings, but in her world….it was always back to her role and duties! Again, she was the ruler of this domain and she had to keep the jester’s in-check! I mean, if you were a Queen amongst fools, how would you rule? Mopped and swept while people danced, yelled out rules and orders with merengue and salsa blasting in the background. The music was loud, but she made sure she was louder because she had to be heard! She might have been labeled the buzzkill of a party by todays standards, but in reality…she never stopped a party from happening or denied one. One could argue, her methods were necessary to keep the good times rolling. I think that perspective is valid. 

Her traumas’ were only exposed after she was isolated by the ones she loved. She made a fatal mistake which sent her world crumbling. And like anyone who had their worlds pulled out from under their feet, her rage took over. Like Anakin Skywalker turning to the dark-side: fear, anger and rage consumed her. It became her first language now; and she would let you feel the power of what losing everything was like whether you wanted to or not. Unfortunately, she would not be able to shake it off from that point forward. There was no Yoda or Obi-Wan to try and help. This is who she had become. 

In raising my own children, I learned to understand the complexities of being a parent. As a father, I had learned what to do and what not to do through the template of my own dad. But I noticed somethings I learned through my moms’ teachings that would seep in from time to time. Actions that would remind me of who I grew up with, not who she turned into. The rigidity, the discipline, the commanding need to be heard, the courage to take risks and the compassion to care for others. That’s right…I said it, the compassion to care for others, I learned from her! Without going into too much detail, I’ll say that I had a hard time trying to figure out where my mom was compassionate most of my life. But it wasn’t till I had my daughter where I realized the trait of compassion came from her ability of ‘not giving a fuck what others thought!” My dad was obviously compassionate but to a fault. He showed compassion for others but at the sacrifice of himself. Shit…he showed so much compassion for my mom even after the bullshit she put him through, till his last breath! But he sacrificed a lot more of himself than was needed. My lessons learned from my mother about compassion was realizing that no one else mattered in that department other than her children. She was not sacrificing herself. “Yo soy mas madre que mujer!” would be her battle cry. Ironically, it would also be her downfall because of the one-time she challenged it; but It took me awhile to understand that level of compassion. Her motto was derived from those 11 years I saw her operate. While not full of hugs, kisses and all the fuzzy feelings that come from it. My mother was compassionate…for us. Her children. 

My siblings did not get to understand these amazing qualities she had until later; it was unfortunate. It was a reality we together had to face while we cared and supported each other growing up in her household. We encouraged and supported each other while not counting on the fragility and shattered world my mom had manifested. But from time to time, during the hardest times…I would always remind them “she wasn’t always like this”. I knew it because I had lived it. I knew my mother was not who she played herself to be. The world outside of our apartment had their picture painted of my mom, but she did not have us fooled. We just wanted the original version of her to show up. We wanted the “Belicia de Leon” from Oscar Wao to come back and show us the power we know she was made of! We wanted the inspiration she possessed from experiencing what “Las Hermanas Mirabal” went through and use her courageous voice to challenge her oppressors. We wanted her to be the Minerva Mirabal to negate the label of gender roles to those who imposed it on her! She stood out just like those amazing women:

Strong, courageous, fearless, tactful….powerful! We, her children, knew she was. We did. I swear. 

But man….fuck that abuse and trauma. Seriously….FUCK YOU! My Mom was not what you made her to be. 

The day before she passed, I Video Chatted her before we started to march in the Carnival SF Parade. I wanted to show my mom how beautiful my daughter looked in her costume. I told my mom, “Look Mom…doesn’t Eliana look beautiful? She is so brave! She is so confident and is shining so bright! She is so proud!” 

My mom said, “ I know….she looks like me.”

Yes she does Mom. Yes she does. 

Te quiero Mami. Te extraño Mami….que descanse en paz.

In The Heights Review

Disclaimer: I am Washington Heights. Born, bred, and raised before it was a showtune in Lin Manuel Miranda’s voice recorder. He has definitely put our neighborhood in the spotlight but Washington Heights was amazing before the mid-west came to discover it. Understandably, this review will be biased based on the fact that Washington Heights is my home; so my overall review will be “I love it!” along with the “99% Certified Fresh” on Rotten Tomatoes.com. But honestly, I also put my “I love it” stamp on the mediocre “Washington Heights” 2002 move, the failed “Washington Heights” MTV series in 2013 and any other movie that featured my neighborhood. These versions were not great but… I mean, come on… I am an Afro-Caribbean, Dominican-American from Washington Heights! I am constantly looking to connect to my home now that I live in the Bay Area! Just like any other individual who is proud of where they come from, I will support “In The Heights” even if it bombed in the box office. People who love their neighborhoods like I love mine understand this; it is a foundation of loyalty learned through your roots. And mine are in Washington Heights NYC! I love my ‘hood!

What I felt during the opening scene and musical number at the beginning of “In The Heights” summarize my review : Extreme joy with splashes of sadness. Literally filmed on the streets of where I lived and grew up for 40 years of my life, I felt the nostalgia flowing through my veins. Just as energetic and exhilarating as the dance number was, I felt over-joyed. I saw my ‘hood on the big screen! But when the screen shifted into the bodega, I could not help but notice some of the elements I remembered were gone. Granted, the store had some important “traditional” trimmings of the classic bodega I grew up around (the narrow aisles, Bustello coffee cans behind the counter, Vicks Vapor rub, etc.), but I could not help but notice some other elements were missing. Where was the ‘chicharron’ made fresh that morning next to the casaba and ‘pastelitos’? Where is the fridge dedicated to the beers that are “bestida de novia”? Where are the milk crates that were used to sit out when in front of the store? WHERE’S THE CAT SLEEPING ON THE BREAD?! Come on son… It was apparent that my generation was not going to be represented in this movie. I cried during the scene; overwhelmed with an exhilarating sense of joy, but at the same time shedding a tear for a story that was not going to be told in this movie. I get it, trust me. I’m old school and my generations experience is not what this movie is about. And in my humble opinion, this version of Washington Heights was a better story to tell. ‘Que dilema caballero’!

Washington Heights is a main character in this movie, no doubt. I love that. The sights and sounds definitely connect to the overall feeling of what a neighborhood in NYC should be. No offense to other neighborhoods in the five boroughs, but Washington Heights has enough character to be the star of a big screen Hollywood movie; it made sense. It is a neighborhood rich in history, diversity and culture; and the movie definitely made use of it. Most scenes took place on 175th Street and Audubon Ave. which would be familiar to anyone who grew up in the Heights. The Church of the Incarnation and Incarnation Elementary/Middle school (which I attended most of my youth) is on the block and you can see in most of the movie. Not only did I play many ‘curb ball’ games, ‘skelly’ tournaments, ‘catch and kiss’ run arounds on that street; But I also remembered seeing Robert “The Preppie Killer” Chambers alongside our parish’s Monsignor walking into the side entrance of the school to protect him from the media. I also saw the ‘spot’ on the corner where my family member almost lost their life to a bad drug deal. Again, a piece of my generation’s youth dominated my attention and I slowly began to realize that our tales will not be featured. Similar feelings of memories over content came in at the Highbridge Pool and J. Hood Wright Park scene, very historic locations to the Washington Height’s native with similar memories embedded in them. As I watched the film with a child hood friend, we kept randomly shouting out,“ YOOOOO!!!!!! Check that shit out son! Remember we used to….” constantly at the screen. We could not help it, the neighborhood is part of us and we had to let it out what we remembered, it was inevitable.  I would say, I finally succumbed to the inevitable and surrendered to the films narrative mid-way through the film.  I accepted that it would not be my generation’s story. If I had to summarize this feeling with a character from the movie, it would be Marc Antony’s character Gapo. A character that you know is a preamble to a story, but not necessary to expand on. Coño…

Joy and sadness. 

I’ll give it to Lin Manuel Miranda and John M. Chu’s vision for this Broadway play on the big screen. Representation did not lack! The cast was diverse and gave me a sense of still being seen by the world. Some would argue that the film primarily focused on Afro-Caribbean Latinos, but I’ll leave that for the passive aggressive bloggers of the world to debate (I swear you can racialize anything nowadays, but hey….This is America.) When I saw the original production on Broadway in 2008, I felt jubilant and proud. Seeing the cast of characters and be amazed the majority of them looked like ‘me’, you could not top that. In 2021, I felt the same jolt of pride and enthusiasm as I did when I first saw the play. This time around, I did feel that the story lines of gentrification, 1st generation immigrants, urban renewal and the Dreamers stood out a lot stronger that its’ original content. (As they should since film and stage are 2 totally different expressions.) Dare I say the small re-writes in the film should be included in the on-stage musical! (Go Usnavi and Vanessa! Mr. Softee vs. Priaguero!) When I regained focus and got out of ‘this ain’t about me’ mentality, I connected and it was good. 

I enjoyed the music from beginning to end. That is Lin Manuel niche’ so to speak. Sure, he writes musicals but do not forget where his foundations lay in his ability to create catchy, sounds for the soul. All Latin rhythms are felt throughout the movie; “Carnival Del Barrio” being my favorite captures the culture and spirit of his unique ability to connect pride and music. Also, all elements of hip-hop are present. I would not expect any less from a kid from the Heights (and a cousin to the amazing lyricist ‘Residente’)! The song “96,000” captures his homage to favorite hip-hop artist past and present. And just to add more roses to his bunch, Washington Heights is rooted in the history of hip-hop as any enthusiast would tell you.  Lin-Manuel is touched by the hip-hop gods of 1520 Sedgwick Avenue just like any kid in the Heights should have been, even if he did grow up on the ‘affluent’ side of the ‘hood’. 

Overall, the movie goes down in the history books as ‘one of the best movies’ of the year. Do I see it winning any ‘major’ award? Maybe, mostly for music but….been there, done that. Honestly, in this day and age…does it really matter? This film is an homage to diversity, culture and the everyday people of color that are not seen in the realm of Hollywood. It is not the “Scarface”, “Boys in The Hood” and “Blood in, Blood Out” that are glorified in our realms and almost change our narrative as being ‘real’. Instead, this movie projects a perspective of optimism and discards the stereotypes that have type casted black and brown people for years in the industry.  It showcases the problems and struggles with gentrification and how a community of people change with it. It tells a story of the generations which eat the fruits of our predecessor’s labor and not like it, so they plant their own. It also shows that education is an important tool to contribute to progress and it does not have to come from a degree or diploma. This movie shows what we as people of color do in this country every day; day in and day out:

Survive. With all our heart and souls. And we do not need to change who we are as a people. 

This movie is relatable to all who understand that. I am just really happy and grateful that my ‘ hood was the place where this story was told. “In The Heights” is now part of history whether it fails or succeeds in the box office, whether it tells ‘my” version of the neighborhood or not; whether you like it or not. In my opinion, this movie is now a welcomed part of our diaspora of Latinos. It is a piece of art that will influence generations to come. The story of hope and optimism in a world that sets up social constructs which can be torn down. “In The Heights” shows us our hoods are as beautiful as WE make them. Our ‘hoods’ are not always as bad as society makes it out to be; we should sound our ‘alabanza’ to our roots and communities for all the good that does come out of them. This movie is the swan song to all our ‘hoods. 

Thanks again Lin. I am Washington Heights, I love my ‘hood. 

How to Make a Trauma Infused Pernil: A Love Story

The Joy of Cooking. When I think back, I never really put too much thought into it...cooking that is. I learned to cook more out of necessity rather than enjoyment. I only learned to love it when I finally realized for myself that it had a subdued power I had not realized before. I enjoyed eating, I mean who doesn't? But cooking the food you eat is different. Once I learned to appreciate cooking on this level, it became a whole different story for me. It became a level of nourishment that was completely oblivious to me. Therapeutic in a way. There was something completely rewarding about the food I cooked then ate; and I don't mean "una pansa". It became an important piece of my own personal journey.  And it all started with the one dish I grew up on. The one that means more than excessive calories, "bad" fats and extremely high cholesterol levels.

Pernil, Lechon, Carnitas, Roast Pork shoulder...I don't care what you call it, but in my household (and I'm sure in many Caribbean/Latino households) this was the staple for the holidays or large family gatherings. This is OUR mutha fuckin' turkey!!! I looked forward to it whenever possible. As a kid during the holidays or celebrations, we would do "Pernil" tours. Every family member's household had a least one pernil cooking. I had 5 households to go to. My cousins and I would all start making the rounds early in the day just to get a piece of that damn pernil! By the end of the tours, I wouldn't be surprised if we each ate 1/4 of the whole pig!!!

These gathering would bring such wonderful memories as well as bad ones. But the center piece  would always be the pernil! The excuse to expose ourselves to such conflicting worlds. The yin and yang of foods. Since I love irony so much, it always amazed me how much love was put into such a filthy animal. Nothing against my beloved pernil, but I'm sure many people would not even touch it if they saw where it laid its head at night. But any who, for the point of this blog, this is why this beloved dish became what I needed to learn how to cook and start my love of cooking. It represented so much of my culture, my childhood, my traumas and my favorite memories.  A fucking pig, but oh so good!!!

The following will be the steps and processes I took to make my beloved dish. Mind you; I wanted to make this dish because of its' absence in my life since I moved away from home. I had been to many restaurants that made it, I had gone to many households who did it as well, but it wasn't the pernil I knew. I had to make it. And I was going to...

Of course, I had to go to the source of my traumas to get the recipe. I remember asking my mom and family members about "their" pernils to see what were their methods and secrets. Each one had its' own distinct taste and flavors but every household had its' own science to their "perfect" pernil. The mad laboratory of pernil making. It was exhausting none the less as I started to hear "Tienes que usar naranja agria endebes de limon!" in one household, while the other said "Hecha le mas ajo que todo! Asi es que te vas quedar bueno!" These conversations went from getting a recipe into who's pernil was better! And what killed me was that at the end of these conversations, they all said: "El mio es el mejor pernil! No verdad?!" SMH...

Now, its' time to get crackin! My process was to take what I got from my research, as well as what I remembered from watching my family and what I envisioned my end product to be.  Also, to include any anger, resentment and bad vibes that I was going thru. Trust me, it comes in handy later on. Plus any new and different ideas or thoughts that I thought would make this pernil taste like heaven! This was the strategy. So before I got into it, I needed to do some prep work! Here's what I did:

I got a case of beers, 1 bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, 1 bottle of Brugal,  a 2-liter of Coke and arranged a playlist of some classic 80's merengue, some Fania All-Stars, some classic bachata with some new ones, merengue ripiao, reggaeton, dancehall and old school hip-hop! I made sure this was laid out before cooking and that I had easy access to all of it before I got into it. At first, I didn't want anyone around while I was going to make this dish...but as time passed, and the more I made it, the more comfortable I got around making it with people around me. With that said, have some one you like and/or love while you are making the pernil.  In my experience, the better the person you're around, the better that pernil will come out! True story!

OK, first step: Press play. I usually start with my classic 80's merengue or Fania All Stars. Then take a shot. Johnnie is my go to with a side of Coke. This will get the engine going! Now, start chopping up those green peppers, white onions, tomatoes and garlic cloves! Chop aggressively! Dance during and in between you chop. It is multitasking but you'll get used to it the more practice you get. Once everything is chopped up, put it in the blender. Then take another shot.

As the blender is going, start rolling those limes while feeling the music. Add some olive oil, oregano and lime juice to the blender. I usually put black pepper, salt and Adobo in the blender, but I add more later. The point is, get that sofrito tasting like you can jump in and take a bath with it!! Stop the blender, do a spin and now take out that lovely piece of swine!!! Lay it on the cutting board, then take a shot.

I usually go for 15pds or better, but small ones are good too. Take a sharp knife. Now, since we are 3 shots in, you have to be careful with the knife. I would advise that if you are a light weight, go easy on your shots. Please vary it to your tolerance level. While this is my method, it works for me but it may not work for you. Kinda like trauma. Be careful, remember...you got a knife in your hand!! Ok, now peel back the top layer of fat but don't cut it completely off. Leave it on like your uncle's bad comb over. It should be a flap that consists mostly of the pernil's skin. Before you start the next step, switch to beer. Bestidad de novia is preferred. Don't drink it yet.

Take a knife and start to stab the shit out of that pernil!!! Stab, stab, stab! Turn it, stab it! Flip it, stab it! Go ballistic, make several holes in the pernil BUT DON'T use a big knife. Use one that goes about 1-2 inches deep. You don't want to ruin the pernil by going all the way thru. You want to go deep enough so that it doesn't fall apart. Trust me, this is crucial. You can ruin it entirely if you go way too deep. Remember, this is supposed to be trauma infused. Not overkill. Once you are done stabbing, dance a merengue ripiao and drink the beer. Probably one of the best beers you will have in your life!

Ahora, my favorite part...and quite possibly the BEST part. It is time to season the pernil! Aqui es que viene todo el amor y carino the pernil needs! Especially since you stabbed the shit out of it! Rub some adobo on it before hand. Take the remainder of those limes and squeeze that juice all over it. Then take the sofrito to it. Remember all those holes? Pour that sofrito and fill them up with it. Let it ooze out. Make sure you heal all of the pernil's wounds with that blend of life!!! Let it flow all around and then....massage it. Sobalo todo. Make sure you deep tissue massage that pernil! She needs it. Cojelo suave. Mucho cariño, mucho amor...Aye chi-chi!

Its' time for a shot. Bailate una bachatica or un merenguito.

Now...look at that pernil. Look at your hands. Smell them.  Think about how good this pernil will turn out. Remind yourself that you created this and put every little bit of yourself into it. Take your finger, run it across the top of it. And now taste it. Sabor it. Know that once you put it in the oven and it is done, you will enjoy every bit of it. Some people like leaving it in the oven for about 6-8 hours. Me...I like to slow roast it. 14 hours plus. Giving it attention every 2-3 hours. Basting it, pouring its' juice over it. Tending to it, making sure it stays just right. Just making sure it doesn't get ruined. Just making sure....

In the oven you go. As time passes, your home should be filled with the smell of goodness. The music and vibe should accompany it. Baila. Take a shot. fuck it.. take another. Celebrate the process. But be careful, don't forget about her. Don't get lost in the celebration, remember that pernil is there. You gave it so much love and attention,  keep your eye on it. That pernil is smelling so good right about now...and she will remind you. That pernil will reward you with a warm heart and a full belly in the end...just as long as you remember to check on her.  Cuidala.

One last shot, or beer, or water.....or whatever. At this point it doesn't matter.

Ya es tiempo! The process is finished. It is now time to take that pernil out the oven! Make sure the cuerito is nice and crisp. And when it comes out, try it. Break off a piece. Taste it. Que rico! I know mine came out fantastic. Just the way I like it. If you decided to have someone present during your cooking, have them taste it. Don't look for their reaction just yet. Just sabor the moment that you fed them. You made something that you enjoyed and shared it. That's the beauty of it. That's that nourishment that I talked about in the begin. The pernil is just the vehicle to it. While that pernil was fantastic, its' process was even better.

Now, I make it as often as I can. Making the pernil opened me up to recreating more of those dishes that I grew up with and love. It also made me challenge myself to those dishes that I've always wanted. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be a chef or go into some type of culinary school but I respect the art and process way more than I did before. I enjoy cooking now. I love it.

It means much more than good food to me now.

Coño! That traumas a bitch!!!!

Like The Legend of the Phoenix.....

"All ends with beginnings."

It becomes one of my most valuable lessons. No matter where life takes me, it all comes back to this. I really couldn't tell you why it happens, it just does. Lets' just say that "coming full circle" thing applies.

I'm back home.

My home coming was really uneventful. Honestly, partly because I wanted it that way, but the other part felt as if I didn't have to celebrate it. I believe the phrase I've used to describe it had been "bitter-sweet". Perfect, right on the nose.  To clarify, I'm happy to be home. I am not happy to have left. Confused? Maybe. But its' a real feeling. Same one I had when I left to California 9 years ago.

Full circle.

Many of my friends and family would ask me, "Don't you miss home? Isn't it hard? Don't you miss your family?" It's funny. I've only been back 3 weeks, and I am still being asked the same questions. My answer: Of course it is. It is never easy, no matter what the situation is.

My last day in California summed it up. I woke up curled up next to my son, holding him just like any other day. But this time, there was an all too familiar sinking feeling. He slept, I wept. At given points, the sobs were uncontrollable. I didn't want to wake him up. I tried my best to continue with my routine, which I did. But the tears and the gasps weren't going to make it easy. And they didn't. I couldn't even hold my toothbrush properly. Every step became a challenge, every motion became a struggle. I felt weaker by the minute. and only a few minutes had gone by. In the shower, I was happy the water would hide some of my tears and sobs. I stood there for quite a bit hoping the water would just let my sorrow wash away and go down the drain. I unloaded as much as I could.

I had already packed, so once I was dressed I slid back into my son's bed. Curled, cuddled. Listening to his small snores and deep breathes. Heavy sleeper like his dad. I began to cry some more. I just couldn't stop. He kept sleeping. I don't how long this went on for, but I do remember being startled by his mom. She walked in, maybe thinking that she would have to wake both of us up. I wondered if she was there long. She was at the foot of the bed; lightly grabbed my ankle. I think she said "Oh da daddies..."

I fell to pieces.

We sat near the entrance of the security gate at the airport before I had to go through it, my son in between me and his mom. He had an old cell phone I gave him.  He was taking pictures left and right, all smiles. He took random shots of us, then asked us to pose. He never missed a beat. He looked happy. The moment he got up from bed, he was his usual self. Happy, smiles....whining more about not being able to play Minecraft more than anything else. But he never flinched. He hugged us both, took some more pictures. Giggles and chuckles. Incredible. As we all walked to the gate, I felt the tears coming back. I saw his mom's face; she was in tears. But my son...he smiled. He giggled nervously and proceeded to grab me and his mom. He hugged us tightly and said "It will be OK. I love you."

I know he's only 10, but it doesn't matter. He's one tough boy. He displayed a strength that had always been there, I just noticed it more on that day. As a parent, I believe one of your many jobs is to protect your children from all harm. But the world isn't perfect. Sometimes harm seeps in, and it is really hard to see it for yourself until it happens. I was worried for a long time...but my last day in California I recognized something. Actually, I learned something. I learned it from my son.

Immense powers he has. Like the legend of the Phoenix...

(In Dumbledore's voice) "Oh...you have much to learn Albert! Much to learn..."

I love you papi.

HEY DJ!!!!!!!!!!!!!! DON'T PLAY THAT $#*%!!!!!!

(brushes the thick layer of dust off the blog page....)

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!! :p  One of my resolutions: Write more.

Poor blog. So neglected. I feel bad. But....Aqui estoy. Ready to have my creative juices flow onto the screen and display what goes on in my crowded little head. And crowded it has been. "Thought" over load in most cases. So for one of my first blogs of the year I decided to go to my beloved. Mi amorcito, mi bon bon...mi tesoro. Mi musica.

While reading the Huff, I came across this article about DJ Shadow from da Bay Area.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/01/03/dj-shadow-too-future_n_2403810.html

So, as a DJ and a life long partner of music, I have to say this shit is ridiculous. Booting a DJ in the middle of his set? Just because he wasn't "Commercial"? Wow. Sounds like some elites shit but more on that later.

As a DJ, I have always loved playing to the crowd. I am; and guide myself as being the "give them what they want to hear" type of DJ. Very upbeat, I like digging in the crates (now my hard drive), pulling out those jams that make people say "Holy Shit! I remember this!" Or "Dayum I haven't heard this!" I like taking people on a journey with music. Which is what a good DJ does, take people on a journey and have them enjoy it.

But this idea of DJ Shadow not being commercial enough is an insult and I do agree with him. I wouldn't sacrifice what my vision and interpretation is no matter how big the venue. What a DJ plays is an extension of himself. His style, his craft, shared with the world. Problem is, some people may not see it that way. I mean, that's what makes us unique as human beings, we are different and we don't all like the same things. Music being the point here. So for club owners to decide what people want to hear, I don't think they understand the art form or really care about the music. At that point, its all about their status and keeping people drunk. That's it.

I've worked with shady ass promoters who want nothing more than money in their pocket. Granted, we as DJ's do want some compensation but dealing with these individuals can be discouraging. At times it is a necessary evil that DJ's endure just to make it and get to the top. For me personally, the love of my art is far grater than a promoter/club owner who is worried about meeting the minimum bar take and packing the club. In my history as a DJ, I've done gigs just for the thrill of playing in front of people and sharing my journey, not for monetary gain. While it is not a good strategy to come up in the "industry", what a DJ plays is HIS art and his legacy. How do you put a price on that? But as long as we have the "Hiltons", the "Lilos" and all these other celebrities poppin bottles and making the promoters/club owners drunk rich, DJ's are just tools. And if you follow my drift, the music suffers.

And then you wonder why the quality of music is on a decline nowadays...tsk, tsk...

Aight, who wants to party? :)

Digital Disaster, Recovery: Re-birth....

Ok, I feel like I can talk about it now. So here it goes....

When it happened, I guess I was in such a state of shock that all I could really do was weep and moan. As a matter of fact, I was told I was curled up in a fetal position mumbling some non-sense. It wasn't the first time it had happened but it was just as painful as the last. Luckily both times, I had a back-up which saved at least 75% of my music, but I had to recoup the rest. So, the rebuilding started on the "Date of Death" which I will refer to from this point on as "DoD".

DoD - 9/8/12 - Saturday/Early Sunday

CRASH!!!!!!!!! I saw it hit the floor. My heart dropped and my buzz faded faster than a black t-shirt from "Bueno, Bonito Y Barato". I swear everything around me stopped. Voices became muffled, time stopped. Total mind chaos was about to happen. The crazy part was that the last time it happened, it dropped on the same exact spot! No fucking joke! I think my mind flashed both Hard Drives in my head just to fuck with me. It was from that point that I couldn't get the image out of my head. I heard myself saying "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit....."

I don't know how fast I moved to pick up the Hard Drive, but it felt slow! I remember picking it up, my eyes glued to it. I think I caressed the fucking thing as I brought it closer to me! I might have chanted a spell as I stroked it in hopes of bringing it back to life. "Por favor, por favor, por favor...."

Connect...no hum, Faint beeping. I put the warm casing to my ear. No vibe, no pulse....just beeping. I keeping plugging and unplugging as if this would create new life. No go. I rub it again, chanting more...still.

I think this is where I curled up....

As a DJ, this is a constant reminder on why the digital era is the gift and the curse! The gift of digital: No more crates to carry! The curse: DoD. I imagine shit like that happening to all DJ's who use digital format. I can only imagine those who don't back their music up on separate drives. Either way though, Loss is Loss, no matter how you put it. It is real hard to handle the loss of something you love. In my case, I lost what I love dearly. And it hurt, Again.

First time, I lost it all. Second time, I lost most of it. Third time I didn't lose as much. Now....I saved most of it. I'm getting better! :)

Time to Recover.

Since it wasn't the first time it happened, I had a strategy in place. So here's the optimism in this blog: Recovery: Rebirth. As mad as I was, and as hard as it was not to re-live the whole thing over and over, I made it a goal to recover my music. The last time I had backed up that Hard Drive was April 1st, 2012. 6 months and a couple of days. A lot of time, a lot of music. Let's get started.

I said it once, I'll say it again. Music is the best therapy. I went through moments in time with every song. Remembering when I got the song, why I picked it, why I played it. Using my browser history as reference to the points of dates. (You see, there is good in not erasing your browser history! :p) Getting mad, getting happy. I furiously started this road to recovery in hopes of getting ALL of my music back. And honestly, it has helped deal with my frustration and anger of losing what I love. I was getting back what I wanted piece by piece. Just that now, I had to re-configure and re-organize. Next: Creating new play lists.

I got most of what I lost. Not all, but most. I still have more to go. And its' going to take awhile. But good thing that I know how to do it. How to recover what I had once lost....

I got to get another Hard Drive. You know....just in case.

The Only Way Out Is In!!!

Hola! Como estan?! Miss me?! I hope so…I liked to be missed! When I hear “I miss you”, for me it is what I imagine heroine to feel to a dope head shooting up! Uhhhhhh….too much?  Well, for what its’ worth, I missed you guys too! And to those who reached out to find out why I haven’t written a blog in awhile, gracias! I am happy and grateful that you guys appreciate my opinions and writing. Hopefully this blog comes in at the right time for you as I feel it has for me. Mostly, because this topic has been looming around in my head for the past couple of weeks. So I said to myself,  “Self…maybe it is time to try to undo the knots in my brain and have this make sense.” And here we are.  So again, gracias! I missed you guys!

Anyone who knows me on a personal level knows how prideful I am. I mean, have you met my mother and father?  But besides that, the pride I am talking about es el orgullo de mi cultura. Mi Raices! Dominicano Soy!!! Bred and raised in my culture, I represent my roots to the fullest where ever I go. I’m rooted more than a sancocho con toda la verduras!!!  So naturally, when I moved to Cali, I took it with me. Without going into too much detail, I struggled here in Cali with not having the constant presence of my culture around me. But eventually, it came out from deep within my soul. Through my extended family here in Cali, music, food (it did up my cooking skills 10 fold!), I found my culture tucked away between missing my immediate family and a bottle of Brugal! Suena! But that’s a whole other blog. Again…Quisqueya hasta la guida!

One of the pinnacle moments of re-invigorating my sense of culture and pride was when I read ‘The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” by Junot Diaz.

Recommended to me by some very talented writers and artists, I embraced the book as a mother would a child. It became a piece of me. I don’t think I had ever connected with a book as much as I had with this one. And mind you, being away from home just intensified the importance of the book to me. So naturally, I became the Junot Diaz groupie. Recommending the book to everyone I knew! Reading anything he put out, going to forums, discussions, readings, interviews, plays, etc.  Anything relating to the book, I made an effort to go. It just had that type of impact on me. Sure it helped that DR was all over it but I have to admit, for that moment in time I don’t think I realized the actual impact it had on me. I connected from the first paragraph. The book definitely intensified the embracing of my roots and culture, but it did more than just that. The story, the cultural references and facts about DR were already familiar to me. But the “real” impact  went deep, way deep.

Fast forward to now. The book has come back to me. Kind of like a zombie resurrecting from its’ grave trying to eat my brain! In a good way though, I mean…not like eating brains is good…or maybe it is….but its’ a metaphor...you know? OH, you get it! It returned to my life to remind me of the “real” impact it made when I was unconscious of it. I had recommended the book to one of my friends and when she finished reading it, it has been an all out "mental interperative dance" of the mouth.  Discussing our interpertation of all subject matters the book puts out; love, trauma, relationships, sacrifices, crazy ass families, cross cultural curses (FUKU!). And relating them to our own experiences. More discussion. Contrast, Compare. Disect. Discover. Revalation: Dysfunction is a muthafuka!!!!

So, how can i best discribe how deep it went. Well, I'll let Yunior tell you
 

“So, which is it? you ask. An accident, conspiracy or fukú? The only answer I can give you is the least satisfying: you’ll have to decide for yourself. What’s certain is that nothing is certain. We are trawling in silences here.”

Yunior, p. 243

So without sounding too "Matrix-y", here's my point. During my struggle, I was looking for answers. Answers to why things were the way they were. Did I make the wrong choices? Was I going to succeed? How the fuck did I end up so far away from home? Trying to make sense of all that exsisted at that present time and what I thought was going to happen. But I realized that all I had to do was.....nothing. 

Nothing but just sit with it.

Hard to do when I am a man with so many words and so many questions. I can barely lay in silence when I'm sleeping. But it definitely brought into focus that maybe, just maybe I didn't need to have all the answers. Maybe I just needed to sit and think...in silence. Maybe not having "silence" was my "fuku" and accepting it was my "zafa". Ugh....fuck you Junot! In a good way....

So here I am now, in another struggle but with a new vision. A new perspective. Hopefully strong enough to break a cycle that has been in my family for years.  The book put out the idea, and it left me to interpert it on my own. As any good book should.

Diablo loco....Great fucking book.

Let's see what your next book does for me. Heard its' about "love" again....

Coño! Ya yo veo!!!!!!! :p