Our Israelites

 

So rocking was the summer of 1968 that, when I was eleven at Boyscout camp, my whole troop hoisted my tent flaps at 6:30 a.m. as I sang The Israelites at the top of my lungs and danced. No self-respecting Boyscout had ever heard this music, much less seen a strange Jew singing and dancing it as it rained torrentially in Stokes State Forest, New Jersey. Let's just say that I was driven out of camp for doing a "strip tease" unbecoming of the reigning creed.

The question remains, do you remember the days of slavery?* At eleven I had no idea what "Israelites" Desmond Dekker was talking about, except, that in my little head, I was one of them. We had celebrated Passover only a couple months before and all I was thinking about were the Exodus and Promised Land stories. Well, it wasn't coincidence that so was Desmond Dekker.

*see Burning Spear.

Manny Padron: Autobiographical Essay

Manny Padrón

Mrs. Garrity/ Mrs.Borrenstein

English II

17 January 2014

Benchmark Essay

Atticus Finch said, “you never really understand a person until you consider things from his point view-until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” In my life this quote means so much; coming from a dictatorship like Cuba it’s harder than people think.

On the exact date of  March 6, 1998 my life began, and from then on my life would be a rough rollercoaster ride. By the time I could walk and talk my parents were divorced so I never really had an idea of what a true happy family looked like. I still remember having to go from house to house between my mom and dad’s house. I would always cry when I was away from either one of them, I used to miss my mom when I was with my Dad and vice-versa. Between all of the moving, leaving, and crying I had a little bit of depression. As a little kid, I would love being with all of my family and it hurt me a lot knowing that it could not happen all the time. I remember being happier with my Dad instead of my mom because he would let me do anything I chose to do and he would always keep me safe. Being with my Mom would be rough because she, at the time, lived with an abusive boyfriend and he would mostly hit her in front of me and I remember doing everything I could to get him off of her and I would cry so many times a day because of that. Sometimes he would try to threaten me and my mom would yell and tell him not to touch me so he got mad at her. One time he told my mom that he would kill my uncle and that’s when my mom and I knew it was time to get out and put him behind bars. I remember exactly how we got him arrested because it was so cool to me. We went to the police and told them the story and they told us what to do. We were instructed to put a brick outside the steps when the guy was home. In the middle of the day he came home and I put the brick on the stairs. When we were all about to fall asleep we heard a helicopter above us and they said in Spanish “we have you surrounded come out with your hands up,” and then the ground troops came in and took him away. I remember being so happy I hugged my mom and we cried tears of joy. To this day I think about those days and say to myself I wish he would try to do something like that now.

After that problem was out of my life I still had more problems. I never really had my own bed; I would sleep on hammock and I also could not drink the water because it was dirty. My mom used to be so stressed that when I did something wrong she would hit me and scream at me but my Grandma would always save me because I was her favorite grandson. I would see my dad only a couple times a month and my feelings kept getting hurt over and over. After a year or so I was suddenly getting happier; I began seeing my father more and being with all of my family and having fun.

Then suddenly a man my Mom met by the beach came to our house one day. He introduced himself to me as David and as soon as I saw him I loved him; he made me happy. When he was around I would never cry; I would always laugh and smile; even when I got mad and put a frown on my face he would sing me a special song. The song would go something like this, “you cannot cover the sun with one finger; the truth is the truth; so don’t frown at me.” Although it sounds better in Spanish it always put a smile on my face. From the day my mother met David she would always be happy and calm. As the days passed I would see him regularly and I began to love him as my real dad, he would show me so much love and affection that not even my own family could give me. He was basically my savior and my new hope for a better life.

My mom later got serious with him and ended up marrying him. I, of course, was the ring boy at the marriage. A year or so later he told us that he wanted to take us to America. I was not happy leaving my family but it was up to my mom and my dad also agreed because he knew I would have a better life there. My father spoke to David about keeping me safe and making sure he makes the right decisions.

Later in the year my Mom, David, and I got on a plane to the U.S and when we got there I had a weird feeling. For some reason I was feeling cold. As a boy from Cuba where it is always hot I thought I was sick. When we got out of the airport I saw white colored drops coming from above. I stuck my tongue out and tried to eat them. David laughed and told me that it was not food and we got into his car and left to some place called a house. At this place I had my own bed and room! I was happy being in America.

After a few years in America it all seemed to be going so well until my mom decided that she wanted to live with her cousin instead of David. When she was about to leave she was crying and looked at me and said the most painful words I have ever heard, “are you coming with me or are you staying with David?” I didn’t know what to do. I loved them both. I was stuck between my mother and my stepdad. I wanted to go with her but I had friends where I lived and I had started school already, plus I had better opportunities with David so I ended up saying “David.”

At present, I barely see my mom but we speak every day. My father lives in Cuba still and so does the rest of my family. David has been my biggest supporter throughout my hard life and we get along fine. But the things I deal with still hurt. When people look at me they automatically assume that I am a delinquent and that I don’t care about anything. To be honest I am none of that. I am just a person who has been to hell and back, so like a turtle, I keep my outer shell hard so that my inner weakness does not show. So this is why the quote, “you never really understand a person until you consider things from his point view [and] you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it,” means so much to me because people think they know what I am all about and try to judge, but they have no idea what I have been through and still am going through.

Works Cited

Lee, Harper. To Kill a Mockingbird. New York: HarperPerennial (1930]). p. 85-87

Tunturuntu: Casa Cerrado

In it's own way, it's just precious. Still, go figure. Misericordia.

A Review of "Sacrificial Ceremonies of Santeria: A Complete Guide to the Rituals and Practices," by Ocha' Ni Lele (2012)

A Review of "Sacrificial Ceremonies of Santeria: A Complete Guide to the Rituals and Practices," by Ocha' Ni Lele (2012). By David H. Brown (original for Amazon).

The list of works in English on "Santeria" (alt. Lukumi Religion) has become extensiv...e. Newcomers value careful introductions, yet the majority of works published have given us introductions. The historiography is reasonably rich and the offerings reasonably accessible via Amazon and libraries. The writer has provided a number of clearly written, though controversial, prior books on Santeria. Arguably, now, priests and lay-people hunger for depth, nuance, and development of theme. Hence, "Sacrificial Ceremonies" and "A Complete Guide to the Rituals and Practices" in the title and subtitle quickly drew my attention.

Systematic treatments of this particular subject are few; what exists is dispersed among numerous hard-to-find "treatises" of the Lukumi religion, most of which are in difficult Cuban Spanish, which few can read at all; moreover these authors intentionally withhold crucial information to guard their knowledge base and exclude others.

In the book at hand, the terms "ceremonies," "rituals," and "practices" denote the actual doing of sacrifices, plural. And "complete," if it were possible at all to provide an exhaustive treatment of the religion's vast sacrificial technologies, raises the expectation, at minimum, of thoroughness.

The author devotes twenty four pages of this 242 page book to sacrificial ceremonies/rituals/practices, following a brief discussion of sacrificial "preparations" (Chapters Six and Seven) Chapters One and Two discuss cosmology and divination; Chapters Three and Four deal with Santeria's history and "globalization"; Chapter Five discusses the famous Santeria (Lukumi) animal sacrifice Supreme Court triumph of 1993. And the final Chapter Eight provides mythological stories (Pataki) on the theme of sacrifice. The two chapters devoted to practice are admirably detailed and systematic, though narrowly confined to a single paradigm.

It might be inappropriate to critique a work for what it does not do, rather than praise it for what it does. However, a number of other authors have already outlined the same basic paradigm in Spanish and English (e.g., M. Ramos and J. Mason).

A cursory review of the more esoteric treatises (not to mention, the ceremonies themselves, in which we all participate) and of which the writer is certainly aware) indicates that sacrifices significantly differ with respect to the kinds of offerings, deities, pertinent ecologies (e.g., inside, outside--road, forest, ocean, river, hill, tree, etc.) and other variables, though the basic paradigm is observed--though significant variation exists. For example, who should use only their hands and who a knife? What offerings require the hands or the knife? How do you give a conejo to one deity, an ayapa to another, an eure to yet another, an igbin, ekute, aya, or agbani, eran...? How many of each offering; what colors should they be; in what sequence should they come? When should the ceremonies take place in the sacred room and when in a joro-joro in the forest? How do the particulars of the preparation for these acts change depending upon the deity? When do a coconut, thunderstone, bamboo knife, a golpe, and/or a romper enter as additional sacrifical tools? What are the implications for the ritual sequence for dos patas or cuatro patas? If it is the latter, what is the crucial relationship of "sacrifice" to the "acheses" taken out, and how are the different classes of transformed offerings and bodily reconstructions (not to mention the prayers and dances that accompany them) presented and represented to the deities? If you're concentrating on the Dead or upon Yemaya, how should the particular litany of the names of the deceased differ in the moyuba prayer?

In short, a thorough guide (covers the principal bases) would help me and many others a lot. An exhaustive guide (perfectly "complete") would probably exhaust anyone's patience.

For many reasons, I cannot claim to have mastered any of the questions just alluded to. As an author, I am guilty of writing long and wide-ranging books, which do not cover what some readers would like to have in their hand. Hence, I do not expect the author of "Sacrificial Ceremonies" to do it all. However, someone with his experience in writing for lay and priestly constituencies, as well as whose author's persona has always attempted to project great expertise, should attempt to focus more intensively on the topic at hand. It appears that the knife is not only too short, but also requires significant sharpening.

David, Gem Gem, and the Two Waters

Gem Gem never set foot on a beach in her five years. She hunkered down and padded through the sand like it was extraterrestrial--moon dust. The boom of the surf surprised her more than scared her. Looking at me wide-eyed, she leaped up and down like a gazelle as if to ask, "where in the world are we?" Neither would she enter the fresh water brook that runs to the sea on the same beach, where I go every day for the magical place of the two waters. We returned the next day to find that the brook had cut a lyrical meander, leaving a tear-drop spit, like a hand inviting us closer to the gentle current. Sniffing diligently, she led me out the spit and nonchalantly crossed the brook three times. It was tranquil, cool, and safe there. She discovered she could drink. So my new companion, bit by bit, will come to love this beach too.

Eulogy for My Mother, June 2, 2011

Three years ago, my mother wrote to Rabbi Gerald Zelizer when she discovered she had cancer. She told him that she wanted no eulogy at her funeral.

My mother was selfless and private; she had no wish that her virtues be proclaimed in public. I want to respect that--never mind that I probably could not get through a eulogy today.

Three years ago, no one could turn off my tongue. At this point in my journey, I find myself speechless, except that I know in my heart that my mother was the most decent and caring person I ever knew, an angelic soul.

Still, it seems only just that my mother be praised in direct proportion to the magnitude of her humility.

So, please allow me to rely upon someone else’s words to do so. In Proverbs, known more for the sayings of Solomon, are also the “words of King Lemuel,” from a vision Lemuel’s mother instructed him to relate.

Please read responsively with me Lemuel’s Praise of the Virtuous Woman.

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

Mom, I am so grateful for your unconditional love. It’s the heart of the matter and it’s what has made me who I am.

Eulogy for My Father, 8.12.2011

Last time many of us were here together, I said that it had been forty-one years almost to the day since I had spoke from this podium on my Bar Mitzvah at age 13. Sadly, today, it has been only 70 days since the last time I spoke from this podium, June 2, 2011, the date of my mother’s funeral. It is much too soon for us to be reunited here again. Much too soon.

In writing the words to follow, I realized that they were meant as much for my 13 year-old son’s ears as in praise of my father. In order to heal, I have to look forward as much as back. I believe Morris Brown believed this also. You will see why.

They say that the child is the father of the man. To me, this means that the man is formed from the child and becomes a mensch, through the right kind of teaching and experience. A mensch, in Yiddish, is a person of integrity and honor, a real human being of character.

Morris Brown was a mensch. He was, and remains, the moral center of my life. He was a vast repository of knowledge and wisdom. He was not a chatterbox. He would say something to you once in his laconic, unequivocal way, and you remembered every word, just the way he said it.

Morris Brown loved the law, the Jewish religion, his family, his colleagues, and his fellow human beings. As a trial lawyer, in chanting the book of Jonah every year for decades on Yom Kippur, and as a son, brother, husband, father, colleague, and mentor, he played a key speaking role in our lives. More important, he taught by example.

He taught me that no one is superior or inferior. Every one is equal.

He taught me respect for authority, as much as I resisted.

He taught me that there is honor in all work.

He taught me to sacrifice.

He taught me to make everyone feel comfortable and welcome, often starting with self-effacing humor.

He taught me to love knowledge. You knew who and where you were if you understood the world. He avidly consumed historical biography and several newspapers a day, front to back.

He taught me professional ethics and to make disinterested decisions.

Indeed, he taught me to smell conflict-of-interest until it was second nature, intuitive.

Like others before him, he sought to make a just world that he would be proud, content, and safe to live in.

He taught me to tell the truth and that the truth was not always pretty.

I his last weeks, his dignity seemed to stand out as even more refined and compelling amidst the insults of the hospital.

Last Wednesday evening, as I hand-fed him his dinner, he looked at me straight in the face between small bites and said, “this is just what I did for my father every night when he was in the hospital.” His sentiment was both universal and very Jewish. In one sentence he encapsulated what a son should learn from his father and demonstrate without prompting generation after generation. David Hersh ben Moshe ben Fishel.

Yesterday, I handled my father’s effects that I had collected from him just before he went boldly into surgery. Glasses, watch, wedding ring, and wallet. I had been carrying them with me everyday for twenty four days. His wallet contained no pictures but one, a laminated Little League baseball card of Manny, my son, smiling in batting position. He didn’t need other pictures. He knew what we looked like, that we were formed. Manny had his whole beautiful life ahead of him. So when you think back on this morning, thing of this card.

GROWING UP.

When Manny is having a hard time, acts out, disrespects me, and trashes good character, I ask him to write a letter to me once he calms down. It's a kind of promise. It's what we call in Reevaluation Counseling, a "Frontier Commitment." How long it lasts varies. He's a beautiful boy and a good son.

1)
To: David Brown
I respect you, listen to you. No talking back. Everything to make life easier.

2)
Manny Padron 2.26.11
Dad, I'm sorry I yelled, started a tantrum, and made life a whole new barrier to overcome. Those aren't my intentions. I want to be a good, hard-working person. So from now on I'm going to apply myself more in school than in friends. When I told Kenny, "someday I'm going to be your boss," he said, haha, yeah, right." But he also said, "never tell yourself you're bad at something. You just have to work harder."

3)
Manny.
a) I'm going to pay attention in class
b) I'm going to ask a question when I don't understand, especially with homework.
c) I'm going to do my homework calmly every day.
d) I will not yell at David or raise my voice.

4)
Theme: Telling the Truth
Telling the truth is all about being honest and keeping a straight face. it's also about using your head and making the right choices. It also comes from your heart, so you don't get in trouble--or so you go to jail. It is so people can trust you to keep your word. You have to be a good friend. I want to walk through life with a clean conscience. I would go to any adult or friend with calm and order if I didn't know what the truth was. There are times when you don't know what the truth is because people are telling lies, so you have to investigate to find out the real truth. I promise never to tell a lie. Manny, 10.25.09

5)
1.23.11
Dad, I'm sorry that I went against what you and Rosie agreed to and I tried to trick you guys. It won't happen again. I will be so much better. I promise to be good. I won't lie to you any more.

6)
July 5, 2011
Dad, I'm sorry I broke the window. I've noticed that you have always been there for me and I've always messed up with you. I probably deserve to be homeless at this point but I have come to an understanding that It's really hard for you at this certain rough road in this long field trip and I understand now, but what I know for sure is that I love you and that you've been a great father to me and I haven't been appreciating it. At this point it's up to you to tell me I stay or go!

Yom Kippur. L'Shanah Tovah. "Sins," for us, really means "missing the mark." We don't believe in "Original Sin." Sins against God are absolved with prayer on this day. Sins against others are not absolved by God until we make amends directly to the people we hurt.

I just had an altercation in the supermarket with a woman who cut in front of me in the check out line. Upon regaling her for selfishness, lack of remorse, and how lovely an evening she should have with her husband while gloating about her drive to get a head, a hero of the male persuasion appeared and called me an insecure asshole for talking to a woman in such a way. He challenged me to a fight. Chivalry is not dead in New Jersey.