Missing:Alex's Bike

I have finally calmed a bit so I can tell this story. Before, I was a bit livid and unsettled but now that I seem to have calmed to the point of not having homicidal thoughts, I can write with my usual random and stray thoughts rather than a dark, focused and angry humor. So if I seem to go off point and fly off the path of true enlightenment…well that is normal.

So we have been without a car for a while. That is not such a big deal unless we want to leave this tiny little cove. Our apartment, Alex’s school, my shop, Carme’s office: all in a 5 block radius. Tossa encompasses maybe a 6 square block as a point of reference.

The only issues without having a car is leaving the neighborhood or school district sized pueblo (ha ha) or going to soccer games. Sure the home field was within walking distance (hence the 6th block) but sometimes having a car saved on time. Normally we have to borrow a family member’s car if we knew time was of essence, but in case of a pinch, we would all ride our bikes.

Bikes have their definite benefits. I don’t need to go into that rant but there is a bit of caution involved, also. One would think that in this small and peaceful town, that like old times in America, where bike locks were unheard of, Carme still warned us to make sure the bikes were locked wherever we went. This is where the drama begins.

So one Monday, Alex had practice; Carme borrowed her mother’s car and needed to be in a town 30 minutes away preventing her from taking Alex to practice. The plan, the one I thought I had worked out with Carme and in turn she relayed to her father, was as follows:

I mentioned I would take Alex to practice by bike, Alex would be picked up by his grandfather and retrieve the bike from the field and spend the night with his grandparents as usual on Monday night. Well all good plans have variables you can’t plan and assume will work out on their own.

Thus I closed my shop and Alex and I rode our bikes to practice. Now I have ridden my bike to practice many of times alone. I was careful to lock it since I am there from 8:30 to 11 at night. But here we are, pulling up on overcast Monday afternoon, with what I thought as a well thought out plan. I left his bike there, unlocked, with the thought that when his grandfather came to pick him up, as he usually did since he enjoyed the act of boasting about his strong and able grandson who was flourishing on the local soccer team, would in turn retrieve his bike and place it in the car. I left the bike unlocked since Alex has lost his key to his lock and I could not fully rely on a 7 year old to not lose my key. But no other bikes were locked at that time. OK, I let my guard down.

A few miscommunications and my father in law did not get the bike. So there is sat. Last seen the Monday at 5:30 when I rode off in the then light rain which turned heavy in a matter of a few pedals of the bike as I slowly peddled back to my shop to reopen for business.

Sad to say it was not until Friday that we realized the bike was not in anyone’s possession. How we came about this knowledge after 4 days is sad and comical. Carme and Alex did not regularly ride their bikes since moving to the new apartment in closer proximity to the school. All the while, I assumed his bike was with his grandfather, stored in his garage. Until today, when we all decided to go for a bike ride on this beautiful sunny Labor day holiday (Spain’s version that is). After a few minutes of confusion and a few phone calls, Carme walked to my shop with a teary eyed Alex and laid the news on me as we finally realized the bike was gone. I then realized the bike was never picked up from the field. Reality sunk in and Alex tears began to flow harder.

Just at that moment, I was hit with my memory of losing a bike. I remember receiving this bike for Xmas when I was about 13. We just moved into a new house from our townhouse apartment to the other side of Hampton. Since we now had a garage, I could easily store a bike. Before I did not have the luxury of having a bike and my parents thought it was useless to buy me one before then since my whole world revolved around the townhouse/apartment complex called Queens Terrace (which in truth, I think was bigger than where I live now).

Since entering into my puberty and longing for a bit of freedom, this bike made my life a world easier to explore than before. No more walking to a friend’s house or to venture further than my aching feet would allow me to go normally. Now I could feel the wind and the only limits to my exploration were just getting lost.
I remember this one cold windy day my mother asked me to go ride my bike to the pharmacy. Finally my freedom had come at a cost. While my father lazily napped, my mother needed an able and willing body to run an errand. I was not too bothered by her asking but it took me into a neighborhood with not too good of a reputation. It was to a strip mall at the corner of Mercury and Queens. Like all strip malls that start off clean and fresh, they slowly and deliberately turn into dismal places with broken parking lots and randomly and dim lit lamps which scared the likes of most shoppers after sundown. Still I ventured off while my mother lies in wait for some medical relief.

One thing I had never thought of, or not sure if I was too lazy to purchase, was a bike lock. As I peddled down Lewis Rd, I wondered what I would do to secure my bike outside of the pharmacy. And when I say pharmacy, I mean the big kind where they sold everything under the sun. And my goal, the pharmacy counter, was way in the back of the store, perfectly placed so chances are, you would pass an aisle, something catches your eye and you ultimately spend more time and money in this one stop shop.

I propped up my bike on its kickstand and did not know it would be soon me and my new love would be separated. I ran thru the store, resisting the urge to look at the latest magazines and comic books as I passed thru aisle 4. I get to the counter and there are 2 people ahead of me. I anxiously watch as the pharmacist goes to answer the phone and wish he hadn’t and come to help settle this long line so I can get back to the keeping an eye on my bike.

Sitting impatiently in line, I could not take it and decided to run back out and check on my bike again, thus losing my place in line as I sailed back up aisle 4 avoiding the spoils of the other aisles. When I got there I was relieved to see that my bike sat there. My freedom. My liberator. I ducked back in. Darn aisle 4 is blocked by some kid who lost his way after high school and got stuck working in this joint who is stocking the chocolate cover pralines, so I brae aisle 5. Ooooooo, look at this cool new mechanical pencil I could use in class and never have to sharpen ---wait, the pharmacy.

Now I make it to the back of this football field sized shopping land, precursor to the Target stores adored by my wife and mother alike. The line is even longer. I run back out this time hoping drop out boy is in aisle 4 so I can knock him over for fun, but with me running they might think I stole something so hit the brakes a bit. Whew bike is still here. Smartly I made a mental note of the people in line: brown old coat, big red hair, hot mom with snotty nosed son, old man with glasses and so on. This time I waited outside along side my bike, peering in to see if I could count the people entering and leaving and figured after a few minutes beside my bike, my odds were increasing to get a short line and that extra pharmacy tech ill come off his break thus taking in twice the number of prescriptions. So I dart back in.

This time I lucked out and there was no one in line and a smiling pharmacy tech coming back fresh from a cigarette break ready to take my mother’s prescription. Still it seemed like taking my information and letting me know it will be 15 minutes and they would call my name over the loudspeaker that rivaled any major early warning or air raid siren systems. I rush back outside to stroke and shine my shiny new bike.

So I wait outside in the now colder day as the sun was setting. But time was slipping and I was wondering how much time had actually passed. I tried cracking the door to see if they had called my name. Something told me not to go. I could have been the faint voice of my bike calling out to me, who knows. I take the chance and run to the back. Luckily they told me they did indeed call, pull out the prescription and I paid and proudly walked out the store. I was close to exiting and completing my mission when a bad feeling hit me. It was like in a movie, I will not lie, as my worst fears were realized. I can still remember that horrible sick taste when I saw …actually did not see my bike waiting for me.

Adrenaline quickly set in as I scanned the horizon of busted cars and half broken parking lot light lamps for a glimpse of someone riding off with my bike. I ran around the corner of the building and still saw nothing, I ran a little bt more past the other buildings to see if there was a police officer or someone who could lay eye witness and help me get my bike back. What was I to do? Here is this scrawny, zit faced kid with tears in his eyes frantically looking for my stolen freedom. My stolen liberty.

Soon I realized all hope was lost and I had plenty of time to walk home now. What took me all of 15 minutes to ride my bike was now hitting the hour mark and the now set sun did not make it easier. I was not dressed for this long walk of shame. The only good thing was it was too dark and too cold for my friends to witness me going now at a much slower speed than normal and not strapped to my dynamo 10-speed.
Finally I rounded the last curve and noticed the street lights coming on. I laughed to myself about having to normally be home before the street lights came on and I was moving at too slow a pace, toes were too frozen and pride too bruised to make the last sprint in this marathon. I walked into the front door clumsily as my now bitterly numb fingers try to manage my house keys. My mom is angrily waiting for me. I think it was a mix of pain and worry over me but she still had not worked out that non yelling thing in this life time by then or ever. Seemingly her pain melted when she saw the tears I so long tried to hold back. Now I was seeing my own son’s tears and it hurt me to know I had a hand in his hurt.

Sure pain does build character if applied or survived just right. But as a parent, I try to prepare and nurture my son thru these moments. But every parent hates to see their kid cry. It only fuels my need to right the wrong.

So like that long walk of shame some 30 plus years ago, every passing bike was now catching my attention here in Tossa. And also like 30 plus years ago, what would I actually do if I saw someone riding by on the bike. Mind you this is a bike you could by anywhere at one of the local chains in the larger cities, but when Alex got it for his birthday in Nov, I had not seen one bike like this at the local school bike lock up. So I spent the whole day, just eyeballing each passing bike. Finally I resigned myself to just close the shop, go home and get over it, the bike was gone.

That afternoon, we all decided to head out to the local café within view of the playground so Alex could forget a little and have some fun with his friends. As we were walking the block, crossing into the second block, I spot this familiar bike. This local kid was struggling with this bike, trying to balance and stop with one foot. My mind raced into action. I called out to Carme and she spotted it but the look in her eye was that of defeat. I quickly raced over to the boy who was still struggling with this bike a bit too large for him. I then noticed his younger brother was trailing behind him handling his appropriately sized bike better than his larger sibling. I also noticed his father jogging gingerly behind the boys, yelling out for them to wait for him, The boys with the bike that looked like Alex’s had now rounded a curve and still wearing out the soles of his left shoe since he obviously could not work those hand brakes.

What was even more discouraging, this kid has practice on Mondays and I remember seeing his family always walking to practice, even the last Monday. My mind raced and I filled with anger. Just then the father passed and I tried to get his attention and I yelled out, “sir, the bicycle…” and before I could say another word…he responded with, “it’s mine”, turned his head and ran around the corner to follow his son.

Draw your own conclusions…would love to hear what you think.

Having "THE TALK" with my 7 year old

There are just some things in life you wish to avoid. I, on the other hand, have been waiting for moments like this.

Being a father, and not having the father figure in my life that I always wanted and like the one I am trying to be (which is not a cut to my step father but still a bitter signal to my biological one). My stepfather tried only how he knew how. Coming from long line of emotionally shut off fathers of past generations, still he provided for us, kept a roof over our heads and learned from his mistakes. I have learned that not everyone can be prepared to be a father if they have no life experiences to draw off of, nor does everyone with life experience have the fortitude to be a father. Being a "good" father is a matter of perspective. My step father, who will be referred to as my father from here on out, as he is the only one I ever really knew as a father figure and had day to day contact with since age 3, kept me out of trouble, in school and pushing to be a good man even to this day by being an example of a man who went to work everyday, did not lay his hands on my mother and brought home the bacon. For that I love him dearly for and find it so much more rewarding to come full circle from being the man and child we once were, to two men we are today.

We all know life is full of wonders and surprise. Growing as a young man into a man, were some trying and confusing times. My mother did her best to provide for me, but I am firmly convinced there are many stresses placed on single motherhood to raise a boy to a man. So if you see a single mother, let her know you feel her struggle and give her a hand or just applaud her. Mind you my father and I had a tedious, at best, relationship until I became a man. From that point on, the emotional walls fell and he is more open and forth giving then ever before. But before that point in time, there was a noticeable distance and lack of conversation between he and I. My mother did her best to fill in what a growing boy needs. I did not seek her advice on matters of the heart, life and love. But she did her best to contain my growing nature with her brand of tough love and humor.

When it came time for me to hit puberty and my tall and thin frame began to fill out, she knew the time was coming for "the talk" and she was none to happy about it. I think it first hit her when my uncle Jimmy came to visit once when we lived in Hampton. Jimmy was away most times from the maternal side of my family due mostly to his military career taking him to Japan and so forth. I idolized him since he was the least accessible one of my uncles and more mysterious. Not being close to my dad, I only had my uncles as male figures to hang out with. Well Jimmy came to visit and told a joke which I remember well. Somehow I seem to remember select times in my life for one reason or another but my mother says she does not remember this. The joke goes as follows:
man 1 (to man 2):"you know they you are what you eat..."
man 2 (to man 1):"I find that hard to believe."
man 1:"Why do you say that?"
man 2:"Because if it were true, i would be wearing high heels and stockings!"

Thinking I was too young to understand this joke, the family was surprised to see me chuckle politely under my breath. Now at the age of 11 or 12, I don't recall how or where I learned of the act of cunnilingus and had certainly never tried it at that point. Still remember my mother gasping at the sight of me trying to stifle a laughter since i could not exit the room fast enough or get far enough away to laugh as loud as I wanted to laugh. Right then and there, a light bulb went off in my mother's head. It was time for THE BOOK.

My mother came into my room one day an put this large green paperback in my hands and told me to read it. As quickly as she walked into the room, she had exited. I was face to face with this 200+ paged 500lb gorilla full of diagrams and artfully drawn pictures. It was called "The Child's Body". She had also gotten the"The Woman's Body" and "The Man's Body" books also. Maybe it was to make for light reading for my parents or for me to explore deeper in this wonderful world of puberty once I finished my book. I found it exhilarating that I no longer had to sneak into my father's closet to read penthouse forum for my sex education. OK, maybe that is how I had become well versed in the ideas of oral sex, as well as other aspects of sexual intercourse, to be able to understand the jokes of my raunchy youngest uncle. Still reading the book seemed a bit cold to me since my mother and I had a daily and very interactive dialogue most days and I was not at the age of hiding my upcoming teenage antics from her as of yet. Still i could tell she was horrified in that her little boy, her first born, was growing from a child into a teen and eventually a man. Her own mortality came to bear as she realized she was not the young fresh eyed Carolina girl anymore and despite all attempts, those premature grey hairs were real and not some magical sprouting of blond hairs!

I remember learning the technical names of parts of the sexual anatomy, which were unfamiliar to me as I knew them, by what I call, the playground names. Yes I was way past being curious at this age and had began my quest to research this funny feeling I got around girls in the flesh. I was way past my time having learned any slang way of talking about sex via the Penthouse Forum. Mind you this was the 80´s, Price was singing about pretending to be married so they could do it all night and a girl named Darling Nikki and all the wonderful things she did with a magazine. I remember my heart pounding as I heard the complete version of Lady Cab Driver on the radio one day in 1983 (if you never heard it then it is quite the spectacle for an 11 year old!). So you can say it was perfect timing for a young boy who was exploding (no pun intended) with curiosity.

So why did this all come up with my son? Here in Spain, after many extra curricular sports activities, the kids have facilities to take showers. From as young as most can remember, the concept of gang showers are normal. I remember being afraid of entering the 7th grade at Eaton Middle school knowing it was full frontal assault. No longer were we kids, but we were experiencing the sight of other boys. I mean I knew what I had, just did not realize what I had came in many shapes and sizes. Also what had came in natural and trimmed, so to speak. If you still don't get it, circumcised or not. I remember my mother pushing pamphlets in my face about being circumcised or not before I was faced with possibly being ridiculed or teased at shower time thus affecting me in the long run. I don't remember if I was already nervous or if the constant Watchtower like pamphlets my mother was pushing on me due to her fear of facing the fact I was hitting puberty head on. Still I had no human contact to help me understand how society would see me as obviously not being Jewish.

I know there is much debate over this issue and it is not my place to get in what is best, but at birth it is the choice of the parents for their little boys. And when I found out I was to become a father of a boy, I had a few months to internally work thru those debate points. If you are reading this, you know I don't pull punches, but I, being uncircumcised at that point in my life, did not want to inflict the same discomforts in my life. some men live their whol loves uncut but I had thought it was best to take care of this decision at birth. I remember all the anxiety I had over being "different" than most American boys and seeing it in the shower (but not being teased about it since I could unsheathe my sword and the other boys and future girlfriends were none the wiser). Still I wanted to prevent some of the embarrasment for my son, dpesite there being no reason for anxiety but try telling that to a 7 year old who is afraid of the dark.

So I have been coaching here 2 years after coaching 11 years in America. In America we did not have access to showers after games like we do here but then again I have always coached girl teams so I would not have the access that I do have now, nor would I necessarily want it. but the boys are pretty open and seemingly unashamed. So I seem to walk in the dressing room and the boys are proudly walking about in the small space naked and unafraid. It is not rare I can find a boy on my team in stages of undress since they walk around shamelessly in the locker room. To my surprise, most of the boys are uncircumcised. Mind you, in this small town, the boys have spent all of their lives playing together and going to school. I am sure they literally grew up seeing one another in a shower or two so at age 17, most of them were comfortable and well aware of each other.

So one day after a game, my son exited without even changing from his soccer clothes, gym bag in tow. I asked him if he took a shower and he looked down in a shameful way. something was bothering him but he was not up for discussing it in open air, even in English. Carme told me this was the 4th straight time recently he has skipped the shower counting last week's away game where he changed his clothes and was still the last one out of the dressing room, and the 2 nights after practice. So later that day we got home and I did my face to face, heart to heart to get to the bottom of it.

From what i can gather, he is a bit embarrassed taking a shower with the other boys. being that he circumcised and the other boys are not. He never fully confirmed, but fatherly ituition let me figure it all out. So we sat and talked about boys, how they are different and how they are the same. He relaxed and found humor in the whole discussion about his penis. i would have never imagined that his being circumcised would be an issue where I was trying to forsee that anxiety and have him "timmed". but then I had no idea i would be raising him in this european society. Where i had to do some research and confidence building to defend for myself when I was becoming sexually active and again, based on pamphlet readings. I wonder when my son comes of age and starts to explore on his own will he have the reverse situation, explaining what a circumcision is and wonder how his girlfriend, who is weired out by his aerodynamic status is so freaked out if she swears on being a virgin. how many penises has she seen to compare to his or deem his to be odd.

Maybe I am over thinking this but still, I am a father. And there are no classes to prepare you for this situation. Still havin a daughter, I am sure there are situations I would have to face but hopefulky my wife would not be so squeemish in handling these areas. Still I chuckle to myself as I avoided taking a shower after an adult game I played the first year I was here. Even though I had a 2 minute drive to my apartment, those shameful feelings of gang showers of the 7th grade came over me and I realize, I have no room to talk. But that is partly what being a father to a young boy is about. To help him thru life, right? o as i say, not as i foolishly did is my motto.

escaping with my life...

Who says soccer is not a dangerous sport. And what I am learning and remembering about boys aged 16 to 18 kids that the coursing of testosterone thru their forming bodies can lead to some explosive results (no pun intended).

Just like any soccer league in the world, there are always rivals and long histories between teams that may date back to before most of these kids were born. Our main rivals are Llloret de mar, seeing as they are the nearest town to us and easiest to get to from our hidden and secluded location in the hills. But this story is not about our beef with them, al be it their boys are friends and sometimes school mates of our boys. But this story takes place with our team and the team from Maçanet (mas suh net).

Maçanet is a small town, larger than Tossa, situated more inland than we are. It is not a long drive away but still I could tell by the tension in the boys, it is not a warm place to visit. I have visited Maçanet many times before as a family friend's daughter lives there and had her communion for her daughter there as well as Alex playing there with his team on many occasions. but this visit was different.

As we are in the second half of the season so if we had one game at home, this half we are playing away in their domain. The first half of the season saw Maçanet entering out domain for a Sunday afternoon game. The game started well and we were soon down. As the match went on, the ref was losing control and the boys were getting a bit physical. The game was nearing the end and we were down 1-2 and attacking with all our might. After a few choice fouls and some time wasting from Maçanet, my boys were getting a bit frustrated and it was showing. Finally in the closing minutes a melee ensued and it got ugly.

Rafa was handling the ball on the right side, the far end of the field from the benches, and closer to the seats for most spectators wishing to sit in the warm sun rather on our side near the dressing rooms and benches where the temp difference could be 5 or 10 degrees with a wind. Rafa got fouled extra hard and I could tel, despite being able to see clearly from that distance and having so many players blocking my view, by the way the crowd reacted. Sure the crowd is a bit biased but I noticed a good number of Maçanetians reacting to other calls in the refs were making toward calls in our favor.

So my wife explained to me during this foul, Rafa was knocked to the ground and Maçanet we over anxious to clear the ball and in turn kick Rafa in his head or near it. since tempers were running high, Rafa, normally the laid back and unconfrentational one, bounced to his feet and started a shoving match. Then all hell broke loose as the benches cleared. Two players had been ejected earlier in the first half due to hard fouls and had already showered and were in the seated crowd on the opposite side of the field waiting for the end of the game. They joined in with fighting crowd and I had to make a 100 yard dash to break up anything before it got too messy.

Unfortunately Alex was there watching this and his normal anxiety exploded seeing his father out there tossing little Catalan boys left and right.

After the smoke cleared, Carme was much more worried about me and wanted us not to attend the return leg of our competition. She tried to convey to me the fury in one boys eyes and the things he said. She even talked about how the Maçanet parents egged on their boys to fight showing little to no home training. Even a parent or two were instigating the melee to a much higher level. in the end, one more Maçanet boy and Rafa were shown a red card thus ejecting them from the game and 3 more future ones. Still we lost the game as the ref blew the whistle right then and the game was over.

So we have had to wait several months to play this return leg. Maçanet sits right under us in the standings and forfeiting this game would mean dropping form 6th place to 7th out of fear of another fight. I talked with Jesús about having the police present but he shrugged it off as nothing. and they say America is violent.

so now we are at the return leg. we enter the town of Maçanet and there is little fanfare. The field is not the best condition as it is made of dirt and no grass or artificial turf like ours. That means a lot of slipping and sliding and poor quality football. I think that is the one reason we find it hard to win with them as they practice on this and we expect a little bit more as we practice on turf. As we made our way to the field from the bus, we walked past some pretty quiet and intimidating looking players. they stood there in their street clothes glaring at us. Of course I was salivating and remembering faces so I knew which boys I wanted to toss first if a fight broke out again.

Once in the dressing room, I scoped out the field and the surrounding area looking for a quick exit like I was the chief of security for Obama. The bus had dropped us off a full 500 yards away from the dressing rooms and we walked the march of death past a few areas that were of concern for me. I did however brighten up seeing a accessible road near the opening to the dressing rooms that we cold make a good get away. but still my first concern was to win the game. It would be horrendous to lose and then get mobbed by the local towns folk, some drunk parents included. I am only one man, however twice as big as most here but I worried more for the safety of my boys and some knife being pulled on any of us.

So we went for warm ups, and then the game began. and it was not without incident. The other team did all they could do while the single ref had his back turned. Joel threatened the goal many times and spent the remaining time fending off threats in his ear. but ferry was getting the bulk of the threats. I noticed his player who was marking him had pushed and shoved him several times and Ferry just smiled and walked away. On one occasion, the player ever took a full swing with his foot into Ferry's knees as Ferry walked away. Mind you this all happened behind the ref's back and without it being a part of a play. So we called out to Ferry to switch sides with Sebastian and I kept my eye on number 10 from their side. He was moving up my list as boys I was looking forward to finding in a mass fight.

Soon Maçanet was up one goal and celebrating as if it was the world cup! have never seen so much energy being expended at the expense of a lucky goal. No organization, no skill, just a lucky bounce. Anyone knows a lucky bounce can happen anytime but on a dirt field, which I am sure they plant some crop here in the off season, anything can happen, the field becomes the 3rd team, the variable. Still my boys, been all well trained and shit, bounced back. with an excellent build up and the keeper being out of place, Joel finished off an excellent opportunity, not wasting this chance like he mistakenly did before. Soon after it was 2-1 after Sebastian mad ethem pay for not handling a ball in their box well. Then the whistle came and it was half time. we headed to the dressing room with our spirits high. After all th adversity faced with th cheap shots and intimidation, our boys kept their heads. still I took note that the coach of Maçanet was standing near the entrance of the dressing room and not allowing stray boys into the area who did not belong.

Jesús was also called over by the single ref and they had a conversation. I was not involved into that conversation until he entered the dressing room telling us to get packed, we are leaving. The ref decided that the growing crowd of parnets and kids were not looking promising for us and he had indeed noticed a lot of fouls from the other team and overheard some of the treats. he did not say anything earlier, hoping the Maçanet coach could keep things under wraps, but with us winning and being a much better team, it was going to get messy if we won after what happened in Tossa. So I went out to talk to our parents and got one to bring the bus to a closer location near the door of the dressing rooms instead of where we were dropped off.

After some time, the crowd in Maçanet grew weary of waiting for the second half and all began to congregate around the dressing rooms. The coach of Maçanet promptly locked the door and called the police for some added eyes. I was the only person standing outside the locked door with anything on that represented Tossa. I felt like if the growing crowd would burst I was first on their list, so adrenaline and anxiety filled in my body so much I cold taste blood!!!

Then a familiar face hit me, it was the boy who was ejected from the first game that was so rabid then, and equally so now. Let me explain if someone is nuts or not. if you punch them in the face today and even if retaliation was committed on his part or not, come back 6 months later and he is equally fired up without provocation, he is nuts. normal people tend to get over it or may harbor some inner feelings, but if it seems like you blinked and 6 months passed and he is 2 times pissed, that person has some issues and anger management problems. Sure I am still pissed at a few local bullies growing up but I am not going to hide behind a tree and whip their asses today. Also I had heard this kid and another were kicked off the team a few months ago, seemingly they had a long history of violence and run ins with other teams. Now, free of the team and in this public place, they were here and ready to vent. And he was as rabid as the day of the last encounter Carme describe she witnessed.

The coach from the other team was now outside and doing a bit of control. No one was doing anything but the growing crowd became a concern until the police arrived. Now armed with police presence, the coach decided to flex a bit against the rabid ex player. The player screamed back he every right to be here as anyone else. But we could all see more parents add to the crowd and do nothing to help the situation. I was starting to see the nature of this area and not digging it one bit. Still I was the only noticeable person from Tossa and I was ready to swing at the first person to sneak up on me.

Soon, the boys were ready to exit the dressing room and without incident, the boys were safely loaded on the bus. The rabid blond decided to walk past the bus and I stepped in his direction to let him know I was not playing if he tried to enter the bus. He was walking into a hornet's nest and I was the Queen bee...wait that did not sound right but you know what I am trying to say. he promptly said he was leaving the area and I watched him and his posse walk past the bus and leave the area. The police officer escorted us out of city limits and we were soon off to our town, smiling and sighing some relief.

Seems that they are planning to play the second half of the game in a neutral location with a closed gate. reminds me of a joke...went to a fight and a hockey game broke out. Still I do look forward to tossing teenage boys around like rag dolls.

Trying to figure out how I feel...

Near the end of February, many places around the world celebrate Carnival season. Carnival comes in all forms but for the most part, it is a celebration filled with intensely decorated floats, dancers, loud music and beautiful costumes. Spain is no different and each city seemingly has it's parade of colorful processions to fill even the narrowest of streets. But depending on the town will directly affect the grandness of the displays for your eyes' enjoyment.

Point in case is the parade in Tossa compared to the one in say...Barcelona. Of course with more of a base of citizens, there is more competition, more creative and grander ideas. Several groups enter for a chance at winning an award or something but i am not quite sure.

This year, not to be taken off guard, I decided to capture pictures, being this is my second time experiencing tossa's precession and parked myself in a grand location. There are 3 main roads in and out of Tossa and we live on one of them. I cannot tell you what we give up in noise agitation for the ability to be ear civilization and avoiding parking on smaller narrower streets. i sorta feel like I live on Broadway rather than off, but in Tossa that is not saying much. Still we live right on the cusp of nothing but residential area, so if we do get a drunken tourist, they quickly realize that the fading ambient night lights of local businesses are behind them and there is nothing more than ...well nothingness that lies ahead on this slightly inclined passage way to ...well ...no where! Sadly, in front of my apartment they seem to realize this, debate loudly just below my open window allowing , not only the cool and refreshing night air on a warm summer's night, but their incomprehensible babble of how small this town is and there was nothing to do. hey I have something for you to do, turn around, go back to where you came from and drink some more!

Still my luck does seem to present itself on certain occasions throughout the year. Being that this is one of the main arteries thru the town, we enjoy seeing local bike races (think Lance Armstrong) and other parades past my window seal. I pretty much have a nice view without leaving my balcony. The road also slightly curves away from our window so we can see a procession heading toward us and then past us, giving us a somewhat more complete view than just standing roadside. And since this is February we are speaking about, Carme and Alex, with blankets in tow, decided to stay put and out of the winds to enjoy the music and sights from an elevated position. The only thing to bother your view are the Magnolia trees with their large waxy leaves that never fall but don't allow much of a view of the opposite side of the street.

I, on the other hand, decided to perch myself in a prime spot, just after the bend in the road, in the median, to catch the procession head on and then slightly turning away from me to pass, giving me good chances at taking photos. I am no where near the level talents of my friend Stephanie Tu (well she is Kit's wife, so I guess I inherited her as a friend) when it comes to photography, so I just had to wing it with my Lumix lens handy dandy camera.

Just as I took up my spot, I hear the thumping of music coming around the corner and the parade had begun.

I will not bore you with descriptions of each float and how they made me feel or their choreography...but I will make mention of one float in particular. I, sadly, did not get many pictures and i will go into the reason once I get into the idea of this float, but nonetheless, I was shocked and in awe.

Picture this, 40 or so walking dancers, all with brown makeup covering their natural skin, all wearing cartoonish sized curly wigs in black and the kinda brown color when you see a African American woman, who decided to go Blond, like Pamela Anderson. Not quite Blond, more of an auburn color, you know. They were all wearing purple robes with a gold V running down from each shoulder and meeting somewhere below the abdomen. They were jumping and clapping and smiling. In the background was Aretha Franklin playing. In it's slow march, they played a second Aretha song so I am not sure if they had real Gospel music or just thought that was the ultimate Gospel.

My jaw dropped.

So I politely walked cross the street towards my apartment, walking the extra few steps to get a clear view of my wife on the other side of the Magnolia tree, and just to put my hands up as to say, "What the fuck are they doing?". I noticed a smile on my wife's face as she expected me to come to her and give her that look. We have been married too long so i need to switch it up on her but i will save that for another day.

So I turn back to the parade and head back to my perch in anticipation of seeing this plate of hot mess pass before me. I remember swallowing hard and trying to sort thru my initial gut feelings. It is almost impossible to explain this to my new found friends here in Spain. Somehow I try but i am not sure they get it or if I do the story justice in my limited vocabulary. I can't explain Al Jolson, Jim Crow, Reconstruction, lunch counter sit ins, J.J. Evans (does any one know the real reason why the father on "Good Times " left after the first first season or two...I do...ask me if you want to know), Al Sharpton, Malcolm X, segregation, the grandfather clause, poll tax, 3/5 compromise and so forth. Black face is just a small part of the stained (no pun intended) history that built America. Many things attribute to the powder keg that is America that exploded in the 1960's.

Ok I need to put this in perspective. Actually my wife did her best to do so. You see she was trying to explain to me that this was more of a honor than an insult. America is known for many things and one particular thing are the churches. here in Spain, like most "white" churches in America, the sermon is boring and calm which makes it seem more drawn out and excruciating. I grew up in souther baptist churches filled with a sweaty preacher, due to lack of AC and from his animated delivery of the word of God, soulful choir in beautiful robes, all swaying in perfect time to the music and an equally animated congregation. Also it is a testament to the wonderful singers in the choir. but come on, the hair just makes it a bit cartoonish.

Carme then explained to me her first few months in America, seeking out this imagery she had only seen in movies like "The Preacher's Wife" staring Whitney Houston. She told me of when her friend Rosa came to visit and both sought out Gospel churches in the yellow pages and running across a tame show at a church in Carytown which promoted itself as a Gospel church. later did explain to her that the word gospel is a bit more inclusive and does nto paint the picture she found out to be so untrue.

Still, there is a source of my proverbial ulcer that appeared as soon as I got off the plane when I first moved here and slowly is subsiding (although on some bad days I can still feel the growing and nagging of it). this ulcer is the inability to fully express myself when i want. I cannot tell jokes or explain my emotions to the masses here. i don't want to offend anyone or paint an inaccurate picture so I dare not attempt at this stage as I can only do it accurately in English. But i did attempt with a friend who understand English to a point.

The images I tend to b weary of is portraying Blacks to be servants, stupid, ape like or violent. I remember cringing at every newcast of a Black man robbing a liquor stor and the description that followed. He is a Black male, with short hair, white tee, blue jeans, between 5'6" and 6'2", 150 to 180 lbs, etc. Just in general, i kept my butt in the house out of fear of being fingered and having to pass off some alibi. Images of Al Jolson haunt most African Americans to this day. Hard to find humor for most of us in someone trying to imitate our being, culture or mannerisms, whether accurate or not.

But one thing that i have come to realize about this area of Spain, they are secluded in many ways. Sure they watch American movies and television shows but nothing beats living in a language and experiencing it for yourself. Things always get lost in translation. But this area of Spain has never experienced the long standing issues of America beginning with slavery, emancipation, KKK, Civil Rights, separate but equal, separate facilities, lunch counters,etc. Catalunya, like Spain, has been pretty much a closed society. Having lived thru their own modern day civil war and cultural clashes, they have ha not time to focus on the rest of the world and their issues. Their focus is on gaining autonomy from the Spanish government and that takes time.

Now with the economy growing, there is a bit of "catch up" Spain is experiencing. New ideas are trickling in as more European and American businesses are looking t o invest within their borders to be true global presences. Still the old ideals and beliefs reign supreme here. Most darker skinned people I have seen work in labor jobs and not in a suit and tie. I am thrown off by inheriting the life long friends of my wife to think that all Spaniards will accept me as one. all the people in my soccer club are Catalan and a few Spaniards, but i am the only American, with a few Brits who have one Spanish or Catalan parent and have lived here all their lives. I used those kids to explain things that I cannot but still I am not sure I am being served well by their translation skills. So i try to keep it short and not as intense as I would like.

So is Spain a racist society? That I have always never felt comfortable answering. To call a society in whole as racist like the Nazi's against Jewish people...no it does not compare. it does not compare to ethnic cleasing. No it does not compare to creating a system of oppression like outh Africa or america at one time. But instead i am convinced that there are just some people, in any society, who just can't get comfortable of people who are different as a whole. be it a different language or skin color or continent, all people are this way in some form or not, and when you characterize a whole culture as being anti something, it just sends too strong of a message. I have had some older women look at me twice when passing, with blank looks or suspecting looks, but i would get that at home from an older Black woman. I have had strangers come up and start a conversation but I am more than likely to get that in a souther state, you know how nice us southerners are. i have traveled over a pretty good sized area surrounding Tossa with my soccer team and be it we are the opposing teams, the other coaches and staff are more than nice.

So how do i feel about this display? is it racist...no I don't think so. Does it strike a cord within me, sure it does, hard to deny my history and my family's history and feelings. is it worth returning Rev. Al Sharpton's phone calls about stagging a protest...? Ha ha. just a thought but a funny one.