Today I read that Jaime Escalante, the High School mathematics teacher who inspired the film, Stand and Deliver, has died, he was 79. The article said, he virtually performed a miracle in a tough neighborhood. I disagree, he worked hard and persevered at his goal; inspiring students to succeed, against the odds. The only miracle was that he may have made it look easy.
The news took me back in time; to early summer 1988, at the Malibu home of Tom Musca, Producer of the film.
The occasion was the wrap party of Stand and Deliver. Because Jaime was Bolivian, the party included a number of distinguished guests from the Latinoamerican world. These were folks from various countries–drawing on Bolivia, Colombia, Spain, Mexico, and Venezuela–and who had, as a result, come to Hollywood for their own particular reasons.
I walked out of the home and onto the narrow street. As some of the guests strolled by, I noticed their vulnerabilities. There was something very human about this; something real and then, a woman unexpectedly turned toward me and said, quite simply, "Buenas Noches."
I'm one of those people who has an aversion to cold weather-- and if I never see snow again in this lifetime I will be happy and grateful. It's why I didn't grab the opportunity to visit Russia, despite its fascinating history. After seeing the film Doctor Zhivago as a kid I still recall Omar Sharif struggling to retain himself from falling while shaking off his frozen eyelashes. But one place where I haven't been where the cold may not parallel Russia but is just as far north is Ireland, where I sense there is delight infused into the ordinary.
The first time I went to New York it was mid March. Approaching St. Patrick's Cathedral, it was early morning, I looked up, the towering church rawbone Gothic, with leaves blowing on its granite steps, I went inside where a mass was being held while the incense clouded the aisles and pricked my nose. The pew I sat in was next to a stained-glass window of a lamb. The priest who bowed and whirled and occasionally extended his arms in my direction announced the significance of the saints day, locally and back in the motherland. I had stumbled onto something fortuitously. Aye, the luck of the Irish! I heard whispers behind me about the parade, the oldest parade in the nation's history due to start an hour before noon that gave meaning to what may have been a shapeless day.
I love parades-- they are celebrations; with all the regalia and costume, marching bands and floats, and beautiful horses. I waited and stood behind the mark, arms crisscrossed to fight off the winter chilly morning, inches away from it all. So close was I, from the sound of the trotting horses and a booming mass of bagpipes. I was told on that day, everyone that partook in the parade, was Irish. This as I understood it, was rare that New Yorkers extend this air of grace, but I inhaled in the gesture.
Every single Irish society group and civic clan attended and there probably wasn't a bigger day for New Yorkers to party like the Irish and display the color green. As I watched the parade that was many hours long, I never did become Irish, but I did see some toss their jackets to the wind with their milk-skinned Irish arms, black hair mussed by the wind and faces reddening to the cheers and whose mouths split into smiles that was entertainment in itself.
In the summer of 1983, I found myself sorting through my music albums. Amid the stacks, I stumbled on some that I hadn't played for awhile but reached for a favorite; a double set packed in gold cardboard; it's artwork featured an unemployment benefit attendance card with a red stamp on it.
I was a loyal shopper of Aron's Records, a hip independent shop on La Brea Avenue in Los Angeles where I purchased the album with student loan monies the year prior. It was my first encounter with reggae music, the artist was an English band, UB40. Their “Signing Off” album was sooo cool- a loose groove, with a jazzy sax, a breezy instrumental, and was lyrically and politically charged with social consciousness. I began immersing myself in a Jamaican smorgasbord- a grip that had me frequent a dance club in Santa Monica with my then boyfriend and, influenced me to visit the country.
Back in those days, I went to Chatterton's bookstore on Vermont and thumbed through all the guidebooks taking meticulous notes. I read about Jamaica's unique character and inherent ‘African-ness’ of its population. Nowhere else in the Caribbean is the connection to Africa as keenly felt as in Jamaica. It promised a curious traveler, great aromatic coffee, world class reefs for diving, stretches of sugary sands of beaches, offbeat hiking tours, pristine waterfalls, wetlands harboring endangered crocodiles and unforgettable sunsets. In short, enough variety to comprise many utterly distinct vacations. Traveling alone and seeking an exotic beach scene. I'm happy- I was sold.
Hailing a cab from the airport, it didn't have air-conditioning and I couldn't roll down either window because they're broken. The exterior smell of urine mixed with ganja is a gagging stench, anyway. The driver, has one finger on the horn, the other firmly rooted up his nose. I'm optimistic- I'll look the other way.
Jamaica was a man's world. On the streets of Kingston, men were out on full force, strutting and swaggering, sneering with bravado. Encircling the cab, I was stared at by giggling idiots and silent stoned faces. It seemed many Jamaican men had urinary tract infections-- relieving themselves beside the road and up against buildings. I'm hopeful- it's plain as sight this will be one trip where I'll have to ignore quite a bit.
Alongside the road there were scrawny and sickly looking cows, who could pass for dalmatians, except they are humpbacked. I'm in denial- I guess I won't be drinking any milk.
Once out of the cab, I am embraced by the humidity, and Jamaica's slow pace lethargy is catching. I quickly get bite by mosquitoes walking in slow motion like a zombie with a blank eyed stare. I'm disgruntled- starting to sink.
I duck into the fly-infested hotel where I am ignored by humans. I ring the bell. I wait. I ring the bell again. And wait, and wait. I'm irritated- frustration begins to mount.
My throat dry as dust, I eyeball a bowl of passion fruit behind the counter, the hotel manager comes out with “Ma lady, du yuh need anyting?” Before I can respond he scratches his head and rubs his butt, and with the same hand passes me a fruit and says, “Welcome to Jamaica”.
