Summer Break
Today was the last day of class and the enthusiasm with which the boys flew out of the classrooms and into the central patio at the end of their English exam was as great as when East Berliners knocked down the wall that divided their tired city and were able to cross into the west. While my enthusiasm wasn’t as great because I actually love having the guys here and wonder now what I am going to do without them, I understand it and remember how much I also loved the sense of relief I felt when the academic year came to an end.
So now comes summer break and I am sure that many have great plans for how to invest wisely the days off. There was always a bit of a battle in my house about summers. For a couple of years we were sent to summer camp thinking that my brother Manny and I would enjoy the structured activities and organized sports. But we hated it. Why would I desire to over the summer wake up early and head off to a place where they would make me spend hours upon hours in the heat and humidity?
For those two summers the camp of choice was Circle C, “the center of my life,” or so the camp ditty said. It was run by a Baptist minister and his wife and every morning they would gather the campers into the chapel and have us sing that song and many others about the bible, obedience, and how much Jesus loves me. Don’t get me wrong, as a Catholic I know that Jesus loves me very much, as a matter of fact I agreed with every word sung in the song, but at 7:30 a.m. wearing a t-shirt one size too small and shorts that after the third day smelled like tuna fish sandwiches thinking that I could either be sleeping or watching Spiderman on channel 6, I was definitely not a “happy camper.”
I remember how the minister would walk around in his blue overalls and would drill us with bible verses that he wanted us to memorize by singing songs and making rhymes. I was very bad at this activity and almost refused to do it. Every time he would walk by me and scolded me for not knowing the verses I would tell him that I wasn’t suppose to know the bible because I was Catholic. He would look down at me as I sat in the pew and would nod in agreement and then move on to the next Catholic.
Manny and I endured two summers of that camp and we begged my mother and father when the third year came around to please save their money and let us stay home where we promised that we would be good. We promised to mow the lawn, trim the hedges, bathe the dog, neuter the cat, and do the dishes; anything as long as it wasn’t Circle C or Square E or Triangle X. Fortunately they agreed and the summer was saved. Or so I thought. Little did I know that what was going to happen that summer was that I would be sent to work construction for my father.
Construction! Why didn’t he just send me to hell for the summer? Every morning at 6 a.m. the oldest van you have ever seen in your life would rattle down my block and stop in front of my house. I didn’t need an alarm clock because I could hear the bucket on four wheels a mile away. I would walk out with filthy jeans, a torn up t-shirt, and a lunch box filled with misery and sit in the back where there were no seats. Instead I would sit on one gallon paint cans that would slide from one end of the van to the other every time the driver took a turn.
Picking, shoveling, and suffering was the order of the day and under the Miami sun I would bake for hours building warehouses in Medley. Why? What did I ever do to deserve such misery, what did I ever do to deserve such pain? Hadn’t this kind of torture been denounced at some conference in Geneva at one point? Every time I lifted a shovel over my head I would sing Baptist bible songs reminiscing of the good ole days at Circle C and that cool, air conditioned chapel with those comfortable wooden benches.
For one month my dad had me there working hard without paying me a penny more than he paid his other employees. He handed me the check the same way he handed it to the other construction guys and would demand from me the same he did the others. While at first it made no sense, at the end of the month it became drastically clear: don’t complain about summer camp when so many others have to spend their whole year, including their summers, working like dogs. The best part of all this was that I had made enough money to pay for a $700 1973 Volkswagen Superbeetle that I cherished more than life itself because I had bought it with my own money and I also discovered what I didn’t want to do with the rest of my life. I quickly scratched construction worker off my list.
I pray that my boys enjoy their summer break. The time off will do them good, they deserve the rest. But gather your strength men because come August we come back to school ready to learn, ready to work, read to grow into our role of “men for others.”
God bless,
Fr. Willie ‘87
Friday, June 11, 2010 5:13:00 PM
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The Final Final
There’s very little to write about today. Maybe it’s because I’m tired and want to turn in early today and can because all things are pretty quiet on the western front. Or maybe it’s because at the end of the year people, places, and things tone down and provide little material for writing. Either way, I think I will keep today’s blog entry short and sweet.
The boys have their last exam tomorrow, English. That’s a good one to finish up with; it leaves a good taste in your mouth. At least that’s how we planned it.
Setting the final exam schedule is like planning your dinner when the plate of food is placed down in front of you. You strategically coordinate the combination of palomilla, rice, and beans with the sweet plantains and your drink. Making your way through the meal, pacing yourself, knowing that the last morsel should definitely be salty and washed down with your last gulp of Materva nestled at the bottom of your glass cup. After allowing your taste buds to revel in the magic, you work on the flan de coco. And then, you seal it with the cafesito: a gulp of water, a shot of Bustelo, and then a second gulp of water.
There, you’re done. Have a great summer.
God bless,
Fr. Willie ‘87
Thursday, June 10, 2010 9:26:00 PM
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2+2=?
These young men are admirable. As I walked through the hallways this morning at school and made my way into the various rooms there they were taking their final exam in math. I would weave down the aisles, from one desk to the other and see as they flipped stapled pages of figures and shapes, numbers and signs. On occasion I had sudden flashbacks of sitting in those desks so many years ago in those very classrooms sweating through mathematical formulas and geometric theorems. I had to remind myself that I don’t have to take math anymore, I would have to remind myself that I was in a happy place, with happy thoughts.
You see math and I have never been what you would call friends. Actually, we “dislike each other intensely” (this is the phrase of the Christian who refuses to use the word “hate”). I was always more at home with Mr. Nuñez and art history, always happy as a lark with Mr. Ibarria and American literature. Show me a painting by Jacques-Louis David or a novel by Orwell and I will show you sheer and unbridled rapture. Show me a theorem by Pythagoras or a formula by De Moivre and I will show you Freddy Krueger and a Nightmare on Elm Street.
You may ask, how did I survive four years of math at Belen? How did I make it through Algebra with Mrs. H, Geometry with Mrs. Prado, Math Analysis with Mr. Fonseca, and Pre-Calculus with Mrs. Vila? My dad. Yup, fortunately for me my mother married an engineer who loved math, thought is was fun, made a living of it plugging it into buildings and warehouses. And just when I thought that it was the tool of the devil created by God for the purpose of humbling mankind and reminding him that life is often times not fair or always peachy, my father made a living with it.
So, every night I would sit at the dining room table with my old man and he would go over the chapters of my math book with me. He would listen as I related to him how Mrs. H and Mrs. Prado and Mr. Fonseca and Mrs. Vila explained coefficients and variables, trapezoids and parallelograms. He would watch as I diagramed and calculated, as I sketched on papers that were scattered on the table and sometimes made their way on the floor. He would ask me what’s my vector Victor, do I have clearance Clarence. And always, without exception, he would take the little sweaty pencil from my fingers and would go over things on the corner of a sheet of paper or on a napkin or on whatever he had in front of him.
I must admit that the vast majority of the times I would tune him out after a few minutes. I couldn’t take it for long. My mind would wander to raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. He would tap me on the forehead with the pencil and tell me to focus. But I put up a good fight. As soon as I went back to cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudel he would run his fingers through his hair and then, almost like magic, would show me a formula or a mathematical process that used half the steps and got quicker to the answer than what I had learned in class. Bingo.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m very grateful to my math years at Belen. What I fought through during those four years made me strong and wise. It helped me understand that my future in life had to be a profession far removed from math and its kissing cousins like chemistry and physics. You can almost say that it was math that helped me realize I had a religious vocation. Isn’t that amazing, brought to the priesthood by the tool of the devil.
God bless,
Fr. Willie ‘87
Wednesday, June 09, 2010 10:24:49 PM
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Medicine Men
The container has left the premises. Finally, the big blue Seaboard Marine container that was sitting next to the back entrance of the school was whisked away to board a ship headed south to the Dominican Republic. Its precious cargo of medicines will help supply the makeshift clinic that will be set up by Miami doctors in the village of Loma de Comedero this summer in order to treat thousands of villagers many whom have never been to a doctor. Together with the medicine goes packed the various supplies that will help feed the over 100 young men from Belen who will make up this year’s Belen Youth Mission experience.
For over 15 years Seaboard Marine has donated the container to the Belen Youth Missions and has also shipped it to the DR for free. Do you realize what that means? It means that literally tens of thousands of poor Dominicans who live in the mountains of that Caribbean nation have been fed, clothed, and healed because of their generosity. To them we are eternally grateful.
But the most challenging thing of all is not getting the container, filling it, or shipping it out. The most challenging thing is always getting it out of customs once it arrives. And no matter how much paperwork you fill out or how much documentation you provide, customs will have their way with you. Frankly, it all depends on how they feel that morning when they wake up and how much mangú they ate for breakfast.
Here’s an example.
Last year we sent the container a month ahead of us to be sure that our contacts in Santo Domingo had enough time to get out the contents of the container. When we arrived on the island I was informed that they were unable to get the container out of customs and that its content, all the medicine, was sitting in a warehouse in the dock. We had brought some medicine in our duffle bags and hoped that the small supply would hold us over until we were able to manage the release of the goods.
After three days of work Dr. Formoso, our lead doctor, informed me that the medicine was running out and that we only had enough left for one day. It was then and there that I decided that he and I would drive to the capital the next morning to claim our booty. The two and a half hour drive to Santo Domingo was filled with conversation about our strategy. We opted to visit a doctor who had studied with Dr. Formoso who could probably help us. As we sat in her office and explained our situation she expressed that she was very grateful for the work we did for her countrymen but that she could not help us. “Why not try the state regulator of pharmaceutical products?” she said. So off we went.
As we walked into the office of the director of pharmaceutical products we were offered coffee which I gladly accepted. We explained our situation and how we were there to help the poor villagers of the mountains of the Dominican Republic. The director listened attentively to our story and expressed how grateful he was for the work that we did for his countrymen but that he could not help us. We left the office and decided to head to the house of an old friend of mine who for years was a high official in the Dominican army and who could possibly have some influence that could dislodge the medicine from the clutches of the waterfront devils.
The gentleman was very happy to see us and he asked about my family and the work that I was doing in Miami. After a few minutes of chitchat I cut to the chase and asked for his help. He listened to me attentively and nodded affirmatively to every sentence. He then sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and held one knee in his hands. “My friend,” he said, “I am very grateful to you for all the work you do for my countrymen, but under this current presidential administration I have no influence. I cannot help you.” I felt it was the last straw, I had cashed al l my chips and ended up empty handed.
As we drove out of the city I couldn’t help but think that we were simply a few miles away from our precious cargo and couldn’t get to it because of bureaucracy and its sticky red tape. The thought frustrated me. So I made a U-turn and decided to head to the dock and meet with the head of customs himself. The plan was to throw myself at his feet and beg for mercy.
I walked up the metallic staircase into a room filled with several men who sat around smoking cigarettes, reading newspapers, and wearing American baseball hats (mostly the New York Yankees). They all had laminated identification cards clipped to their shirt collars indicating that they all worked there, but they weren’t doing much of anything at the moment (except for smoking cigarettes and reading newspapers). I slowly made my way to the director’s office and was happy to see that not only was he alone, but that he sat in the only air conditioned room for miles. I introduced myself and began explaining to him the predicament that we were in. He listened intently while shifting his eyes from me to Dr. Formoso. When I finished my shpeal he leaned forward and expressed how grateful he was for the work we were doing for his countrymen, but that his hands were tied and he couldn’t do anything.
Leaving the director’s office I quietly made my way through the various warehouses on the docks wondering where our medical stash could be. After poking my head through various doors I came across our cargo piled high in the corner of storehouse number six. I stood in front of it eager to grab it with my arms and make a clean get away. A security guard wielding a sawed off shotgun quietly walked up to me and asked what I was doing there. I explained to him the situation emphasizing as I spoke that the medicine was going to help cure poor villagers in the mountains of the DR. I told him how I had tried every channel, tapped every source, looked under every rock for someone or something that would help, but to no avail. He listened intently and then proceeded to express his gratitude for our generosity to his countrymen… enough!
I tell you at that moment if I were thanked one more time I would explode never to return to the poor villagers of the Dominican Republic again. I had reached the end and realized that I had to count my losses. As I turned to walk away an idea hit me. I called the guard over and said, “What if I was to give you $50?” He looked at me and asked, “Where’s your pickup truck?” Shortly thereafter I, Dr. Formoso, and the security guard quickly loaded the pickup truck with medicine and sped our way out of the capital and into the mountains.
What’s the moral of the story? I don’t know exactly and to be honest I’m scared to figure it out. But I do know that there were thousands of Dominicans who were grateful that one way or the other that medicine made its way up the mountain.
God bless,
Fr. Willie ‘87
Tuesday, June 08, 2010 4:47:00 PM
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Slap Happy
On Saturday I was invited to concelebrate the confirmation mass held at Good Shepherd. I’ve been invited to these celebrations before, but this one was extra special because sitting in the congregation, ready to receive the Holy Spirit, were 17 of our own Belen students. How could I say no to such a proposition, to be present when boys from our school community were going to confirm their faith as members of the Holy Catholic Church? Not to mention the fact that I wanted to be present when the bishop slapped them across the face.
Slapped? Yes, slapped. Unfortunately some bishops opt against the practice and if they do it, it’s usually a light, almost nonexistent brush to the cheek. But the slap is an integral part of the confirmation experience. As you approached the altar where the holy man with the pointy hat and the wooden staff stands, he dips his fingers in oil and traces the cross on your forehead as he says a prayer addressing you with the name of the Catholic saint you have chosen. Then he slaps you.
So where does this come from, why such an expression of aggression on such a peaceful and joyous day? I mean think about it, when do people employ a slap across the face? Growing up as a kid my favorite program on television was The Three Stooges. Every Saturday morning on channel 6 at whatever time it was, I would watch these guys pull hair, poke eyes, and slap across the face. It was normally Moe who would do the slapping and he did it when he was upset at Curly or Larry for some kind of offense. I got to tell you that to this day it makes me laugh like you wouldn’t believe. But I always wondered how they did it, how they could take such abuse. It’s not as if they had stunt doubles for those scenes or slapped each other at close range working camera angles and sound effects as illusion. Theirs were clear slaps to the face.
But the slap that forms part of the confirmation ceremony has a different meaning. It’s more like the slap that a football coach gives to his player as he prepares to take the field. If you’ve ever seen a football game or played the sport yourself you know what I’m talking about. The coach grabs the player by the facemask and barks some last minute instructions, slapping him across the helmet as he takes the field. The blow to the helmet gets the juices flowing, the blood pumping, the toes tingling, the fire burning. It wakes him up to a task that has to be performed. That, no matter how hard it might be, the coach wants him to go out there and leave it all out on the field. So picture the bishop as a coach. The Holy Spirit that the young person received at baptism is woken up at confirmation, when the individual is old enough to make decisions on his own. The slap to the face gets the Spirit flowing, the graces pumping, and the faith burning. It wakes the person up to a task that has to be performed. The gospel needs to be preached and it is the young person who has just confirmed his faith that has to go out into the world and preach it. The bishop wants him to give it all he’s got, to leave it all out on the field. Just like the apostles who at Pentecost received the Spirit that led them to preach the gospel, even at the expense of their own lives, the person that is confirmed is roused up to go out and set the world on fire.  I was very proud of our students on Saturday as one by one they approached Bishop Felipe Estevez to be received through the sacrament of confirmation into the Church as men years after their baptism. Their presence that day is an expression of their conviction to be men of the Church. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to slap them myself. God bless, Fr. Willie ‘87
Monday, June 07, 2010 5:04:00 PM
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