PRIESTS AND CHICKENS.... | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
SUNDAY AFTERNOON PROCESSION - Notice everyone's seriousness... | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
MAL EMPREGADA GALINHA There was a time when I didn't care for chicken. In fact, I'd prefer to starve then touch whatever flesh that stupid bird carried on its bones. I still don't know to what I attributed my dislike. It could have been because my mother was never a good cook and whatever resulted from any chicken she ever touched was generally the most unappealing dish one could imagine. Or it could have been because one day I watched my mother pull a chicken's neck and kill it. In any case, my disliking chicken kept me from becoming a priest, much to the regret of my paternal grandmother. Now, you are probably asking: What the Hell does eating chicken have to do with becoming a priest? Plenty. All one has to do to know the answer is to look back at the São Miguel of my childhood and the answer is clear. You see, São Miguel priests reputedly ate more chicken than anyone else on the island. I am willing to bet that in São Miguel of my day there were many people - particularly in Ponta Delgada - who never ate chicken. Never, that is, until the U. S. Immigration laws were changed and a whole bunch of us suddenly found ourselves coming through American doors. I remember, for example, one weekend in the sixties when I no longer lived in Cambridge and, while visiting my parents, drifted to Ricardo's Barber Shop where I'd be certain to meet many other acquaintances from the island. Sooner or later the conversation dealt with standards of living and I happened to point out that in many ways my standards in the Azores before I came here were possibly higher than they had been during my first three years in America. Oh, yeah, replied a man from the barber's chair. They were? Were you able to eat chicken? I had to inform him that I didn't like chicken when I was back on the island. In fact, I got to like chicken only after I'd been a patient in the Cambridge Sanatorium and discovered that not every cook had my mother's culinary limitations. I have been eating chicken eversince. But I digress. Permit me, therefore, to return to the priests and the chickens. Anyone who has ever been to the Azores and attended a Festa da Freguesia knows that Azoreans need at least three days in which to honor a saint. In São Roque, my native Freguesia , for example, those three days were the first Saturday, Sunday, and Monday after August 16th. That is, unless that date fell on Sunday, in which case the Festa would then be August 15th, 16th, and 17th. On Saturday, for example, people would ready themselves and the immediacy of the church would suddenly come alive. It would sprout a makeshift bandstand where the local Lira de São Roque would do the best it could with typical band music - particularly military marches. Which was natural since the band leader was also a member of the best band in Ponta Delgada, the Army Band. People from São Roque loved lively tunes, and the more José Germano, who normally worked as a stone mason, banged on his drums, the more the tune was appreciated. Oh, how people would adore seeing Germano in all seriousness holding those sticks and making them sound like Fred Astaire's feet on a hardwood floor. Not that anyone knew Fred Astaire, mind you... The wine (vinho de cheiro) flowed and, for those who may have had money, the once-a-year beer that had been in a bottle that, in turn, had been visibly exposed to the elements at the nearest tavern. Not that people cared that much for beer, but, then, it was Dia de Festa. Somewhere among the crowd one could always find someone with a box load of tremoço salgado (salted lupin beans) that would be sold in small portions measured from a home made small box - a quantity small enough to fit in one's pocket - all very hygienic since no one (I must have been the exception) ever ate the skin - or, roasted pevides(pumpkin or squash seeds) which would once again be sold in similarly equal small measurements. On Sunday, we would then have the First Holy Communion for the children whose parents had long sacrificed for either a black suit, or a special dress. I remember my own black suit which had been salvaged from cloth that once had been my father's wedding suit. Just keep in mind that whereas in the United States, Catholic families try to get their children to make their First Holy Communion by the time they are eight, or nine, (I have long maintained that all religion is geographic and often controlled by economics) in São Miguel of my day, one received Holy Communion when the parents could afford a suit, or a communion dress. It was not unusual sometimes for girls to receive their Holy Communion by the time they were starting to show boobs. As for the boys, well, the best assurance they could receive Holy Communion early was to assure themselves that they had an older brother, or a cousin, from whom they could get the hand-me-down suit, or the used shoes. It wouldn't be until the next day, however, that chickens would become a pinnacle of importance. That day was known as the Segunda-Feira das Arrematações (Auction Monday). On that day there would be a procession once again from one end of the Freguesia to the other. Unlike the procession of the previous day, though, where all forms of dignity had to be shown, the Monday procession was generally followed by carroças de cavalo (horse carts) which, by the time they eventually returned to the church, would be loaded with squash, pumpkins, dry corn, rabbits, and, oh yes, chickens. In short, with whatever people could give from their limited means to help raise funds for the parish. The only problem was that the people generally had no money and, those who did, may have had to return to their jobs the following day. Once the procession was over most just returned to their usual lives. As for the auction? Well, I never saw one in São Roque. Most of the carts would end up leaving whatever they carried at the local priest's house, or in some previously-designated place, assuring that the priest would have plenty to eat in the months to come. And, since the Freguesia was never overrun by chickens, it didn't take me much to imagine where those Monday gifts ended. Now you want to know about the MAL EMPREGADA GALINHA. Don't you? Well, keep reading... (Part II) Just because Chumeca was an idiot, there was no reason why he shouldn't like a certain girl who lived down he street. She was pretty and, even though all she had was a fourth-grade education, she was educated by our standards. Few women from our area went as far as the fourth grade. Some, in fact, had hardly gone to any organized school. There were few schools where we lived. Chumeca, by the way, was not his real name. That's what the locals called him as a sort of derogatory designation. Not that Chumeca meant anything in Portuguese - unless one was a woman dedicated to fixing shoes, or sewing patches on whatever rips, or holes, appeared on one's clothing. It is doubtful that most locals, in fact, knew the meaning of the word. Granted that the word did exist on the island. Chaves and Chumeca owned a few mule-drawn carts in the city and a large truck which could be contracted as freight vehicles. Supposedly, both Chaves and Chumeca were well to do, for they never accompanied their mules on any task. They were, instead, the professsionals who manned the phone cabin near the Matriz and assigned tasks to their carroceiros, or contracted with the larger firms whenever the truck was needed. In spite of the prestige of its bearer, however, the name Chumeca had a certain sound that just had to be applied to somebody - one who didn't quite fit the norm, whatever that word meant. For if there was anything on our street that defined us, it was that particular deviation that did not quite make us fit in. Our Chumeca's family, for example, had a lot of children. Although the father had a job, he did not earn enough to provide an adequate living for them. In addition, once in a while he would get terribly drunk on weekends, causing all kinds of Hell not only for his wife, whom he'd beat up repeatedly until she'd run to some neighbor's house, but also for his entire family, including his children. It was only natural, therefore, that at least one of them should get some kind of tag. Thus Chumeca was born and the name stuck. His real name was actually Manuel Maurício. In most societies, however, it's always easy to be mean to someone who needs kindness. Even in organized religion, the rich somehow generally have more priests at their funeral masses, as if the extra clerics were proof of an easier trip to Heaven. No one could say, however, that Chumeca was a complete idiot, for amongst his skills, he could play the ferrinhos better than anyone else. Chumeca had rhythm. He could accompany anyone. In fact, quite often, when the Lira de São Roque, the local band, would come down the road in one of its Sunday marches, Chumeca would follow it, his triangle hanging from a wire as he added well-timed percussion to the band's sound. Sometimes people would even applaud him as he passed - something that I never saw anyone do for the band and its well-pressed white uniforms. It was only natural, therefore, that, with his sense of importance and raging hormones, Chumeca should develop a liking for one of the prettiest girls on our stretch of road. Her father was a civil servant, a fact that assured her a somewhat higher standard of living than that of most people around. Everyone knew, therefore, that if the day ever came when she, too, would start looking for a young man, it would be someone from the city, someone with shoes that he wore all the time, and not just on Sunday. I don't recall if Chumeca ever owned shoes. It never dawned on the girl, however, that Chumeca had his eye on her. Which was not a difficult task , since Chumeca was crosseyed. Most people, however, knew of Chumeca's ambition and they would engage him often in conversation dealing primarily with the day when he would probably make his first pass. Up to then, he would only dare to admire her from afar, somewhat like Freddie in MY FAIR LADY who, in a happy lament, sang openly of how much he yearned for Eliza Doolittle, I have often walked on this street before... Poor Freddie... Poor Chumeca. And, just as Professor Higgins, looked contemptuously at Freddie's chances, the people on the street would laugh at Chumeca's ambition realizing that, if ever there was a no-chance situation in this world, it was Chumeca's. His was really a case of a MAL EMPREGADA GALINHA. Although as I use the above Portuguese expression, I may force several Lusophiles to the dictionary, the fact remains that, if the reader was not born in the Azores of my day, chances are that he, or she, will never get the the expression's true meaning. Granted that by now several readers have already reached the conclusion that it has something to do with one who's a loser. On the other hand, why the term? Ah, history... History... That terrible monster that drives American political conservatives up a wall towards a never-never land, and proves beyond a reasonable doubt that most conservatives, although claiming that they'd like to have back the Founding Fathers in their wisdom, are only looking at a mythical surface. The poor, dreamy, frustrated, ignorant bastards... Now, if they spoke about values... Values, however, can not be properly judged without their historic parallel. But I digress. Back to the GALINHA (chicken), the MAL EMPREGADA GALINHA (the wasted, or misused, chicken). As demonstrated above, chickens were extremely important in the Azorean standard of living of my day. In fact, there were many people in the Azores, particularly in Ponta Delgada, who went through a lifetime without ever having had the pleasure of tasting chicken. Eggs, yes, for there were egg peddlers from the countryside, who'd come to the city with baskets full of them. There were even people from the city whose houses adjoined small yards where they could have galinheiros and who would occasionally have extra eggs to sell. To most people a dozen egs often represented a half-day's salary. The chickens that laid them were, therefore, a most valuable commodity. It was only logical, therefore, that chickens would not be killed often, even on a Festa day. Remember the proverb: WHEN A POOR MAN EATS CHICKEN FOR DINNER OFTEN ONE OF THE TWO IS SICK. On the other hand, there was always at least one chicken that was destined for slaughter, even if she happened to be within egg-producing time - the chicken for the human mother to be. For, just as in the Jewish American tradition, there was also in the Azores of my day the old myth of the value of chicken soup as the greatest aid for a young mother after she had given birth. With it, naturally, there was also the hope of a new generation, one that is bound to taste the fresh, warm, milk duly nourished by the health that can only come from good, early nutrition. Never mind that the chicken soup was not destined so much for the child as it was for the mother. Nature and circumstances, however, do not always cooperate with hopes. Let us suppose, therefore, that as the child grew, he, or she, turned out to be another Chumeca. What excuse would society have for that loss, even if it turns out that the loss is not really Chumeca's fault, but due to the fact that he, or she, never really had a chance? Well, who cares? Just as in America we often blame our human failures on what humans do today, forgetting about the errors of our past, the Azoreans of my day, if they gave credit to the past was solely to that one original chicken and nothing else in between. If, in the long run, the expectations shortly after the child's birth never materialized then the chicken was wasted, MAL EMPREGADA. Language-to-language dictionaries, just as in the case of the most advanced computer programs, do not often translate well. CLICK |
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THE TEN COMMANDMENTS As a child attending catechism classes in the Azores, I learned the Ten Commandments. Somehow, however, that did not prevent me from being occasionally violent, or from getting into fights. It did not prevent me from lying, either. In fact, I lied the first time I went to confession. Knowing the Commandments by heart did not even prevent me from admiring some of my neighbors' wives' rear ends, or coveting their asses. When I came to this country a few years later and discovered that the main branch of the Cambridge Public Library had a mural with the English Version of the Ten Commandments, I sort of rejoiced, for that posting added some words to my then-meager English vocabulary. Since most of my friends, however, as well as most of the residents of the City of Cambridge, had never been to a library, I look back now and wonder who that posting on the wall had additionally helped, except for the designers and painters who put them there. Whether the posting is still there, I can not affirm. On the other hand, it's interesting to note that, just last week, Congress decided on the possibility of having those ten rules stand like a John Wayne figure in public schools as a sort of cure for many of our faults. It mattered little to those who voted for the bill that the whole thing is an exercise in futility - and hypocrisy - and that, if it ever gets to the president's desk for signing, it will eventually be challenged in the courts and declared unconstitutional. In the meantime, work will be temporarily created for those who will paint the walls, etc., to be followed by additional work for those who will have to erase them. "Oh, what fools these mortals be..." Naturally, now that Congress has cynically acted for home consumption and re-election, it's only natural that other idiots with political ambitions imitate the temporary success of that useless bill. As proof, we have State Representative, Rich Christmer, from St. Peters, Missouri, who next year plans to introduce in the Legislature a bill requiring that the same Ten Commandments be posted in all state buildings and that schools require that prayer time be a part of its schedule. Just think... And for that we pay Christmer a salary. ... Really, we do. June 22, 1999 CLICK |
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WHEN WILL THE MADNESS STOP? | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Frankly, I don't know, and that's why I ask. On my radio segment last week, I brought up the comment that, since the excuse for God's work seems to be one of the causes that has kept the Middle East in turmoil, perhaps the solution would be for mankind to kill God in that part of the world and keep Him, Her, or It dead for at least fifty years. On the other hand, I followed my suggestion by pointing out that, perhaps, God had nothing to do with whatever was going on. Mankind, however, was the responsible element. I then asked the audience to comment on what I had said. One listener did, interpreting the Bible in the process. Sadly, at no time did anyone call attention to the fact that what is going on often seems to portray mankind more as a mad rather than the logical creation we are supposed to be. According to the Bible, the ancients respected madness, believing that anyone possessed of it was guided by the supernatural. They did have a catch, though, for they followed their belief by indicating that the supernatural spirits within madness could be equally used for good, or evil. On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, we witnessed madness confirm its power for evil. Somehow, although all day long I seemed almost angry at all the elements which eversince the Pogroms, the Dreyfus Affair, the Nazis - even Franklin D. Roosevelt's denial to our country by German Jews back in the thirties - forced the Jews to look for a historical homeland that had been, or was not, ever completely theirs. In time, however, and amidst turmoil, they were given a corner of the world which their predecessors had occupied a long time ago, disregarding some of the people who, at the moment of modern Israel's creation, occupied it. It wasn't long thereafter that they found themselves in a war with the world's newly-chosen "colonized" victims. An irony, in view of the treatment that the Jews had long received, as mentioned above, since most of the nations that at first backed the idea (and the United States in particular) were incapable of facing another truth that had long been a part of human knowledge - a truth that, as far back as the XVI Century, Machiavelli had brought up in his work, THE PRINCE, as a warning to his sovereign. A man will forgive you, the Florentine philosopher asserted, if you should kill his father. He will not forgive you, however, if you take his land away. Let's us compare that advice with what happened in the Middle East. Can anyone tell me how many Arabs were consulted by the nations that eventually supported Israel as a chunk of their land was taken away from them and awarded to the newcomers? A chunk, and another chunk, and another chunk, etc., etc.. Or am I being an idealist for feeling that, if anyone takes anything away from anyone, then it behooves the taker to leave behind something of, at least, equal value? I don't recall what anyone left the Palestinians, unfortunately. Or does anyone really know? Frankly, I don't know the answer to my own question, either. On the other hand, how long can mankind prevail when madness, it seems, continues on its "spirituality" into the realm of revenge, lies, hatred, destruction, murder - in fact, into what eventually may become man's primarily-ignorant interpretation of what, or who, God is? Or could it be possible that what we are sadly witnessing is nothing more than just the first step in our own destruction? For, although no one - as far as I know - seems to have proven the claim scientifically, it could really be, as the Ancient Greeks believed, that those whom the gods will destroy, they first make mad. |
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NOTE: The above artwork has nothing to do with the the text that follows. I have only included it to help break the monotony. M.L.P. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
NO. They didn't come in through Ellis Island, but they could have. And they would have passed their health exams, for they were both quite sound at the time. No. John Ponte came in April, 1944, through Philadelphia. Isabel came in through New York's Pier 15... Neither knew the country, nor the language and, by the time they died (John, in December, 1966, at Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Isabel ten years later at Bridgeton, Missouri, neither still spoke the language well. In fact, my mother had just about forgotten the little English she had learned and, in time, occasionally when my wife would speak to her, she would reply in the "linguajar" of São Miguel - as if Kathy could have understood her. In spite of that fact, if anyone could ask my parents today about America, they would have replied that the country had been good to them and that their only hope was that they had paid her back in kind... Simple people, they were - but good seeds nevertheless. |
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NO, THEY ARE NOT AZOREAN MOUNTAINS. ON THE OTHER HAND, IF SOMEONE SAID THEY WERE PART OF THE MISSOURI OZARKS, HE OR SHE WOULD NOT BE WRONG... | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||