NIFOC

Don't understand what's going on
Woke up this morning,
All the hurt was gone
This is a new beginning
I'm back in the land of the living

Saturday, May 03, 2003

OF HEROES AND SUPERHEROS


The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language gives three basic definitions for the word “hero”:

(1) In mythology and legend, a man often of divine ancestry, who is endowed with great courage and strength, celebrated in his bold exploits and favored by the gods.
(2) A person noted for courage or nobility of purpose, especially one who has risked or sacrificed his or her life.
(3) A person noted for special achievements in a particular field.


As a student of American pop culture, I have constantly wondered why individuals like OJ Simpson, Joe DiMaggio and Michael Jordan, who, technically, have never risked their lives or performed any “heroic” deeds, held the seemingly undeserving status of “hero”. The answer, obviously, is that they fall under definition number 3. Still, what amazes me is that some people, especially the media, seem to have given them attributes from all three definitions, thus turning them into “larger than life” and sometimes elevating them to what London & Weeks (1981) would describe as “Superheroes”. That is, “charismatic outsiders who succeed because of their moral and technological power, oftentimes by violence”.

I have always been fascinated by the concept and definition of “Superhero”. According to film director and comic book connoisseur Kevin Smith, if you take a man or a woman with power or abilities that could enslave the world but who has decided to use them for good, give them a secret identity to protect loved ones or to assure a normal life beyond their work and wrap them in clothes “worthy of a Halloween parade”, you get yourself a superhero. However, I do not think that the idea of being able to fly, having X-ray vision or incredible strength appeals to me as much as the notion of leading a double life. In fact, certain superheroes, such as Batman, Spiderman or Captain America, who are not nearly as strong or powerful as Superman, but have a more mysterious and intriguing double life, usually do a better job at capturing my imagination than the Man of Steel.

Whichever the case, as a Costa Rican, I have always perceived superheroes to be foreign to my culture. As I had never heard of any British, French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, or Costa Rican superheroes, I always truly believed that all superheroes lived somewhere in the US. You can imagine my total disillusionment when, as a kid, I can could not find Metropolis nor Gotham City in any map of the United States – no matter how hard I looked. Furthermore, wasn’t it true that superheroes, or at least Superman, were supposed to struggle for “truth, justice and the American way”? In this light, we could say that superheroes are nothing but idealistic and often extreme representations of many deeply-rooted American values, such as the overcoming of adversity and the control over nature.

In literature, a great hero, such as Hercules, must always defeat horrible obstacles to perform exceptional deeds that ordinary people can not. In American history, however, a hero has to fight his way through hardship to forge his own destiny. Indeed, from the Mayflower to Paul Revere, and from the wild west to Rosa Parks, heroes from all walks of life have helped shape the American culture into what it is today. If you “pull yourself by your bootstraps”, then “the sky is the limit”… and if you “just do it” and you “be all that you can be”, the ordinary Joe will find that “when there is a will, there is a way”.

So when you feel like hope is gone
Look inside you and be strong
And you’ll finally see the truth – that a hero lies in you

(1995). “Hero” by Mariah Carey.

Still, Stewart (1972) tells us that “the man who performs visible deeds” is the cultural hero of the Americans. In other words, overcoming adversity is not nearly enough, a real American hero must also do something that is either measurable or quantifiable. Climbing to the top of Mt. Everest means nothing if you can not account for it. Sandy Hill Pittman knew this well when she went on-line daily to tell the world every single detail of the fateful expedition before she found her grave as she made it to the top.

Going back to literature, a handsome, noble, honest, self-reliant and overall perfect hero is always expected to fall due to the sin of hubris… that is, arrogance, pride, presumption. The problem is that heroes – at the end of the day – are still human, and people do not usually remember this. In fact, some ordinary people who excel in their fields, especially sport figures, politicians, astronauts, rock musicians, actors and public figures, are often endowed with classic heroic attributes. Nevertheless, they are real people, and as real people, they are flawed. Pete Rose, Richard Nixon and OJ Simpson all fell from grace by doing deeds that, although totally unrelated to their respective “heroic” performances, were unworthy of a true all-American hero.

Gerzon (1982) argues that “heroes today are not born. They are packaged. They are thrust upon us by marketing strategies. In place of gods, we manufacture superstars”. A wonderful example of this is, of course, the movie “Hero” (1992) starring Dustin Hoffmann and Andy Garcia, where the world chooses to believe that the hero is the handsome and noble guy instead of the foul-mouthed, ill-tempered and odd-looking guy who actually did the heroic deed.

In Costa Rican history, we do not have a George Washington nor an Abraham Lincoln. The one and only Costa Rican hero is Juan Santamaria, who reportedly burned down an adobe house in a small Nicaraguan town where an American gun-for-hire had stationed his garrison as he, after having taken control of the Nicaraguan government, was planning on advancing across the border into Costa Rica. The irony is that some people in Costa Rica would tell you that Santamaria was either “pushed” into heroism because he was the dumbest of his army or that he was a total fabrication. Definitely not the same treatment that an American hero receives.

There are no heroes or superheroes in Costa Rican culture. There is no overcoming of adversity. There are no people who are larger that life and become role models to the children. Therefore, when a Soccer star, or a politician, is found to be a drug addict, a rapist or a murderer, it is not a great tragedy. Sincerely, I doubt that Americans would ever elect a President who had been a murder suspect whose name was never actually cleared. Well, we once did.

Note: This paper, originally written in 1996 by yours truly, was actually once chosen for publication.

Thursday, May 01, 2003

TWO STEPS BACK


The other day a friend who lives overseas begged me to look at certain things with a little more perspective... “Take two steps back and everything will seem different”… At first, I must confess, I snorted at that notion… taking two steps back is for the weak… I’m not like that… My biggest thrill is to look at danger right in the eye and prove myself that I have the strength to walk away if I want to… no regrets… and no prisoners.

What is the worst insult that anyone can give you?

That’s simple… the worst insult has to be something that attacks directly the weakest spot of your self-esteem…. Which means that insults have to be custom-made according to the victim. That is, if you know you’re smart and someone calls you “stupid”, the insult is not going to take. However, if deep down you have insecurities about how smart you are, or how thin you are, or whatever… a simple insult like “stupid” might make more damage –over the course of a few days- than any harsher word. My point here is people need time to digest things… insults that may not be effective when said could become deadly over the course of a few days… because such things creep on you… haunt you… until they get under your skin. I believe advise works the same way, for better or for worst.

For example, a couple of years ago, I became an avid reader of Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hensen’s “Chicken Soup for the Soul”… great stories to rekindle your spirit.. and I guess my spirit needs a lot of constant rekindling. Whenever I read a story that inspired me… I wanted to share it with people… so in more than one occasion, I took the time to transcribe that story (if I couldn’t find it anywhere on the Net already transcribed) and send over e-mail to a few people. Most people would get it, maybe read it, maybe not… but I found that those who didn’t delete at first, came back to that story sometime later… read it again and again… and eventually… the story took… and I began noticing interesting changes in some people. Insults, my friends, work the same way.

“From a distance
You look like my friend
Even though we are at war
From a distance
I just cannot comprehend
What all this fighting’s for”


So my friend’s advise to take a couple of steps back did finally take…. Now, I’m starting to look at things from a different perspective…from a distance... Trying to prioritize things in my life…money, work, love, sex, friendship, movies, music, family

work over family?... sex over friendship?.... money over free time?.... fame over fortune?... pride over love?... future over present?... adventure over peace?... thrill over guilt?... comedy over drama?.... where the clowns?

"isn't it rich, are we a pair?
Me here at last on the ground, you in mid air!
Send in the clowns!

Isn't it bliss, don't you approve?
One who keeps tearing around, one who can't move!
Where are the clowns? Send in the clowns!

Isn't it rich, isn't it queer?
Losing my timing this late in my career!
Where are the clowns? There's gotta be clowns!"


After a lot of soul searching... My wife and my son wound up – as expected- at the top of the list… and you know what’s funny?… when you take two steps back… the list ends there.

Sunday, April 27, 2003


DURMIENDO CON ELLOS
Alexánder Obando


San Jose: un sitio, una ciudad de tentáculos perdidos.
Los zancudos de mayo revolotean en el calor de la noche.
Hay perros que ladran:
Abren el hocico para tragar,
entre dientes amarillos y roja lengua,
un bocado de aire y humedad
Pero en mi casa, siempre, se duerme con ellos.

Algunos lagartos no cierran las fauces
por temor al olvido y las piedras.
Las almohadas de la luna ya descienden:
alguna estrella se consume y envía fragmentos
que debieron quedarse en Aries;
pero en casa, y tras la lluvia de aerolitos,
quedamos durmiendo con ellos

Tal vez yo me sienta uno asociado con la noche.
He abierto muchas puertas
para ahogarme luego entre callejones de ciudad.


Por eso, siempre con ellos:
con los muslos y miembros exangües
como disfraces de un viejo ropero.
En el pequeño cuarto de la tarde
mientras en Santiago de Cuba llueva;
mientras las calles frias alberguen
un desafinado amante de Caruso,
nosotros con ellos.
Para cuando aparezca otro afarensis
y las vigas del Maracana envejezcan de cerveza;
mientras la lluvia de dientes fertilice el desierto,
yo en la playa o en el cine... durmiendo con ellos

Tal vez yo soy uno mismo con la noche.
He ido por ahí abriendo puertas olvidadas
cuyos habitantes carecen de nombre.


Y luego, durmiendo con ellos en los aviones y los trenes;
bajando el Golfo con las manos en la arena
o los pies al quicio de un zigurat.
Levantando el turbante o los anteojos
para distinguir al amigo o enemigo.
Sacando muelas o dando clases en el Carmen de Parrita.
Haciendo la paz y la guerra en Peñas Blancas
o siguiendo el buque fantasma del Lago.
Porque en San Juan del Norte
los senos y los muslos se abren a la noche como esporas,
Y nosotros, a pesar de la guerra, dormimos con ellos.

Recordando a Lorca o Rimbaud en patineta.
El pelo lacio y los ojos tristes
cuando un poema en la cocina se le llenaba de cerveza:
cuando una fulana destrozaba sus sueños
con un NO firme y abundante,
y, sin embargo, dormia con ellos.

Yo he sido uno mismo con la noche
Abro millones de puertas oscuras
y las cierro ante ojos aterrados


Por eso un hotel en Nebraska y otro en San José,
bajando del tren al perro del gaurdián
para hacer el amor en el cabús,
y siempre, durmiendo con ellos.
En San Salvador o Atenas, sin murallas,
sobre un libro de García Marquez y a la luz de una candela;
acariciando sus flancos
mientras el fantasma nos mira desde la puerta
-y a pesar del miedo- durmiendo con ellos.
Tocar esos labios húmedos apenas dibujados por la ventana.
Negar la importancia de T.S. Elliot
y rasgar un guitarra en los balcones del frío.

Porque siempre he sido uno mismo con la noche
Salgo bajo la lluvia y regreso bajo la lluvia
Mi casa está llena de ídolos muertos.


Tengo por lo tanto a la loca de mi amiga entre brazos,
succiono los morenos pezones y duermo con ellos,
siempre con ellos.
Pavarotti en el Lincoln y nosotros imitando a Verdi y Puccini;
porque San José no tiene sentido sino duermo con ellos;
con Sosa de Honduras y la uruguaya de Tibás.
Abrazar con el calor de mi mano sus hombros húmedos,
trasgredir su pubis siempre con ellos.

Porque yo soy uno mismo con la noche.
Y un grito desde lejos atraviesa las calles,
pero no para saludarme o decir adiós.


Duermo con todos en las noches de verano
y en las tardes colegiales.
Una taza de leche y un bollo de pan para el domingo de Pascua.
Decirle detrás de la oreja que no tenga miedo,
que a todos les pasa durmiendo con ellos.
Porque entre ruinas: sobres las grúas del transporte;
en los baños de los hoteluchos
y bajo las narices de sus tíos,
durmiendo con ellos.

Sin la clara luz de una luna en Málaga.
Sin el ronroneo de las palmeras de Limón
pero durmiendo con ellos.

Porque San José es la ciudad; a veces, a veces el momento;
y yo mirando el viejo reloj desde esta ventana,
se que siempre seré uno asociado con la noche.