The Stone Bed (La Cama de Piedra)

LA LOQUITA DEL ZIG-ZAG: THE STONE BED (ENGLISH TRANSLATION)

BY NININA MAMEYEZ

Thum, thum, thum, thum. “What’s that?” I’m thinking to myself. Entering the library, I find Papi playing his record player. He has many records from Our Country and from Our Other Countries. He loves the guitar. The thum, thum is coming from the guitars.

“AY, Papi, you’re playing your guitars!”

“Yes, little one. Listen to Mister Mariachi. He’s singing: ‘Guitars, o please cry, guitars.’”

“WHAT? Guitars can’t cry, Papi!”

“Yes, little daughter. Guitars cry. Listen to this other song: ‘The bed is made out of stone/and so is the headboard…’”

I begin to rock back and forth: I like it. But I think; I say, “WHAT? A Stone Bed? And guitars that cry?”

“It has to do, Ninina, with how much I love you and your Mami.”

“OH. And I love you and Mami. And I want to have a Stone Bed.”

Papi thinks about it; sighs. “How about a crying guitar, instead?”

“NO, Papi, I want a Stone Bed!”

“Well, ask Santa Claus for one, all right?”

“All right.”

Santa Claus arrives; he brings me a beautiful doll. “AY, what a beautiful doll,” says The Pretty One.

Umm…Umm…Umm…”Where is the Stone Bed? WHERE IS THE STONE BED?” Running to my room, I throw myself face down on my bed. I begin to sob; to cry and cry. I cry like Mister Mariachi. I cry even more than the guitars. The only one who can make me feel better is my Pink Chicken.

The first day of the New Year, everyone in the house is running here and there.

“What’s happening, Papi?”

“Mister Whip left his palace last night, little one. And now Colonel Beardful is in power.”

“The friend of Lieutenant Cries Before He Knows?”

Papi sighs, “Yes. But—smiling a little bit—The Three Kings will be here in several days, right?”

“All right, Papi. All right.” Giving him a little kiss, I go out to play on my slide.

The next day, Papi goes out alone in his Oldsmobile, without The Man Who Drives Him Around. He returns home, smiling more and more.

The day of The Three Kings, I enter the library. I see a HUGE present, with a beautiful bow.

“Open it, little one. It’s for you.”

Tearing apart the paper and the bow, I find a small record player. And on top of the record player is…THE STONE BED! Running to Papi, I hug him hard and give him a huge kiss. “THANK YOU, Papi. THANK YOU!”

Thum, thum, thum, thum. “The bed is made out of stone…” sings Mister Mariachi.

“And so is the headboard…” I sing. I begin to rock back and forth: I like it. I still don’t know why it’s a Stone Bed. And I still don’t know why the guitars cry.

Wednesday, December 31, 2008

50 years after Colonel Beardful (Castro) took over from Mister Whip (Batista).

68 years since Efrain and Ana Marrero married in Lyon, France at the mairie there.

Very hard to translate, but I think I got the message across. Senor Mariachi, by the way, is the incomparable Cuco Sanchez. According to both my parents, “La Cama de Piedra” (The Stone Bed) was my favorite childhood song.

For Papi, Mami, and Jesus (Chuchu) Yanez Pelletier.

Shenandoah

Shenandoah Elementary School in 1946 -- from the Miami Area Schools, etc. website; copyright, Don Boyd.

The end of the year always brings up memories...well, I'm always reminiscing, aren't I?

Below is a piece I wrote to present to the Shenandoah Elementary School children for Career Day in May, 2004: forty-one years after my partner, Nicky Perusina, and I had skipped our way out into the courtyard as we danced a Hungarian Gypsy Dance; and just shy of forty years since I exited from underneath one of its stately arches for the last time as a rising fifth grader.

For what it's worth: in December of 2004, an artist friend of mine, Ana Canas de Lopez, was being presented with the key to the city of Miami for her artistic accomplishments. Awaiting the presentation in the reception hall, I noticed that Manny Diaz, the Mayor of Miami, was present. I'd read that he'd attended Shenandoah. I'd done the math: we'd been there at the same time. Therefore, I could not resist approaching him to find out if, indeed, he had been there. Indeed. It was not long before I touched on Mrs. Echevarria: it turned out he had been in the third grade (and in the same room) at the time! His memory, as mine, was of the day that Kennedy was shot. It didn't appear that we remembered each other, though: we "intermediate" fourth graders were probably all but tied to that table! Trust me: with Mrs. E in charge, we were. We were...

SHENANDOAH

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

In the old days, walking down from Calle Ocho on Southwest Tenth Street Road, one was able to run smack into Shenandoah Elementary School. All three floors of it, with its Mediterranean tiled roof and graceful arches. The first floor held the first and second grade classrooms; the second, third and fourth grades; and the third, fifth and sixth grades.
Passing underneath these arches on November 29, 1960, I embarked upon my first grade experience in the United States. No hablaba ni una palabra de inglés. I didn’t speak one word of English. I remember my first grade teacher, Mrs. Morvil, speaking to me in English. Looking up at her, quizzically, I responded en español. And that’s pretty much how it stayed, all year.
At the beginning, I wrote a few letters to my teacher in Cuba, asking her to send me my textbooks. And then I didn’t open my mouth, to the point that I almost failed first grade. I had learned enough to know that an “F” was a bad grade, and I had received six of them. I don’t know how – or why – but I was passed on to second grade.
The first six weeks of second grade were pretty bad. Then something happened. A small group of us were handed over to Mrs. Bustillo, a Cuban teacher who spoke enough English that she was able to teach us in both languages. I did much better with her, ending up the year with my lowest grade being a “C” in Physical Education. And, oh, how I hated P.E.!
Mr. Latona – “Latón de Basura” is what I called him – was very hard on me. I was already a little bit chubby, and had a very hard time keeping up with everybody else when we had to run laps around the huge schoolyard. Then, again, perhaps I couldn’t see in front of me. It was sometime between second and third grades that I became “Miss Four Eyes.” Did that help me with P.E.? No.
Huffing, puffing, and with sweat pouring down my forehead, in front of, and behind, my eyeglasses, I tried and tried. I cried and cried. I received many “D’s” in P.E. Fortunately, I did better and better in the other subjects.
Third grade meant the second floor. Room 201, which is where I would stay for both third and fourth grades. Our teacher was Puerto Rican. Mrs. Echevarria was fair, but very, very tough. I had to work very hard for my ABC’s. Evidently I misbehaved from time to time, for I received three checks in “Self-Control.” “Cafeteria manners must improve,” she wrote in her fifth period comments. What did I do – start food fights, or something?
On the other hand, I didn’t fight learning English, any more. I did really well: all “A’s” and “B’s.” Except for those pesky “D’s” and “C’s” in P.E. I became the spelling champion in our class, and runner-up in the entire third grade. I actually remember breathing out, “hand-ker-chief,” in spurts. But that did the job.
Third grade was my year of glory at Shenandoah: the Spelling Bee, and the Hungarian Gypsy Dance.
Two Hungarians were the obvious choices to lead this gypsy dance out from underneath the central arch, under the lights one May evening in 1963. Nicky Perusina and I were all dolled up in our red velvet and gold-trimmed jackets. He wore black pants, and a long black bow fringed with gold tassels. I wore a white skirt with red and green stitching, a flower-trimmed headdress, and carried a little bouquet of flowers in my hands. I even got to wear makeup – I felt so grown up!
Getting all dolled up was one thing. Dancing the dance was another. I’m not exactly sure who taught me the dance – I remember the hopping and the skipping to and fro – but I’m fairly certain Mr. Latona must have had something to do with it. This was his department, after all.
I DO remember being nervous, and trying to remember on what foot I was supposed to skip out, first. Most importantly, I remember telling myself, “Don’t trip. Don’t trip.”
Well, I didn’t trip. We all had a good time. And I became known as The Hungarian Dancer.
That summer, my parents and I moved several blocks away from El Vanta Koor (Vanta Court; now Shenandoah Square), the apartment building next door to Shenandoah, where we had lived since November of 1960. As Shenandoah was still my school, I entered the building on September 3, 1963, fully expecting to finally be in a “normal” classroom.
Instead, I was redirected back to Room 201! A group of us were to remain in our old classroom, at a table all to ourselves. We were in what was called an “Intermediate” fourth grade. Always a slow starter, I received the following comments on my report card at the end of the first period: “Georgina always starts ‘cold’, but warms up later to do good work.” That was the last time I ever got a “D” in P.E.
I was sitting at that table on November 22, when our principal, Miss Hatfield, made an announcement over the loudspeaker. President Kennedy had been shot and killed. We stood up, observed a moment of silence, and sang “God Bless America.”
The Beatles arrived in the United States in early 1964. Our friends who were boys became a little jealous. I took time out from listening to the record player and from playing with my Barbie dolls to get good grades, especially in English, Spelling, Writing, Social Studies, and Conversational Spanish. This time, I was class runner-up in spelling. If there was a May Festival that year, some other little girl was chosen to hop and skip away. But that was all right – I’d had my moment of glory.
My last day at Shenandoah was June 5, 1964. I’d been promoted to fifth grade.
We moved to Georgia that summer. But I arrived speaking, reading, and writing in English. Thank you, Shenandoah, for four wonderful years. I wish I had made it to your third floor.
Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero 1020 words All Rights Reserved

Babes 'n Pearls

Aaugh! I feel as frustrated as Charlie Brown when Lucy made him slip up or something.
Trying to share an old post from "La Loquita" with my Theater Lovers' Community friends in Miami, I was informed the address link did not exist. Oh, yeah? Flummoxed; frustrated; board--and in the immediate aftermath of this year's Art Basel exposition--HERE IT IS (and it's worth your time, even if you don't live in Miami). Enjoy!

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Babes 'n Pearls

At long last: my 2005 holiday vignettes. Happy New Year!

BABES ’N PEARLS (AND OTHER OBSERVATIONS, 2005 HOLIDAY SEASON)

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

There are diamonds, pearls, emeralds & rings
None of these jewels show me a thing
I want only, only, only, I want your love
(Oo oo oo oo oo de oo)

Your eyes, your lips set me on fire
Your love, your kiss, my one desire
I want only, only, only, I want your love
(Oo oo oo oo oo de oo)

To hold me (oo oo oo oo oo de oo)
To kiss me (oo oo oo oo oo de oo)
To thrill me (oo oo oo oo oo de oo)

I don't want a chance for the gold
Just want someone to have & to hold
I want only, only, only, I want your love
(Oo oo oo oo oo de oo)
Your love (oo oo oo oo oo de oo)
Your love

--Powers/Tyler, 1960
Sung by The Paradons
Number 18 on The Top 40 List, 1960

It’s Sawgrass Time, 11/21/05: sometime during the week right before Thanksgiving, it’s Sawgrass Time—the last time I hit the Sawgrass Mall before the holiday frenzy. I’d been to the Dolphin on 11/16/05, after I’d committed Neiman-Marcus’ “New Jewelry Arrivals” postcard to my subliminal memory, and had deliriously and happily (really) come away with several John Hardy pieces. So I figured the Sawgrass store would have even more treasures. Alas, nothing really new: some jeans with lace-up ties that in the long run are probably going to drive me more rather than less crazy (but they were a good buy). However, at the Saks outlet, while deliberating the purchase of a sparkly Longchamps bag I probably would have discarded sooner rather than later (I didn’t get it), I found myself surrounded by more employees than customers, all rushing to get ready. When I politely commented on the scenario, a salesperson responded, “Just wait a few days.” Well, no. That’s why I say when it’s Sawgrass Time.

The Princess and The Toothpick, Gilbert’s Bakery at TJ Maxx Mall across from The Falls, 11/22/05: on my way to the TJ Maxx and Marshall’s in The Falls area, I stumbled onto a Gilbert’s Bakery. Familiar with the Red Bird Shopping Mall’s store, I was totally unprepared for the subdued lighting, tasteful colors and décor of the establishment. (Nor, as it turned out, for the upscale prices.) Being in South Miami, I figured it served a mixed clientele, and asked the counter person as much. Indeed: both Latins and gringos partake of the delicately layered sandwiches, the miniature pastries, and sumptuously decorated cakes (as well as the hardier—and more typical—fried and baked fare generally available at Cuban bakeries). I couldn’t resist: “Jewish American Princesses”? Indeed, the counter person continued. At least two women fitting the description had squawked at the prospect of eating a tidbit with a toothpick stuck in the middle, especially if it happened to be the last one left on a tray. “What if someone had touched it?” They had supposedly said. It all depends on whom, I guess, whereupon the server placed a rolled up whatnot on my plate, with toothpick attached, and all. I ate it.
What if it had been my sweater knitting ex mother in law on the eve of my marriage?
What if, indeed?

Palmetto Beltway, 11/23/05: at the end of another day chock-full of gallivanting about, I decided to tackle the Marshall’s at the Mall of the Americas. On the Wednesday night right before Thanksgiving, imagine. Inching up Eighth Street, and then crawling up the Palmetto, just for one exit? Easier than going up Flagler, I’d figured. In the midst of all the virtually dead-ended traffic, an image came into my mind of the one time I’d tackled the DC to Virginia Beltway during the morning rush hour. That had been more than at a standstill: that had resembled a parking lot. This evening reminded me of that, and so, on this Wednesday right before Thanksgiving, 2005, I officially dubbed 826 “The Palmetto Beltway.”

Feeding Frenzy, 11/25/05: the day after Thanksgiving is traditionally considered the busiest shopping day of the year, right? I couldn’t resist…plus I was genuinely in the market for a new sound system. So I began to head toward BrandsMart in South Miami (except I couldn’t remember where it was and drifted down US 1 until about The Falls, then up and down Kendall Drive, until a kind soul redirected me down, down US 1 to Cutler Ridge). I queued up in the left-hand turning lane, fast forwarded (a la Miami) just as the signal was changing…and a stern-looking policeman almost handed me my first moving violation. But he didn’t. Shaken, but not disheartened, I proceeded to park and shop for my first true-blue sound system in I’m not sure how long. Surrounded by a sea of people, the fun was just beginning: anyone who’d purchased anything bigger than s/he could carry then had to go to the loading dock. An increasingly impatient throng of us waited, and waited, to see our merchandise, let alone to hear our names being called above the din. Keen-eared and nimble people were darting and grabbing all around me, just like sharks immersed in a feeding frenzy. Finally I saw the JBL and Onkyo boxes; jumping, making myself heard, I even got some special assistance from a very kind young man. On the lookout for the stern cop, I carefully made a right-hand turn, headed back up US 1, and came home.
PS I’m so smart: I’d bought the speakers and a receiver, but no audio player, so I had to return on 11/27/05. This time I went to the BrandsMart up the Palmetto. The crowd had stretched all the way to the highway on the 25th, a salesperson informed me. Imagine: probably even more cops, possibly even more Miami drivers…and even more of a feeding frenzy?

Chili Bath, 11/26/05: For a light repast in between shopping excursions, I indulged in a dim sum lunch at the Tropical Chinese Restaurant. My standard: tripe; bok choy; white rice…and spoonful after spoonful of hot chili paste. I’m giving myself a chili bath, I chuckled to myself as I ate.

Michelin Munchkins: (Throughout the holiday season): This year I saw a parade of Santas; Frostys; Snoopys; Winnie the Poohs (and Tigger, too); Penguins; A Nativity Scene; and, finally, a Christmas tree gracing the front lawns of mansions and hovels alike throughout the Metropolitan Miami area. Helium-filled latex wonders, one and all.
N.B.: the largest Santa of all that traditionally greets holiday crowds at the intersection of LeJeune and Miracle Mile is made out of plastic, Santa’s Helper Frank informed me: he couldn’t resist touching it.

Chasing Pollock, Art Basel, 12/1/05: I free-spiritedly meandered through the humongous Art Basel exhibit at the Miami Beach Convention Center, encountering a young Asian art editor with whom I could share my delight in Indonesian art, as well as an older art newspaper editor—also from New York—who encouraged me to enjoy the show. Upon informing him of my childlike perspective, he said, so much the better. Write about the show, and send it to him. Telling him I now appreciate Jackson Pollock, that I didn’t twenty-five years ago, he told me there were a few Pollocks to be found in Exhibition Hall D. So I set forth on my chase:

Chasing Pollock: Observations of a Thursday Afternoon

By Ninina Mameyez, Yoyi Gooch, and Georgina Marrero

There it was: Sun-Scope, 1946. I saw a yellow background, with blue legs and orange triangles. I saw a black turkey, a red stomach, a red arrowhead being grasped by an orange claw with blue nails. I saw a smiling black star (or wheel?) with spokes…and a beard.

An early Pollock and, I gather, “A significant piece,” as a rather corpulent (and self-important) gentleman indulgently informed me as he passed by.

Pollock before he dripped paint onto his canvases. I liked it very much.

Other things I saw:

A Robert Rauschenberg with a pig, a cow, and a monkey; with #25 and green Ralston Purina Checks in the background; with old wallpaper, a ruler…and what looked like either a decaying jack-o-lantern or a squooshy, dented, moldy tomato.
Several hundred thousand dollars, if I remember correctly.

Khaki globes: different parts of the world covered in khaki with pictures of soldiers underneath the globes. One of the more innocent anti-American foreign policy statements: some of the others upset both Ninina and Georgina, and she doesn’t want to write about them. At least, not yet.

I jumped up and down when I saw Babes ‘n Pearls: I spotted a woman wearing a bracelet with babes ‘n pearls. She got it in Brussels, she said.
Other artists I could understand:

Cy Twombly: pencil marks and splotches; crayon scrawls, too.

Klaus Oldenburg: he writes!

Max Ernst’s shapes also made sense. Actually, they were very nice.

Cover your eyes, Ninina: then I saw a teddy bear with a penis (!); and a dog lying down in his basket, surrounded by his rawhide bones (whew).

This made more sense to Yoyi: From a Zurich gallery, a photo of Sarah Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw with a big circle at the point her hand touched her forehead. She also had yellow streaks over her torso, as well as an independent (?) streak—transparent—going through the bottom part of her face, until it reached her heart. That’s where the streaks touched. Carrie in love? But of course…

Here, though, I think I’m Georgina all the way. I’d better be: I gave a sartorial English art dealer my link to Comedia ala Mode (See Tru) after glimpsing his exhibit consisting of simultaneous TV’s showing intercourse: a pig with a purse; and two dogs talking. I’ve figured out the pig with the purse, but the two dogs talking? Only a European artist, I noted. Oh, yeah? An American who lives in Paris, the Englishman said.

Gene Kelly???

Nah. With a glass of Perrier Jouet in hand at the respectable hour of five o’clock, I encountered the walls with names—with names of the countries that are anti-American foreign policy. Then I noticed more and more anti-American propaganda: President Bush all but hanging off canvases, etc. The somber tone of the show—Pollock’s cheerful black turkey and red stomach; and Rauschenberg’s pig, cow, and squooshy tomato, notwithstanding—was beginning to catch up with me.

I lingered around Exhibition Hall D about another two hours, going round and round in circles, more than anything else. I was through chasing Pollock.

Though this will never cross your desk, Mr. New York Art Newspaper Editor, thanks for steering me in the right direction. And it’s been a joy to communicate with the young Asian art editor: he was so excited about my Lempad that he actually communicated with me first. Can you believe it?

Spittin’ John(s), 12/8/05: A sign for a Pan-Asian restaurant—Origin Asian Bistro—at the corner of US 1 and Sunset had intrigued me to the point that I finally succumbed this particular evening. Figuring parking would be impossible, I was pleasantly surprised to encounter a valet service. Excellent! As it was a bit breezy (plus crowded) outside, I opted to eat inside. I was so excited: the menu revealed not just Thai, Chinese, and Japanese, but also, Malaysian, treasures. I began to think of my one foray into Malaysia—to Malacca—when my ex and I had taken a bus from Singapore (with me squawking all the way) and returned via a taxi stuck right behind a durian truck. No durian tonight, I imagined…I should have guessed all was not going to be perfect when I was scrunched against a corner and treated somewhat indifferently, but I figured what the hell—where else have I been able to get Malaysian food in Miami? I ordered a lychee sake, which I figured would be a variation on the lychee champagne I’ve happily imbibed at Balans on Lincoln Road. It was. The waitress described several Malaysian appetizers that appeared to be too heavy, so I opted for two pieces of sushi for starters: red clam; and conch. For the entrée, I went Malaysian, that’s for sure: BBQ steak with rice. Yummy! Uh, oh: everything arrived at once. I ate the conch sushi: ok. However, when I started working on the red clam, something appeared to be…off. As inconspicuously as possible, I spit it out into my napkin (cloth, and—fortunately—with enough folds). In the rather empty interior of the place, I fairly quickly realized my gesture had not gone unnoticed…especially when I had to continue spitting out gristly pieces of beef, one after the other, onto the sushi plate. (With my napkin already concealing the red clam glob, I had no choice.) Spit, spit, spit: what the hell. A different waiter collected my plates; I asked for the bill. $25.33+3.77 tip=$29.10. Not even cheap. Hell. As discreetly disgruntled as possible, I departed, handed the valet my stub, and waited for my car. It was then that I paid attention to the other occupant of that particular corner of US 1 and Sunset: BT’s Gentlemen’s Club. A strip club, to be sure, complete with the requisite beefy bouncer in front. We stared at each other; I feigned disgust. (Boy did I have fun.) And then: a stroke of genius. Or, rather, pizza: someone at the club had ordered pizza. From Papa John’s, no less. Papa John’s?
NB: durian is considered to be an aphrodisiac for tigers. Given Western tastes, I daresay there would be a lot of Spittin’ John(s) if this spiky, stinky vanilla-garlic tasting bomb of a fruit were on the menu…at either establishment.

Leapin’ Lisbet, Douglas Road Publix, 12/10/05: Picking up some last minute groceries late in the day, I’d decided to put the Douglas Road Publix where I had done some heavy-duty, frenetic shopping in Wilma’s wake to another test. For some reason, the store continued to be lean on dairy. Standing in line with my Bumblebee Spicy Thai Tuna with crackers, as well as its sun-dried tomato and basil equivalent, I listened to the cashier’s chummy conversation with the person in front of me. She seemed to know him. When she got to me, she proceeded to discuss the tuna with me at great length: a chubby woman, on a perennial diet, I gathered. An instant friendship, with—I checked her nametag—Lisbet. It’s a safe bet the next customer in line became her bosom buddy, and the next, and the next. Jumpin’ Jehosophat! Leapin’ Lizards! Leapin’—Lisbet.

Memories Tartare, Chispa, Altara Avenue, Coral Gables, 12/14/05: In a holiday kind of mood—but not in one to face the increasingly less than fully appetizing Wednesday night crowd at Houston’s—I landed at Chispa. Ever on the lookout for the rainforest martini I’d quaffed there a number of months earlier due to the largesse of a very distinguished gentleman, I once again discovered that, no, no one except one seemingly elusive bartender knows how to create this delectable concoction, replete with a lychee: what is it, with me and lychees? So I tackled a Manhattan, instead. Ugh! Guess I couldn’t handle that much bourbon, after all, so I soon found myself having to nosh. At the relatively empty bar, with a nice, friendly assortment of bartenders, I figured, why not. (My previous visit had been so unpleasant, given the condescending bartender on duty at the time, that I’d actually walked out and sworn I would never return. Well—maybe not ever…) After asking the purposely bald as a billiard ball bartender everything I could possibly think of about the various ceviches, I opted for the tuna tartare. David (that’s his name) brought me bread and this bean dip of theirs as I was waiting for my appetizer entrée. With all that bourbon (and sweet vermouth: yuck! Double yuck!) in my system, I’d wolfed down a chunk of the bread, spread with some dip, before the tuna tartare arrived. And then I tasted it: star anise. My ex used to put star anise in his Chinese dishes—his beef dishes, if I remember correctly. I was so sure it was star anise, I had David, and a young lady who’d joined him, proceed to try to ask the chef if it was star anise. No: the answer came back definitively. No. I was crushed. I’d been so sure it was star anise in that tuna—no, memories—tartare.

The After Party Glaze, Versailles, 12/25/05: out for a bite before hitting the movies on Christmas Day, I was glad Versailles was open (as was La Carreta). The night before—Nochebuena—claro que no: absolutely not. At two or so on Christmas Day, however, there I was, caught up in the after party glaze. Are they all still hungry, I wondered?

I’m still wondering.

Happy New Year!

2660 words