The Sounds of This Year’s Parade

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
George Santayana


As I write this, countless high school marching bands are parading down Calle 50, a mere three-hundred feet from where my wife and I live, as the Republic of Panamá begins a week-long celebration of its independence from Colombia, which took place on November 3, 1903.

On that day, a little over a century ago, a group of Panamanian leaders, with the firm backing of the United States, declared Panamá an independent nation. From that point on, an intimate yet uneasy relationship between this small isthmian nation and the giant to the north was born when, thanks to Teddy Roosevelt’s obstinate leadership, the United States undertook one of the greatest engineering feats ever: the construction of the Panama Canal.

Although Panama began its life as a constitutionally demilitarized country (Why would they need a military with 50,000 U.S. troops stationed in the Canal Zone?), under the stealth guidance of American advisors, Panamá gradually built an army. Sadly, as Latin American history has repeatedly demonstrated, after seven decades of democratic rule, the Panamian military took full control of this peaceful nation in 1968.

Twenty years later, the military abuses had become so untenable that in December of 1989, then President George Herbert Bush was obliged to invade Panamá to remove General Manuel Antonio Noriega from power—this in spite of the close ties that Bush, when Director of the CIA, had formed with the Panamanian strongman.

To this day, Panamanians have mixed feelings about the US invasion. Many resent the violation of their nation’s sovereignty. But one good thing did come out of the invasion, I believe: the decision to dismantle the Panamanian army, forever. Today, like its neighbor, Costa Rica, Panamá does not have a military.

But that may change . . .

President George W. Bush is arriving next week for a two-day visit. In preparation for the president’s arrival, during the last three months and on separate occasions, Condoleezza Rice, U.S. Secretary of State; Donald Rumsfeld, Secretary of Defense; Robert Mueller, Director of the FBI; and William Pope, the State Department’s Principal Deputy Coordinator for Counterterrorism, have visited Panamá. During each of their visits, these high-ranking officials have strongly urged the government of Martin Torrijos to take terrorism seriously. Furthermore, without qualms they have suggested that the best way to demonstrate their commitment to fighting terrorists would be to create a formidable security force whose main concern would be to protect the Panama Canal. In the absence of these functionaries, the current and former U.S. Ambassadors often repeat this message. At this point, every person who has been observing these events is sure that the rearming of Panamá will be near the top of President George W. Bush’s agenda when he visits.

The prospect of creating an elite fighting force has caused considerable concern among Panamanians. The overwhelming majority does not wish to see the return of goon rule. Still, in spite of their many fears, rebuilding the military would offer a ray of hope for hundreds of thousands of Panamanians who need a steady job. (In today’s La Prensa, in an article about the lack of options for this year’s crop of college and high school graduates, it’s expected that 200,000 will not be able to find employment—and this in a nation of only four million.) Thus, for many families who are driven by necessity, rebuilding the army, however unpleasant the thought, also represents a much needed source of income.

The U.S. officials who are bringing the issue to the forefront repeat the mantra that Panamanians need not fear remilitarization because there is a greater threat: Osama bin Laden and Al-Qaeda. In response to this, every Panamanian I have spoken to says that they have yet to hear bin Laden proclaim the Republic of Panamá an enemy of Islam.

Admirably, President Martin Torrijos has responded coolly to this pressure, in spite of being the head of the Partido Democrático Revolucionario—the party formerly aligned with the military and founded by his father, General Omar Torrijos who, before Noriega, was Panama’s strongman.

In today’s issue of La Prensa, when asked his opinion of the U.S.’s repeated calls for Panamá to rearm itself, Alberto Alemán Zubieta, Administrative Director of the Panamá Canal, replied: “We take the threat of terrorism seriously. . . . However, it is not necessary to recur to this measure . . . because it is well known that terrorism is fought more efficiently by gathering intelligence than by mobilizing armies.”

I wholeheartedly agree.

What’s more, I think that members of President Bush’s team can learn much from Alemán Zubieta’s statement.

As I approach the conclusion of this piece, the sounds of the marching bands continues to break the customary Sunday afternoon stillness. Between the bright martial pieces of John Phillip Sousa and the blunt monochords of blaring bugles, one can also hear “Twist and Shout,” full renditions of songs by Rubén Blades, and joyful melodies gleaned from Panamá’s rich Caribbean and inland folklore—all being played with the vigorous enthusiasm of youth.

I hope the Independence Day celebrations continue to sound like this for years to come. I fear that if Panamá starts to seriously consider the counsel coming out of the White House these days, it won’t be long before the sounds of the parade become dark and ominous.

An Update

A couple of days prior to President George W. Bush's arrival, the rhetoric changed subtly. Now, instead of insisting that Panamá itself provide greater security for the Canal, U.S. officials have stated that the President would seriously consider a Panamanian invitation for the United States to once again station troops here. I'll leave to the readers of this post to speculate what's behind that agenda.

A Ritual Worth Preserving

Ritual is the way you carry the presence of the sacred.
Ritual is the spark that must not go out.
Christina Baldwin


“La bendición, mamá,” I ask of my mother as I’m about to leave for the Fresno airport.

I bow slightly and close my eyes. Soon I feel the tenderness of her right palm as she places her hand upon my head to begin the brief ritual that will leave me blessed and commended to la Santa Trinidad—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—for a safe voyage back home.

In the early days of California, la bendición was a tradition among its first Christian settlers, the Californios: men and women from Sonora, México, who had been recruited at the turn of the nineteenth century to help colonize this remote outpost of the Spanish empire. Whenever the sons and daughters of Californios would leave the shelter of their homes, they’d kneel before their parents, seeking their blessing.

As my mother softly utters a prayer, I wonder if this Hispanic custom—which she brought with her from her native Nicaragua—is still being passed on.

Living in Panamá, when life becomes a bit turbulent, I ask for my mother’s blessing over the telephone. And in spite of the vast distance that separates us, I know that her protective veil will reach across our borders to shield me from harm. But as much as I value those prayers, it’s never quite the same as the sacred feeling of her touch. When my mother places her hand upon my head, not only am I sure that I will arrive safely to my destination, but I’m also certain that her blessing will extend far beyond that day, keeping me well and happy for quite some time to come.

This, I’m certain, is a tradition worth preserving.

Flash Performances

I believe in equality for everyone, except reporters and photographers.
Mahatma Gandhi


I am passionate about rock music, especially that of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. My favorite singer of all time is Van Morrison. He’s best known for the songs ‘Gloria,’ ‘Brown-Eyed Girl,’ and ‘Moondance.’ The last time I saw ‘Van the Man’ perform was over twenty-five years ago, at the Hollywood Palladium in Los Angeles.

Van has the reputation of being one of the most cantankerous artists of all time. Recently, on the internet, I read a poll in which journalists were asked to name the most unpleasant person in the music industry that they’ve had to interview. Van Morrison’s name was at the top of the list. Número uno. Still, Van the Man writes absolutely wonderful songs and sings like no one else. So, who cares if he’s a grouch?

On the last occasion that I saw Van Morrison live, as soon as he walked on stage several members of the audience started taking photographs—the flashes of the cameras brightening up the place like soundless streaks of lightning. (This was in the days when personal cameras were allowed in concert halls.) At the conclusion of the second number, Van stood absolutely still at center stage. He waited for the applause to subside, and then, in a deep growl, he reprimanded the photographers, saying, “Hey, hey, cool it with the flashes, will you?”

The offending fans, perhaps in fear of the Irish singer’s legendary bad temper, obediently put away their cameras. I didn’t see a single flash go off during the rest of the show, and Van Morrison never said another word to the audience. He let his music do the talking instead, giving us an unforgettable performance.

Several days ago I read from Bernardo and the Virgin at the center that belongs to the Movimiento de Arte y Cultura Latino Americana (MACLA), in downtown San Jose, California. In my days as a college undergraduate, in Los Angeles, I remember discussing with friends, on more than one occasion, how wonderful it would be to have a place where Latino and Latina artists—in the visual, musical, dance, theater, and literary arts—could showcase their talents. These contemplations occurred over thirty years ago. Back then, that such a center would ever exist seemed like an impossible dream for most of us. At the time, people of Latin American ancestry were invisible in the United States, and to think that one day this nation would begin to acknowledge our cultural contributions was the wildest of our fantasies.

But organizations like MACLA, through the dedication and sacrifice of their members, are helping to make this dream a reality. In MACLA’s center there’s an art gallery and a theater. In addition, the Movimiento de Arte y Cultura Latino Americana hosts a variety of workshops that benefit the community, in particular its youth, regardless of ethnicity.

MACLA has been in existence for over fifteen years and its offerings grow each year. This is the best measure of the need for such an organization. It is also the greatest measure of its success. My thanks go to Tamara Alvarado, MACLA’s Director, and Fred Salas, Program Coordinator for Performance and Literary Arts, for inviting me to share my work. They, and the rest of the staff and volunteers, have my admiration and respect for the important job they are doing. Sigan adelante.

My sister, Sandy, who’s a television news reporter with UNIVISION, in Fresno, and my mother, joined me for the reading. Although having them in the audience made me a bit self-conscious, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Their presence gave the event a very special meaning for me.

As I stood on the theater stage that evening, reading from a podium, it was difficult not to let the annoying flashes of the photographer’s camera distract me. But I do have to confess that more than once I was tempted to paraphrase Van Morrison, my musical hero, and say to the offending person, “Hey, hey, mom, cool it with the flashes, will you?”

Courageous Steps

Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.
Anais Nin

Courage is very important. Like a muscle, it is strengthen by use.
Ruth Gordon

Courage is reflected in the choices we make, especially when these lead us along less commonly traveled paths.

For the past four nights I’ve been a guest of the Center for Women Writers at Salem College, in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. The Center, a co-sponsor of Forsyth County Public Library’s “On the Same Page” program, lodged me in the Rondthaler-Gramley House—a stately, two-story residence built in 1888. At one time the College presidents lived here. Today, this splendidly restored mansion is used for meetings, social events and, of course, for housing guests. I am indebted to Ginger Hendricks, director of the Center for Women Writers, for granting me this enriching experience.

Throughout my time here I’ve been the only person staying in this huge five-bedroom manor, which sits majestically on the northern end of the delightful courtyard that’s at the heart of the campus. The serenity of the house, of Salem College, and of the neighboring historic community of Old Salem is a welcomed respite from the mayhem of Panamá City.

To be here is to step back in time. The beautifully maintained town of Salem was founded by German Moravians in 1750, and the College opened its doors in 1772. It is the oldest women’s college to operate continuously in the United States. Salem College is also the fifteenth oldest college in the nation. A person only needs to be on campus for a few moments to become acutely aware of a tradition that goes back generations, and that persists to this day: that of women who have chosen to forsake the conventions of their times in order to follow their convictions.

I’m in Winston-Salem at the invitation of the organizers of “On the Same Page” to help pay homage to four women—four sisters to be exact—who also chose to defy societal restrictions and act upon their beliefs. Every year, the steering committee behind “On the Same Page” selects a novel for the community to read and discuss in a month-long celebration. For this year, the choice was Julia Alvarez’s In the Time of the Butterflies, a book with which I am well acquainted. My role was to present a lecture and then facilitate a discussion to help wrap up a reading festival that got underway with a visit and a talk by Julia Alvarez herself.

The organizers estimate that over 2,500 persons attended the various presentations as well as numerous book discussion groups. In addition, based on the numbers of copies checked out from the libraries and sold at local bookstores, more than 3,000 have read In the Time of the Butterflies, a novel that tells the true story of the four Mirabal sisters, three of whom were murdered on November 25, 1960 for opposing Rafael Trujillo’s dictatorship in the Dominican Republic.

“How did the sisters find the courage to stand up to such an evil dictator?” I was asked more than once. In the lecture Julia Alvarez gave during her visit, she offered us an answer: “. . . in small, incremental steps, [in the] little moments and challenges we all face every day of our lives.”

After spending several days in Salem College, it seems to me that the decision to enroll in an all-woman’s institution also constitutes an act of courage. It is valiant, I think, to choose a highly reflective environment over the more commonly treaded path of a co-educational college. At Salem College, the main pursuit seems to be self-knowledge—as opposed to the job-oriented instruction most universities impart today. Here, a young woman is able to spend her days quietly exploring her strengths—in a largely non-competitive atmosphere—so that she can discover for herself the ways in which she can best contribute to society.

When I gaze out over the campus from the second floor windows of the Roundthaler-Gramley House, I am impressed by the serenity of the campus. Salem College seems like the perfect place for a young woman to prepare herself: taking day to day, in a genuinely nurturing institution, those “small incremental steps” Julia Alvarez spoke about in her talk.

Having come to Winston-Salem to help pay tribute to four Dominican women who were cast in the same mold, I shall leave with a better understanding of the source of their courage.