Sometimes it’s About Who Inspires Faith

Faith is a passionate intuition.
William Wordsworth

Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.
Martin Luther King, Jr.


In 1960, the Democratic National Convention was held in the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena. My family lived within a few blocks of this site. I was six years old at the time and on the final day of the Convention I remember walking there with my parents, who wanted to witness history up close. Although we weren’t allowed into the Arena, there was an electrifying atmosphere outside—music, shouted slogans, balloons, and a shared feeling that we were at a crossroads in American history.

What I remember best about that day are two things: that my jacket ended up covered with buttons of every single candidate seeking the Democratic Party candidacy, and the loud cheer that greeted the news that John F. Kennedy had won his party’s nomination.

My father—a veteran of the Korean War and naturalized US citizen—was inspired by Kennedy. He volunteered to help the campaign, and with me in tow he knocked on dozens of doors to distribute leaflets, buttons, and bumper-stickers supporting JFK. When Kennedy was elected, it was a joyful moment in my home as my parents celebrated the victory as theirs. They had faith that a new era of inclusion was being ushered in, and the sadness of seeing those hopes so tragically truncated haunts me to this day.

Years later, my father, who returned to live in Nicaragua and experienced the Sandinista Revolution—which he absolutely abhorred—found inspiration in Ronald Reagan and became an ardent Republican. With time, thanks to him, I learned to listen respectfully while not uttering a word in order to keep the family peace. It is a practice I honor to this day: I keep my heartfelt political opinions to myself in the presence of those whose viewpoints differ from mine—all for the sake of preserving amiable relationships.

Also, I’ve learned that teachers wield considerable influence over the minds of their students—even of college age. Thus, I remain as impartial as I possibly can around youth. I’ve learned to steer discussions that have the potential of becoming political toward posing the questions that both sides of the spectrum are raising. I’ve become quite a capable facilitator in helping students arrive to their own conclusions according to their consciences and beliefs. It is not a teacher’s place, I firmly believe, to shape the political views of students; rather, it is our duty to help them to learn to determine for themselves the stand they wish to take on issues or which candidates they will support.

In addition, because my wife and I have voluntarily chosen exile from the United States, the land of our birth, to reside in Latin America, I feel I surrendered the privilege to assert my viewpoint regarding US politics and elections. I prefer to let those who live in the trenches advocate their positions with vigor; and when I do chime in, I do so timidly, limiting my comments to some aspect of a discussion I feel people have overlooked.

Moreover, a bit wiser with age, I’ve learned that spiritual matters are far more transcendent and timeless than politics. In my youth I defended my political views with passion, not caring who I offended, only to discover, once the dust had settled, that I had been on the wrong side of the issue. Therefore, today I only come forth in matters in which I'm absolutely sure that I’m in command of the facts and where my voice may help prevent a mistake or correct an injustice.

Because of these strongly held principles, I’ve never used my writer’s pulpit to endorse a US presidential candidate. However, today I will break from tradition to state my belief that Barack Obama represents the direction in which I believe the United States needs to go. I have faith in his ability to lead.

What made me step away from a lifelong practice of withholding my views was Gen. Colin Powell’s endorsement of the Democratic Party candidate. Already, conservatives are attacking Powell for his support of Obama. But Powell’s words—and the courage it took to pronounce them—have inspired me to join in and say that I, too, believe that the United States has reached a critical crossroads that begs for a historical choice.

In particular, these words, uttered by Gen. Powell during his appearance on today’s “Meet the Press,” moved me to cast aside my silence and take this stand:

And I come to the conclusion that because of his ability to inspire, because of the inclusive nature of his campaign, because he is reaching out all across America, because of who he is and his rhetorical abilities — and you have to take that into account — as well as his substance — he has both style and substance, he has met the standard of being a successful president, being an exceptional president.

I agree.

Barack Obama reminds me of a time when hope filled the hearts of most Americans. We need hope again, perhaps more than ever. And I am filled with faith. That's because the electrifying appeal of his campaign takes me back to that day, long-ago, when I was six years old, standing in front of the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena, and a great nation was poised to make another historical choice.

Standing Next to Paul Newman

The light that you think you emanate is not necessarily the light that other people see. You think of yourself as shy, retiring . . . and some people will see you in an entirely different way.
Paul Newman


When I was a boy, Paul Newman was the actor most women swooned over. I know this because my mother was one of them. She once adopted a cat—the only cat my family ever owned—because the animal’s grey-blue eyes reminded her of the actor’s. What’s more, she instantly came up with a name for her favorite feline: Paul.

In my own way, I inherited her admiration for Newman. Growing up, I never missed one of his films. And my respect for him grew when, during the early 1980s, as the Nuclear Freeze Movement’s most visible spokesperson, he demolished Charlton Heston in a nationally-televised debate about the arms race.

A few years later, when I first heard about Newman’s Own and learned that all the profits of that enterprise went to charity, I became fiercely loyal to the product. (It certainly helped that the olive oil salad dressing was absolutely delicious.)

And today, a week after Paul Newman’s death, I find myself recalling the morning I stood next to him, and for quite a while, before becoming aware of his identity. The encounter took place in the fall of 1973, when I was nineteen and in my second year at Los Angeles City College. One morning, with a long gap between classes, two fellow students, both women, suggested a quick trip to Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard—then the largest record store in Los Angeles—to check out the latest releases.

When we arrived, business was slow; there were only a handful of customers. The sales-clerks, two young men, were playing Cat Stevens’s and Van Morrison’s most recent recordings. I couldn’t have asked for better music. And after flipping through albums for about an hour, it was time to head back to for our next class. Being the only one who decided to buy something, I joined the short line at the cash register while my friends continued searching through the bins.

I was the fourth customer. I stood there, enjoying the music and in no hurry to get back to my accounting class. The customer in front of me was in his forties, with slightly graying hair. He wore a dull-gray overall and a soiled pair of work-boots. I took him for a refrigerator repairman who, also on a break, had decided to buy himself a few records. The only thing that seemed a unusual was that he had placed a stack of close to 40 albums on the counter, apparently with the intention of buying every single one and, although we were indoors, he wore over-sized sunglasses.

When his turn came to pay, the sales-clerk rang up the purchase, which, considering the amount of albums, took a while. He informed the customer of the amount—close to two hundred dollars (music was more affordable then)—and the man handed him a credit card. The young man looked at the card; he then glanced at the man. He looked at the card again and, doing a formidable job of keeping his cool (but I could tell that he had become excited), he said, very courteously, “I’m sorry, Mr. Newman, but with purchases over $100 I have to call the credit card company for authorization.” (In this era, prior to computerization, credit card limits were verified manually.)

And then, that distinctive, smoky voice I’d been hearing all of my life inside the sacred dim halls of movie theaters, answered, “That’s fine. Go ahead.”

As the sales-clerk placed the card back on the counter, I read the customer’s name:

Paul Newman.

Discreetly, for we were standing shoulder to shoulder facing the sales-clerk, I leaned forward to catch a better glimpse of the man’s face. All it took was a fraction of a second to confirm that the refrigerator repairman standing next to me all that time had indeed been Paul Newman.

If only my mother were here, I thought.

I did my best to remain calm, to enjoy the experience of standing next to Paul.

But I was unable to stay cool for more than thirty seconds. I needed to share this with someone. What’s more, I needed witnesses so that later I could be sure that it hadn’t all been a dream.

I left the line and hurried to the opposite side of the store, closer to the exit, where my classmates were looking at records. When I reached them, as serenely as I could, I said, “Now, don’t be obvious. Whatever you do, don’t overreact. You see the fellow paying at the register? That’s Paul Newman.”

Both girls at once looked toward the register and, at that moment, the Hollywood star glanced our way. My friends reacted as any red-blooded American woman of their age would:

They squealed . . . and rather loudly.

The handful of customers at Tower Records turned to see what had happened. They soon concluded it was nothing more than a couple of immature college students excited over the latest Doobie Brothers' recording.

But the squeals also drew Paul Newman’s attention. In spite of the sunglasses, we could tell that he was staring at us.

We stared back.

He continued to stare at us.

We continued to stare at him.

He smiled.

Now all three of us squealed.

And then he gave us that patented, beautiful, million-dollar Paul Newman grin.

We had to hold on to each other to keep from falling in a dead faint.

While Mr. Newman waited for the credit card company to clear his purchase, he toyed with us the way a cat plays with its prey. He alternately stared and smiled at us. We, in turn, alternated between swoons, jumping in place while emitting little, squirrel-like squeals, and silly giggling. (I also believe we were drooling, but I can’t be sure because it’s a memory that, apparently, I’ve been successful in repressing.)

Throughout all this, with the exception of the one sales-clerk, the rest of the people in Tower Records were oblivious that Paul Newman stood among them.

The purchase now approved, Mr. Newman grabbed the large bag containing the stack of records and headed for the exit. As he passed near us he gave us one more gorgeous grin and left the store. Although none of us fell to the floor, it took a while before our legs were sturdy enough to rush to the exit. His passion for cars well-known, we had to see what he was driving.

We opened the door, stepped out, and stood there, our mouths gaping as we stared at the stunning red Porsche passing before us. And then the most astonishing thing happened: Paul Newman rolled down the window, stuck his arm out above the roof, and waved farewell.

The Exiling of Respectability: The Case of Granada, Nicaragua

I have to live for others and not for myself; that’s middle-class morality.
George Bernard Shaw


The Granada in which I spent my adolescence was a cultured, genteel community. One of Nicaragua’s largest cities—as well of one of the oldest on the American continent, founded in 1524—Granada was a place where courtesy, honor, respectability, and education were held in high esteem. In the mid-1960s, when my family moved there from Los Angeles, California—after I had just turned eleven—I felt as if I had stepped back a couple of centuries to a place and time where civility, good manners, being cultivated, and preserving one’s good name mattered immensely.

Of course, the majority of Nicaraguans lacked access to an education of quality, to the schooling vital for improving one’s condition in life. As a result, moving up the ladder of respectability—and, if a person was fortunate, moving up the economic scales as well—was something only the most diligent, persistent, and resourceful among the poor could achieve. Nevertheless, the majority of Granadinos and Granadinas, regardless of social class, recognized and admired the men and women who lived their lives by strict codes of public conduct while at the same time pursuing lofty educational and personal goals.

Oddly, or at least it seems so in my memory, the folks that inhabited this refined civic echelon came almost exclusively from the middle-class. The wealthy led lives separate from their fellow Granadinos and Granadinas. The elite seldom ventured out of their majestic colonial homes; few outside this closed society knew what the city’s aristocracy did behind locked doors. As a result of this isolation, with the upper-class’s lives being utterly private, it was up to the middle-class to carry the banner of sophistication and good breeding out in public, to be the standard bearers of refinement. Middle-class morality, that life lived for others which George Bernard Shaw refers to—and I interpret his quote at face-value, not as irony—was in fact the glue that held together centuries-worth of traditions regarding an individual’s responsibility to set a good example for others.

I was fortunate enough to grow up in a middle-class Granada home. My mother’s extended family was part of a social class that for generations sought to keep their offspring well-educated and cultured—without the burden of being materialistic, which being middle-class implies today. My family’s emphasis on being respectable made it possible for me to have several role models to choose from within my own family: men and women who devoted themselves to becoming the best persons they could possibly be. And it was to them that, like an impressionable adolescent looking into a crystal ball, I turned to for some insight with regard to who I could become.

I’ll share one example (but only one, for the list is rather long): that of my great-aunt Mercedes Jacinta López, better known within the family as “Chintita.” In an era that predated the feminist movement, she shattered gender barriers, walls that had been keeping women from positions of responsibility for centuries. In the early 1940s, Chintita became the first woman to work for a bank in Granada. Today, throughout the world, a woman bank-teller is a common sight, but her appointment provoked a temporary uproar in patriarchal Granadino society. On her first day on the job, several men withdrew their savings, arguing that a woman wouldn’t know how to handle their money. But within a matter of days, Chintita’s efficiency, honesty, humor, and gift for making people feel at ease soon put an end to their apprehensions.

Years later, urged on by friends, Chintita began to dabble in politics. Eventually, she became the first woman vice-mayor of Granada. Still, in spite of these considerable honors, Chintita, a well-read person who knew and could recite most of Rubén Darío’s poems by heart, wore these distinctions with humility—always ready to smile and be amiable, even to the humblest person in Granada. When Chintita died, four years ago, thousands attended her funeral. By living her life according to the middle-class standards set generations before her, she was able to touch many, many lives.

Last June, during my most recent visit to Granada, my sister and I, in comparing notes, kept repeating that something was missing, that Granada had changed, and substantially, in the years since we grew up there. We both agreed that the city had lost the gentility of old. In the streets, backpacking tourists, aggressive peddlers, and local vagrants have replaced the refined adults of our youth who always seemed to have time for us without expecting anything in return. And during the evenings the doors of middle-class homes, that in our adolescence were always open to welcome every visitor, were now gated and locked; the lives of the inhabitants in the heart of Granada are turned inward, and missing are the social and cultural interactions of old.

I admit that the colonial buildings of the city look better than when my sister and I lived there. The restoration was funded by foreigners who recognized the beauty of Granada and quickly moved in after the fall of the Sandinista government, in the beginning of the 1990s, to capitalize on the site’s potential for tourism. Their efforts and investment has made the Granada beautiful to behold. But these entrepreneurs, although ingenious and more well-intentioned than not, have been unable to replace the centuries-worth of respectability that the former middle-class represented.

What, then, happened to Granada’s middle-class?

A Revolution.

Ironically, as well as tragically, although during the 1970s popular rage in Nicaragua was directed toward the Somoza family and their closest allies, the change in government ended up mostly displacing the middle-class. Disenfranchised from the businesses that made them able to earn a decent, if not modest, living—especially compared to the US middle-class—the heart of Granada’s gentility was forced into exile. Paradoxically, the city’s aristocracy—the wealthy, that is—was better equipped to weather the political storm and hold onto, or successfully reclaim, their properties. And Granada’s elite continues living behind closed doors today, seemingly oblivious to the plight of the less fortunate.

Throughout our recent visit, my sister and I felt displaced, as if we never lived in this majestic city. And now that I look back, I believe it’s because the type of persons we once looked up to as adolescents, the type of persons we could emulate, no longer have a public function. The standards bearers of social respectability—that middle-class from which came the mentors of our youth—have been driven underground, labeled during the Revolution as the petite bourgeoisie, enemies of the common man and woman.