"I've had so many lives since I was a child. And I realize how many times I've died." - Madonna

Going through old photos and notebooks, I am awash with history. I think this river raft ride down the past of my life has been inspired by the fantastic documentary I watched this morning, "Yo Soy Boricua!". Rosie Perez directs the film chronicling her family's lineage and culture. It was so eye-opening for me as a Puerto Rican man who is preparing for his first trip there. Three weeks from today, I will be there.

CRAZY.

Anywho, that's another story and not the one I want to tell today. Piecing through my bags of belongings, I stumbled upon an address to one of the many jobs I held in New York. I labeled packages for shipping. In an assembly line.

It was about four and a half years ago, and I was still sleeping on a friend's couch. Her dad's couch actually. There was no real room for me bartending at Hannah's uptown, and I didn't really want to be a bartender there anyway. The few times I had done it had reduced me to sexual meat to the lonely and elderly gay patrons. It was not a time to feel flattered, and my skin was like paper. So, I freaked and started reading tarot there instead to help keep money flowing in. But that was not enough if I wanted to get on my feet. And the kindness of strangers was starting to come with a price. So, a really nice guy who frequented the bar, Duane, offered me a job working for him.

The labels.

At first I resisted to what sounded like a menial job. I was in my mid-twenties, and I had gone to college for crying out loud. But it was New York, and I had nothing. And Duane was one of the nice guys. Sixty. A family man without a family. And he didn't want to get down my pants. So, he gave me an address in the City Hall area and requested that I report for duty.

The city was cold that winter, and the lack of warmth was elevated by the recent events of 9-11. Downtown was a cavern of energy. No air could escape. One walked around careful to breathe in the toxic potion of fumes and death. I had always seen my life as larger than its existence, but my viewpoint from the fantastical amplified in those moments as I chose to walk around the old World Trade site. People like zombies. Fear in the sidewalk cracks, and ash. I'll never forget that smell. And the view from my position just feet away from Ground Zero. Moving to New York mere weeks after the greatest American tragedy to date was profound and growth-inducing, as was the entire two year experience there.

So many lives.

Anyway labels. There were about four of us men, all varying in background and age. They were the blue-collar men. Flannels and wool-lined gloves. And me. In my mittens. And Diesels. I definitely learned more about people, and myself. I gained humility, and it opened my eyes to people outside the 818. And the suburban. The hippie-city folk of San Francisco. These were men born and raised in Brooklyn. Queens. Working for an old gay guy in a warehouse on West Broadway. We assembly lined labeling the packages and sorting them to their respective zip codes. They spoke of sports and killing the terrorists as we worked to the sounds of oldies. I just labeled quietly and daydreamed, like the Puerto Ricans before me had done. And I looked to a time when I would be working creatively and using my talents. Like now.

Sigh.

I lasted a week. The commute was a bitch, and I was becoming one too. There was a tiny romanticism to working downtown, gruff and grungy. But I was depressed and not writing. I finally found an apartment in the East Village (a living room in some woman's place), and I took a job at a sandwich shop two blocks away. Where I sold and delivered sandwiches. For seven dollars an hour. Again, more humility. Or stupidity. You decide.

Seriously though, do I judge the people whose lives ARE those jobs? No. Having watched this documentary, I saw that my people pushed to be here and struggled to succeed. They were displaced and systematically abused. And they were forced to kill dreams for a reality they had a battle in creating. But I had choice. And the gift of a better era and situation. I knew that I wanted to do something different with my life, and I was blessed with opportunity beyond it. It just took me a while to see it, and for opportunity to find my address. Guess it's cause it took me a long time too.

Like Rosie says at the end of the movie, Puerto Ricans are "like weeble-wobbles. You push us down and we spring right back up."

Yo Soy Boricua.





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