Lack Of Guidance, Guided Me
I never really thought I would even want to write about my life. Probably because of where I grew up, the challenges in my life, and the fact that according to stats in the ’80s, I should probably be dead or locked up.
I will never forget the day that Mr. Smith told me I would not live to see 21. My first reaction was anger, I lashed out verbally. Then I went home and cried. I cried because he didn’t believe in me, because I really did not know what I wanted to do with my life and the school was only encouraging me to seek a city job or join the military. I cried because my grandmother, Gloria DelRio or Mama as I call her was such a proponent of education that not prospering in school might make me a failure in her eyes.
I could not live with letting her down. I was her first grandson (el primogénito), born on her wedding anniversary and she loved me dearly.
Apparently, the first time she changed my diaper, I pee’d all over her face. She would go on to tell this story to anyone who would listen and somehow it was a testament to just how much she loved me.
I can’t tell you when and how it exactly happened but I made a decision to succeed. I also decided that I would do it my own way. That means dealing with dropping out, becoming a dad at 17, and dropping out before becoming a New York Police officer. Why I wanted to become an officer in the first place would be the genesis of who I become.
If I can rewind for just a moment to the night of December 26th, I was coming home from a birthday party with my friend Rafael Gonzalez, a young Dominican graffiti writer who mentored me within art. He was an aspiring singer and actor when I first heard Romeo Santos… there was something about that cultural duality of being a Dominican in NYC that always reminded me of him.
As we made our way to the 121st street train station, we realized that there was a significant police presence and we did not have enough to ride the train, we had actually spent our last two dollars on pizza and a drink. So we decided to walk down to 111th so that we can jump the turnstile and make our way back to cypress hills.
I have to say that although I was white-passing, I wore clothes that screamed hip hop. Adidas tracksuit with matching sneakers and a fur Kangol hat. Rafael was more GQ (most Dominicans were), he had slacks and a silky shirt and a fur coat on. He also was walking with a cane for a sports injury but he was definitely Pimpin.
As we walked by a bar, we saw 4 white guys hanging outside Al’s Stereo Bar, and as we walked by we got an icy glare that let us know we weren’t welcome. We walked past them and they made comments about us being lost… far from home and it not being safe. Rafael was older but we both sensed we were going to have to fight our way out of this. The group started walking behind us and it was raining so we can sense them getting closer. We looked at each other and turned around and were immediately met with fists and kicks. One of the guys had a pipe and hit Rafael on the head. We had no choice but to run. I was in great shape but I was running too fast for Rafael at one point.
As we were running, one of the guys had made it to us in a car and pointed a gun at us. We kept running until we found a coffee shop and we ran in and locked the doors behind us. This coffee shop was not just any coffee shop it was a “social club” like the ones you see on the sopranos. Guys would be outside playing cards, taking care of the neighborhood.
We were begging for them to call the police, they were demanding we leave the shop. We someone managed to stall them long enough to see the cops pull up. Rafael is bleeding heavily from the head… I was relieved to see the police. As soon as I walked out of the shop, a police officer slammed me against the wall and asked me what we were doing in their neighborhood. I tried and tried to convince them that we were the victims. They eventually lightened up on me. Rafael was unconscious and was being loaded into the ambulance for the moment. I was loaded into the police car and was able to point out my attackers. They were arrested and I was taken to the hospital.
That night, I learned the word BIAS. I learned about racial hatred, I learned about police brutality, as I walked into the emergency room, I also learned that only blocks away, a few black teens were fighting for their lives too… but one if them, a teen named Michael Griffith was struck by a car as he tried to flee. He didn’t make it. Both of our families are in the ER, angry, sad, comparing notes believing that this was the same group because everything about it was so similar.
This was 1986, it was not the same group, this was life in segregated nyc during the crack era. A time where these types of bias cases were unfortunately the norm. The ringmaster of the racial bias media was the chubby black man with a perm… named Reverend Al Sharpton, who immediately inserted himself and his associates as our legal team.
As days went on, countless rallies, tv appearances, and press conferences, what happened to us was never discussed. There was no talk about violence against Latinos, our story was not being told. A few weeks in… and a young activist by the name of Richie Perez, former young lord and current leader within the National Congress of Puerto Rican Rights stepped in to talk to my family about the importance of highlighting the Latino narrative.
They came in, highlighted our case on all major media outlets in both English and Spanish. I was even interviewed for the New York Times. We fought a good fight and lost.
Personally, I won, I won because in the process of trying to find justice, I found a mentor in Richie and a family of activists that would shape my conscious in years to come. People like Panama, Olguie Toro, Ruben Sosa, Felipe Luciano, Pablo Guzman, and Denise Olliver continue to inspire me.
They would teach me about self-determination, pride, and how important us knowing our history is. My conversations with these activists would plant seeds in me that would result in http://www.sofritoforyoursoul.com, an online magazine focused on telling untold stories.
So you see, I learned early on that just being myself and trying not to have Mr. Smith write my narrative was a bold act of resistance.
This is where it starts for me.
