| - 5 - |
My dear, they had all been broken by the Revolution. Several had taken their own lives rather than endure the torment and
shame of being sent away to the UMAPs, the special military camps where homosexuals and other social offenders were assigned
to do hard labor. Brilliant minds and great heroes, and they were cutting cane for years, shoveling manure and digging ditches,
all the time being humiliated and treated worse than dogs. And they tortured them, Barbara. My friend Gustavo who came
during Mariel ? they applied a cattle prod to his testicles in trying to get him to change. But he had always been that way. I
know they don?t have the UMAPs anymore, but I cannot believe that so much can have changed over the years. And part of me
simply does not believe they deserve your help.?
Eladio paused long enough to down the remainder of his shot, and Barbara looked on worriedly as the distressed old man filled
the glass for a third time. He took a few more sips, then set the glass down, his hand shaking a little as he reached to tap the last
surviving brownie.
?I know how you are. You distinguish yourself in many ways. People will notice you. And there are things you are used to
having. These? and the ice cream you eat like going to Mass every day. You know there is no ice cream left in Cuba.? Barbara
could see that Eladio was no longer focused on the pressing matter that had to be decided, and she moved to restore some
direction to their conversation.
?Eladio, this research and my success at this post-doc are more important than my having ice cream every day,? she evenly
began, betting that switching languages would draw the man into the present. ?And I am truly sorry for what happened to your
friends but I am a doctor, and these people who are being blinded every day are not responsible for what happened to them, and
they deserve??
?You would not be a doctor in Cuba,? angrily hissed the old man, suddenly coming to life. ?You would not be a doctor. You
would be in prison for life already ? a delinquent! A no good trash person! They would never have given you a chance to change
and to be more than this.? Barbara sat frozen in shock as Eladio stretched over to tug at her already unbuttoned shirt, and drove
his index finger into the fist-sized tattoo that graced the skin between her breasts. Oh yeah. He knows all that. Thanks Ma. At
Thanksgiving you should have just showed him the naked baby pictures, or the video of me barfing up my first communion. Is it
time to sing the Officer Krupke song yet? I want some ice cream.
~~~~~~~~
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO-HOOKS?
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO-HOOKS??
The large crowd gathered outside the most central of the Bayside Housing Authority?s squat complexes was already dangerous
before they found their voice and vision in the person of Barbara Murphy. Like a headless giant it had made numerous clumsy
ineffective swipes and abortive forays into the front stoop and yard of the first floor apartment where three Hmong families
miserably huddled together, incredulous that they had traded the known dangers of the Thai refugee camp for this American
madness. Occasionally, some small dark heads would warily peak out the front window to look upon their new neighbors and
what was obviously not the Fourth of July celebration they expected to experience that day, but they quickly retreated when their
appearances were met with loud hoots and flying garbage. On the outside of the building, two lonely figures held the giant at bay:
crazy old Irene the Communist ? her wheelchair parked defiantly at the end of the walkway ? limply held her ?No to Racism!?
sign in one hand and the leash to her ancient handi-dog Rufus in the other. Irene was a Communist but she was Southie?s crazy
old Communist, and thus untouchable.
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO-HOOKS?
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO-HOOKS??
?Love and sex and hope and dreams and still survivin? on these streets. And look at me! I?m in tatters. Uhuh. I?m a shattered?,?
Barbara stopped singing as she and the rest of the Crying Shamrocks turned the corner and stepped into the turbulence of the
Bayside Housing Authority parking lot. She wheeled around to face the two dozen youths, the irritation showing plainly on her
chiseled features. ?Holy Christ Jesus, can you believe this is still going on? Where the fuck are we supposed to find a quiet place
to get stoned off our asses and listen to some tunes if the adults in this community can?t solve their own problems? Fuckin? A.
We have to do everything around here.? Barbara really didn?t need for her lieutenants to cut through the crowd for her, but she
appreciated the effect it caused and the respect it conveyed. The Crying Shamrocks were a homegrown gang associated with the
P Street neighborhood that Bayside formed a part of: it was a small-scale and familiar operation that didn?t really frighten people
the way the new, high fire-power mega-gangs infiltrating Boston?s streets did. The charismatic Barbara Murphy was their
captain: the tall fifteen year-old was an unusual package of abilities in the community?s eyes. An honor student at South Boston
High School and the leading scorer ? as a freshman ? for their varsity women?s basketball team, she was also Father?s
designated soloist for ?O Holy Night? every year at St. Vincent?s Midnight Mass. And over the past two years, her new-found
gift for leading local youth ? many quite older than she was - in the arts of leisure, recreational drugs and petty crime had earned
her considerable attention from Boston?s finest as well.
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO-HOOKS?
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO??
The chant died down as Barbara strode confidently up the apartment?s front walk to Irene, with her thirteen year-old cousin
Jeffrey at her heels. She unceremoniously ripped the sign from Irene?s hands and spoke to her in a voice loud enough to carry
beyond the two of them.
?I know this seems rude, Miss Irene, but I?m doing you a favor. Look at you depending on Rufus for everything, and you know
what? These friggin? gooks eat dogs. Is that what you want happening in our neighborhood? People that are gonna fuckin? steal
our cats and dogs in order to have a little taste of home? No fuckin? way, Miss Irene. It hasn?t been easy here in Bayside.
They?ve put in some niggers. They?ve put in some of the Porto Ricans, which is another way of saying they?ve put in some
niggers. And all of these people have come to understand that it?s best when people live where they are wanted. That?s not
racism, Miss Irene. That?s sticking up for keeping the neighborhood together.?
Calls of ?That?s right!? and ?Not my cat!? could be heard over Barbara?s words and the sounds of cardboard tearing. Pieces of
Irene?s sign fluttered in the wind as Barbara turned away from the old woman and climbed up the front stoop to address the
crowd. She noticed the patrolmen at the edge of the lot, and wondered how far she should take it. Well, they understand how it is
? and better to deal with a little scare now and accept how things are, than let all of us get fucked over. How long until even
none of the cops are Irish? Shit.
shame of being sent away to the UMAPs, the special military camps where homosexuals and other social offenders were assigned
to do hard labor. Brilliant minds and great heroes, and they were cutting cane for years, shoveling manure and digging ditches,
all the time being humiliated and treated worse than dogs. And they tortured them, Barbara. My friend Gustavo who came
during Mariel ? they applied a cattle prod to his testicles in trying to get him to change. But he had always been that way. I
know they don?t have the UMAPs anymore, but I cannot believe that so much can have changed over the years. And part of me
simply does not believe they deserve your help.?
Eladio paused long enough to down the remainder of his shot, and Barbara looked on worriedly as the distressed old man filled
the glass for a third time. He took a few more sips, then set the glass down, his hand shaking a little as he reached to tap the last
surviving brownie.
?I know how you are. You distinguish yourself in many ways. People will notice you. And there are things you are used to
having. These? and the ice cream you eat like going to Mass every day. You know there is no ice cream left in Cuba.? Barbara
could see that Eladio was no longer focused on the pressing matter that had to be decided, and she moved to restore some
direction to their conversation.
?Eladio, this research and my success at this post-doc are more important than my having ice cream every day,? she evenly
began, betting that switching languages would draw the man into the present. ?And I am truly sorry for what happened to your
friends but I am a doctor, and these people who are being blinded every day are not responsible for what happened to them, and
they deserve??
?You would not be a doctor in Cuba,? angrily hissed the old man, suddenly coming to life. ?You would not be a doctor. You
would be in prison for life already ? a delinquent! A no good trash person! They would never have given you a chance to change
and to be more than this.? Barbara sat frozen in shock as Eladio stretched over to tug at her already unbuttoned shirt, and drove
his index finger into the fist-sized tattoo that graced the skin between her breasts. Oh yeah. He knows all that. Thanks Ma. At
Thanksgiving you should have just showed him the naked baby pictures, or the video of me barfing up my first communion. Is it
time to sing the Officer Krupke song yet? I want some ice cream.
~~~~~~~~
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO-HOOKS?
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO-HOOKS??
The large crowd gathered outside the most central of the Bayside Housing Authority?s squat complexes was already dangerous
before they found their voice and vision in the person of Barbara Murphy. Like a headless giant it had made numerous clumsy
ineffective swipes and abortive forays into the front stoop and yard of the first floor apartment where three Hmong families
miserably huddled together, incredulous that they had traded the known dangers of the Thai refugee camp for this American
madness. Occasionally, some small dark heads would warily peak out the front window to look upon their new neighbors and
what was obviously not the Fourth of July celebration they expected to experience that day, but they quickly retreated when their
appearances were met with loud hoots and flying garbage. On the outside of the building, two lonely figures held the giant at bay:
crazy old Irene the Communist ? her wheelchair parked defiantly at the end of the walkway ? limply held her ?No to Racism!?
sign in one hand and the leash to her ancient handi-dog Rufus in the other. Irene was a Communist but she was Southie?s crazy
old Communist, and thus untouchable.
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO-HOOKS?
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO-HOOKS??
?Love and sex and hope and dreams and still survivin? on these streets. And look at me! I?m in tatters. Uhuh. I?m a shattered?,?
Barbara stopped singing as she and the rest of the Crying Shamrocks turned the corner and stepped into the turbulence of the
Bayside Housing Authority parking lot. She wheeled around to face the two dozen youths, the irritation showing plainly on her
chiseled features. ?Holy Christ Jesus, can you believe this is still going on? Where the fuck are we supposed to find a quiet place
to get stoned off our asses and listen to some tunes if the adults in this community can?t solve their own problems? Fuckin? A.
We have to do everything around here.? Barbara really didn?t need for her lieutenants to cut through the crowd for her, but she
appreciated the effect it caused and the respect it conveyed. The Crying Shamrocks were a homegrown gang associated with the
P Street neighborhood that Bayside formed a part of: it was a small-scale and familiar operation that didn?t really frighten people
the way the new, high fire-power mega-gangs infiltrating Boston?s streets did. The charismatic Barbara Murphy was their
captain: the tall fifteen year-old was an unusual package of abilities in the community?s eyes. An honor student at South Boston
High School and the leading scorer ? as a freshman ? for their varsity women?s basketball team, she was also Father?s
designated soloist for ?O Holy Night? every year at St. Vincent?s Midnight Mass. And over the past two years, her new-found
gift for leading local youth ? many quite older than she was - in the arts of leisure, recreational drugs and petty crime had earned
her considerable attention from Boston?s finest as well.
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO-HOOKS?
?SOUTHIE DON?T NEED NO GOO??
The chant died down as Barbara strode confidently up the apartment?s front walk to Irene, with her thirteen year-old cousin
Jeffrey at her heels. She unceremoniously ripped the sign from Irene?s hands and spoke to her in a voice loud enough to carry
beyond the two of them.
?I know this seems rude, Miss Irene, but I?m doing you a favor. Look at you depending on Rufus for everything, and you know
what? These friggin? gooks eat dogs. Is that what you want happening in our neighborhood? People that are gonna fuckin? steal
our cats and dogs in order to have a little taste of home? No fuckin? way, Miss Irene. It hasn?t been easy here in Bayside.
They?ve put in some niggers. They?ve put in some of the Porto Ricans, which is another way of saying they?ve put in some
niggers. And all of these people have come to understand that it?s best when people live where they are wanted. That?s not
racism, Miss Irene. That?s sticking up for keeping the neighborhood together.?
Calls of ?That?s right!? and ?Not my cat!? could be heard over Barbara?s words and the sounds of cardboard tearing. Pieces of
Irene?s sign fluttered in the wind as Barbara turned away from the old woman and climbed up the front stoop to address the
crowd. She noticed the patrolmen at the edge of the lot, and wondered how far she should take it. Well, they understand how it is
? and better to deal with a little scare now and accept how things are, than let all of us get fucked over. How long until even
none of the cops are Irish? Shit.
HABÁNAME
