and Words
Cuando era un chiquillo, qué alegría
Jugando a la guerra, noche y día
Saltando una verja, verte a ti y así
En tus ojos, algo nuevo descubrir
Las rosas decían que eras mía
Y un gato me hacía compañía
Desde que me dejaste, yo no sé por qué
La ventana es más grande sin tu amor
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
Tonight, I’m filled with nostalgia; I’m living a memory. My dad stops by the side of the road off the Puerto Rican beach near a vendor selling food. They sell chicken roasted on the spit right on the beach. Furthermore, they reconfigured their old modified van to grind long stalks of sugar cane into a nectar called guarapo. I fill my mouth with chunks of chicken, washed down with that strangely sweet drink. The aroma of that simple food and the unmistakable smell of the sea capture that moment better than a photograph.
The soft sounds of the palm trees rustling in the wind and waves crashing into the sandy shore perk my ears. The bright light of the tropical sun bleaches nearly everything in sight; that same sun reflects off the sand and shimmering water. As that wind blows, it tickles the skin, though the warmth of the sun feels like a caring embrace. I can barely believe that was decades ago.
I remember this vividly, the idyllic embrace of my childhood home. As a child, I took it for granted. Now, decades later, I can only start to appreciate the delicate and nuanced beauty of that simple existence.
Naturally, I also remember the music from my island beginnings. The music here in the States is much like the movies. We want to be transformed; we crave something bigger than who we are. They may range from superhero movies to supernatural horror events to cataclysmic world events. Even the films based on real life center around extraordinary people or events. We are constantly bombarded with the idea that our ordinary lives are not enough.
The music I remember in Spanish is different. They talk of living ordinary moments, but not in a way to dismiss them as bland or common. They celebrate those delicate moments that are meaningful, but we may so easily gloss over them as we chase that next high. Life is beautiful, and music like this is a gentle reminder that we’re just fine the way we are. The key is to experience ordinary moments extraordinarily, to truly live in gratitude.
I first heard this song while living in Puerto Rico. I was much too young to have done much living, but I remember taking rides by the beach during the afternoon siestas. Days were filled with weather that ranged from scorching heat to a warm embrace. When it rained, the water filled our backyard and, on occasion, even started to wander into our home as we watched in fascination and hoped that the drain would keep pace with the onslaught of water pouring from the skies.
This song is performed by Roberto Carlos, who is equivalent to a Latin-American Elvis with respect to the span of his career. He has released albums for over sixty years and in at least three languages (Portuguese, Spanish, and Italian); this is truly impressive. The name translates to “A cat in the darkness”, although an alternate title was “The cat that is sad and blue.”
Truthfully, it’s a poetic story. At first, I sometimes wonder if it’s a function of the language. Do the words fit together better? Is it more expressive? Are the actual sounds of the words more soothing to the ear? Or second, could it be a function of the culture? Are we less likely to tolerate artful expression here in the States? Do we discourage it instead of practical professions?
It simply tells the story of a young romance. A young boy gleefully spends his days playing soldier. And one day, upon hopping over a fence, in her eyes, he discovers something new. He tells a tale of this lost love and his gentle companion, a cat that kept them company.
To merely translate the words does it an injustice, almost inflicting violence. While it may seem foolish to learn a language merely to listen to one song, this one may be the reason to learn Spanish.
Here I sit in this moment, reminiscing about a land I once knew. Those experiences overwhelmed my senses as a child, though I wasn’t as fond of them in that moment. The years that passed endeared me to that tiny tropical island from my distant past. I realize that it’s not merely geography, after all Florida had very similar weather. The Spanish language draws me back to those moments. Furthermore, the Puerto Rican culture that accepted a Chinese boy who struggled with the language, similarly and fondly, anchors me to that snapshot in time.
For a while, even in this very post, I tried to dissect it all, only to realize that it’s nonsensical. It’d be like separating the sounds and images from a video, or the ingredients from a delicious dish. Some entities are greater than the sum of the parts; by themselves, the parts lack that magic.
I have not returned to Puerto Rico since I left in 1978. My wife and I occasionally entertain the idea of visiting San Juan, where I can relive those dear moments from my childhood. This idea both fascinates me and petrifies me. The optimist in me believes that I’ll find that magic again, that somehow I’ll capture lightning in a bottle again. The pessimist in me fears that upon seeing it again, those memories will age and crumble. The years will dispel those magical moments on the Puerto Rican beach and turn them smaller, dimmer, or even dirtier.
Until then, my childhood home of Puerto Rico shall exist like Schrödinger’s cat. We can choose to think of it as alive or dead. However, it’s an ironic reference to that same cat from the song, our companion who sits in the darkness and quietly waits for our return.