Irvin Part 1

Hi class, here is part of my story on undocumented immigrates. Looking forward to hear your thoughts and suggestions. – Xiaoting

 

Irvin

        How does one make sense of life? How does one, wafting through existence, making sense of the tangible and the surreal, the factual and the fantastical? How does one, remain sanguine when facing the arbitrary, the absurd, and sometimes inequitable disposition of circumstances?

Perhaps life is something bigger than the self ?

To Irvin Morazan, there is a lineage of humanism, however defined, will carry on and through in any form, any life, any individual.  “A healer once told me, if I overcome this (cancer), I will heal my family from seven generations back and beyond.”  To him, cancer is a manifestation of traumatic childhood experiences, a karmic tribulation inherited from the past lives that has very real consequence if left unresolved, clings on.

 

“Volver, Volver”

Life is a dance of reality and dreams, spiritual practices are intuitive like artistic creativity. The sacred rituals of the ancestors can be used to create art that in turn, will heal the spirit.

The second floor space of the Bronx Museum of the Arts is like a chapel reimagined by a cubist. The four panels of wall facing the street, tilted and staggered. Lights pouring through long strips of colored glass, creating blocks of light that will please Mondrian. It is a Sunday afternoon in the Bronx. At 3 pm, the place is filled with curators, art students, friends, volunteers. Mingling people holding cocktails, people serving food. Some already sat down on the concrete floor, forming an organic stage. A noise from the stereo signaled that something is on, the crowd quieted down, anticipating.

A group of twenty people, their faces covered by zebra-print balaclavas. All of them wearing identical white cloaks, each with a white pillow tied to the waist.  One wore a hairy costume like yeti fur. They marched into the stage. Carrying with them, a gigantic out-of-this world headdress made of foam, foil, zebra and mythologies. The oldest man among them, wearing sunglasses and a sombrero, carries a guitar. As the last zebra man came on, they chanted: Aaaaaaaaaa-Eeeeeeeeeeee-Ooooooooo-Uuuuuuuuu.

This is Irvin’s dream, in this dream he is omniscient. White smoke was blown onto the yeti man, waking him. Irvin walks to the center stage and started playing a harmonica. Thin strands of sound glides through the room, revitalizing. The old man whispered in response, “Volver,……. Volver……”

He puts on the headdress, transformed into a living sculpture. Then he grinds a small slab of granite with a pestle, creating bird call as he started to unwind time. Or was it the sound of an winding tape? As he count the hours, the zebra people went about their daily activities.

Twelve O’Clock! He announced,

Happy New Year! The group cheered as they hugged one another, someone hugged a baby in the audience.

He continued to count the hours, another twelve hours passed in seconds. The yeti waltzed to the center, overtaking the dream. The group untied the pillow from their backs, gently embraces it. The old man started to sing.

Este amor apasionado, anda todo alborotado, por volver…

The group danced with their pillows, lovingly and tenderly. Dancing with their lovers, their mothers, their brothers.

Voy camino a la locura y aunque todo me tortura, see querer…

Unperturbed by the events, a couple sitting on both side of the musician, conversing in sign language. Two masked figures massaging the couple’s backs, as if to console this silent chatter.

…Y volver volver, volver a tus brazos otra vez, llegare hasta donde estés, …

Our melancholy baritone sings: Yo se perder, yo se perder, quiero volver, volver….

“Volver.”

As the song finishes, Irvin took off his headdress. He lied it down as six people carried it off stage, followed by the rest of the group. The audience cheered as old man exited last.

Performance art is shamanism, it’s theater too. In this interconnected reality, even the whimsical possess significance.

Conny

In museum’s third floor conference room, performers chattered in excitement. Elated it was over, surprised of how short it felt, ranting about the sound guy. Wrapping up with their props, tucking equipments away.

Irvin is surrounded by his students, who came all the way from Richmond to see he perform. These twenty year olds have a pious adoration to their eccentric art professor. For the very first assignment of the school year, Irvin told them to write their own obituaries. They made Donald Trump-shaped piñatas filled with bacon in their sculpture classes.

The one left alone in the hallway was the old man. Still wearing a hat, he changed into black suits and dress shoes as if just came from a wedding. Clearly an outsider from the loud-mouthed, multi-colored youth. I walked out to congratulate him on the performance, he smiled but didn’t say a word. Alejandro doesn’t speak english. This stocky, grizzly bearded man looks in good shape, but heaves painfully when he walks.

Hiring Alejandro to sing “Volver Volver” wasn’t Irvin’s initial thought. Irvin’s first choice, a Mexican and a friend collaborator who recently moved to Florida because his son just got a job there. As an undocumented immigrant he feels a lot safer in the south given the uncertainties of the political situation.  So to make it up to Irvin, he referred Alejandro of Bed Stuy who came from Nicaragua. He has a voice full of stories and plays a beautiful hand of guitar.

As the project started coming together, Irvin has gotten to know a little about Alejandro. He learnt that they came to the States roughly around the same time and crossed the border in similar ways. Although Alejandro came as an adult at the age of twenty six while Irvin was just eight years old. He also learnt that as himself became naturalized due to young age, Alejandro remained illegal. One of his sons who lives in Costa Rica haven’t seen him for over twenty years, he never get to hold his grandchildren.

He also learnt that he initially came to this country for a girl named Conny. A girl that he wrote a famous song for, his first love. He was sixteen and she was fifteen when they fell for each other. Her military officer father didn’t like him because he is from a lower class. To break off this relationship, the father moved the family to another city. Leaving no means of contact.  His first love is thus gone. Like other Latin American countries, this country was divided by race and class that often goes together which perhaps explains why a Nicaraguan military man would give his daughter an Irish name.

The story did not just end there. Heartbroken, Alejandro picked up the guitar. He was taught by his musician father when he was young, but had never thought to sing. His first song was wrote for her. He sang “Conny” to himself at first; then to families and friends, to strangers. To anyone who will sympathize with a broken heart. He sang it over and over until the whole town knew the song. It became so popular that some even tried to find her.

The years after saw an intensified political situation, it was a time where almost every civilian was involved in politics left and right. Alejandro also became heavily involved with the left-wing Sandinistas. Ten years later, they met again. She was recently widowed. Her husband and the father of her two children was killed in the civil war. He was a military man like her father. Ten years later, Conny and Alejandro got back together again.

1985, six years since the Sandinistas National Liberation Front overthrew the last Somoza dictator of Nicaragua. Unsettled by the burgeoning communist influence in Latin America, the Reagan administration secretly funded and trained right-wing Nicaraguan militant group the “Contras” to further sabotage the young regime. Years of civil unrest, war and corruption had left the country in a state of destitution, malnutrition and environmental devastation.

It was the same year Alejandro came to the States. Things became difficult and he couldn’t find work back at home. He wanted make money to support her and her two children.  America was sold to him on the idea that it is the place where money was made, besides it wasn’t really a choice to stay. Yet after he came here he was presented with a different set of reality.

Being an undocumented minority who doesn’t speak English. There were not many job opportunities and with the few left that are legal, neither were they dignified nor well paid.   Making ends meet became a daily struggle, let alone sending money back home. He was stranded in a country with limited means to support himself. Thirty-something years later, after all the odds jobs he did to support himself, Alejandro couldn’t work anymore because of bad arthritis. He still lives in the project housing in Bed Stuy. He could not get welfare.

In violation of several International Laws by aiding anti-government rebels, the International Court of Justice ordered United States to pay billions of dollars in reparation to Nicaragua. United States refused payment to this day.

In the car ride back to Brooklyn, we begged him to sing “Conny” for us. He said he was ashamed to keep in touch with her because he was not doing well. He said the relationship faded with time, he hadn’t heard from her again. Time had passed and all there left was a song, but Alejandro still chokes up when he sings about her.