Sam's Story...


QUE GUILLE: MY SALSA STORY
by Sam Rodríguez

CHAPTER I

MY CHILDHOOD

As a child around the mid 60’s I lived in the South Bronx of New York City in a small two bedroom apartment with my parents. Every Saturday my father would get up, cook breakfast, and blast the radiola to the music of: Rafael Cortijo with Ismael Rivera; Willie
Colón with Hector Lavoe; El Gran Combo; and Larry Harlow with Ismael Miranda.
My father had a lot salsa records and I could never understand why he played the same artists just mentioned; all day long. My mother to the same music would dance with a broomstick while cleaning the apartment. Back then, I would watch them singing and dancing all day long. This progressed, almost everywhere they took me, everybody was doing the same thing, it was like a cult.

No one in school, at church, or on TV would ever do the same things or act like my parents; it was a confusing time for me. This practice got worse by the late 60’s. My father would take me with him to hang out with musicians in El Barrio (Spanish Harlem); that was fun. In El Barrio, it was as if the entire population was just like or related to my father.
Every image of every person I can remember always involved salsa music, happiness, dancing, Miller beer, tabacco, and a guílle (super ultra slick personality). The guys would greet each other on the street with a special salute that went like this;

‘Vaya… mi pana… que Guile! estas en algo’.

For some reason my father became the best of buddies with musicians. Every time musicians would see my dad it was jumping time; I could never understand that and will never forget it either. At block parties I would always end up on the stage with the jumping musicians, my father, and Miller beers. From the stage I could see people so happy dancing, beautiful women, a sense of pride, others selling: cuchifritos, arroz con gandules, and piraguas. Plus, some locos dancing by themselves. It was a beautiful view from the stage.

My mother on the other hand was doing her own thing, she would take me on these long bus trips to a place called villas to see: Richie Ray with Bobby Cruz, and Joe Cuba with Cheo Feliciano. This was a different and awesome environment. The point is that she always went without my father; pretending to be on some religious retreat; sure. Still, that was a lot of fun, there was always a lot of food, happiness, swimming pools, and salsa
music with Agujita y su Combo. There too, I always ended up on the stage to get the best view.

My mom also started taking me to Santería centers and sessions, now that was some spooky stuff. I would cry my ass off every time my mother would get dow with the Chango spirit thing. I hated that; she would drag me into those places. At these places people would: smoke cigars and shotgun the place with the tabacco smoke (you know what I’m saying, right?); go crazy; speak in tongues; brake coconuts, perform rituals, and dance to
beat of congas. Throughout most of the sessions Cuban songs of Santa Barbara Bendita and Que Viva Changó were always blasting to the light of candles and the smell of catholic church. I have never being in one of those places again. The next time you go to a supermarket and see a section with big colored candles, beware, there might be Santería centers near you.

One day my father past away…. Soon after that I was living in Puerto Rico; that… was an experience; and the end of my beautiful childhood. At the beginning, Puerto Rico was pure
carajo (that’s worse than hell), people there were on something else, poverty was overwhelming where I was sent to live, school and lunch food was horrible, especially the white hot powdered milk. I refused to drink that crap, hell no; not me. Teachers would try to persuade me but, hells no. Everybody called me GRINGO, I wanted to be called Sammy just like my dad. Everybody was dogging me out and making fun of me because I could not speak Spanish. I stayed in trouble. It was so bad that the draconian teachers even left-me-back in fifth grade and the principle called me rotten apple. For three years I hated life; I was at war with no help from a father or a big brother.

The only thing that got me through was salsa music at the Bar India in Mayagüez, Puerto Rico. Almost everyday I would go to this quasi bar establishment to: relax, play ping balls, listen to salsa music, eat sandwiches, and drink mavi. At the time, this was the only peaceful place where no one would bother or criticize my inability to speak and adapt to my new life in Mayagüez. The owner did not care that I was a minor, I had money to spend.

The Bar India was also a great school for me; it was there that I began to really learn the language, poetry, relationships, love, and the meaning of salsa music with the drunks that lived at the place. These drunks were my best friends and protectors, and the ones that showed me how to survive in Mayagüez. The drunks were there to drink away their problems and cope with loneliness. I was there to escape my problems with teachers, principles, classmates, and family. Plus, having lost my father. Salsa music always reminded me of him. I played it in his honor. Even when I did not understand the lyrics. I was probably the only kid to pump money into the juke-box. The drunks picked up on that, they
became my surrogate family. Perhaps, that is why I still like to hangout with older people.

I know, this sounds sad, but; this kind of thing happens everyday. Luckily, I had salsa music to help me cope with the environment I was in, and it got better as time went by. My point is that whatever problems I had; listening to happy and fun music was my way of feeling better and getting through my initial years in Mayagüez.

Sam can be reached at sam@salsaweb.com