Loading ...
Analyzing our Panamanian experience as Westindian people the spirit of competition was prevalent in everything we did in those post war days especially for me as the pre-adolescent hormones made their entrance into my childhood. For me, however, who was still suffering abuse and neglect time seemed to stand still much like a fledgling eagle that still could not fly.
Proof of this came to me in an encounter with a kid who I had challenged from the window of our schoolroom by the name of “Raton,”- a suitable name for a kid with the instincts of a rat. It had been a brief and almost casual exchange of bravado since the boy didn’t appear to be in school with us and as soon as I approached our classroom window to see what all the excitement was about I knew I could take him on. But, it wouldn’t be later that I would discover that Raton had been waiting for school to let out to pounce on me that very same day.
I had almost reached home and I really had not seen my contender when suddenly I felt a hefty push that caught me completely off guard. Having been attacked from behind and unprepared for a fight, I remembered that I had been warned by my young Aunt Gwendolyn about dirtying my clean shirt and that I would surely get me a good flogging if I showed up at home with my clothes dirtied.
Despite the warnings of my aunt the fight was on as I dropped the few notebooks I was carrying and assumed the defensive boxing stance. After the shove the boy they all called Rat gave me he became cautious and would not rush in on me as I expected. To boot, I discovered that the Rat was left-handed and from the brief initial punches it appeared that he could fight very well. We circled each other and I defended myself as Raton landed some good punches with left and right combinations to my face.
Although I had convinced myself that I was defending myself adequately as the fray progressed I started feeling ashamed since I started getting the distinct feeling that I was losing the bout and would surely have to fight this 11 year-old again at some point in the future. The fighting dragged on as we seemed evenly matched and we had drawn a crowd of adult onlookers who loved to see good fighters. Then, just as I was getting into the rhythm of fighting my opponent pro boxing style, some conscientious adult stepped in and stopped the tussle. I then proceeded to walk home slowly trying to regain my composure and checking and rechecking my shirt for the telltale signs of smudges that would reveal that I had been in a fight again.
After that first bout I would not run into Raton again until much later but I was certain that that first encounter would not be the last for a Spanish boy like Raton who was growing up in Wachipali with Westindian kids, for no one that knew us both had ever seen us boxing and it surely would be something to see as the competitive nature in both boys come forth to add to what would be a good street fight.
These post-war years were times of great stress for the whole Westindian community in general, and it would have been about the time that Mr. George W. Westerman published his booklet “Toward a Better Understanding,” in The Panama Tribune on Sunday, July 28 of 1946.
The exert of the editorial in the Tribune read as follow: “The recently published booklet by George W. Westerman, which calls for a ‘harmonious and equal social life among the varied components groups in the population of the Isthmus of Panama, is a tireless effort by Mr. Westerman outlining the causes of what has been called The Westindian Problem. He has pointed out the ‘Unjustified ill-will and for sharing of the blame.’”
But, the exhortation to more harmonious relations would run into definite challenges as the “ill-will” towards Westindians often manifested itself in the interactions between school children and I must say that I got caught up in it.
This story continues.
I knew Raton Castaneda, a Bongosero from El Marañon and another one on Calle 12 de Octubre in front of the Coco Pelao Cantina in Guachapali. He died here in Brooklyn. Last night, here in Brooklyn, I ran into Kenneth Blue and he told me Figurina had died in prison.
What a shame, may God keep him in his Glory.
Viva El Beny and John Coltrane,
I recently told an acquaintance that boys born in Panama are given a baseball in one hand and a boxing glove in the other. We are probably the best nation in the world when it comes to this sport. It seems all boys HAD to fight and even in the Zone you saw men preparing to make it their life’s earnings. In Camp Coiner, we had an aspiring boxer. He was Hispanic. I just remember his first name. He ran, nowadays called jogging, along the road to Margarita EVERYDAY at 5am. He would spar with the boys in our little corner of Rainbow City. One day I jumped in but it was complete embarrassment, swinging wildly and him holding me off on the forehead.
In Gamboa, years later, some boys thought I squealed about a prank we had pulled. I was confronted in the showers of the old Santa Cruz gym. This boy had been sent away to NYC, and now at 12, was training’ to be a boxer. Naked and in despair’ I took the boxing stance in the shower. By then, I had to learn to fight. I got picked on a lot. I could not run or back down. There was no escape out of there. Even if I could get by the boys blocking the entrance, I was naked. For West Indians, we know sink or swim very well. I swam; fought back.It was over quickly. He stiffened my face with a swift jab; a punch Laguna (one of my boxing heroes to this day) had perfected but I never understood until that moment. A punch, however, as anyone growing back then understood, wakes you up. My response came around bam’ on his jaw the boom to the chest. Not to be embarrassed he laughs it off I don’t want to hurt you so let’s stop. The welt below his eye would not sit well with people grooming him back in Brooklyn, but the gate of boys blocking my way opened up so I get dressed and leave. This same bunch had surrounded me a few minutes earlier ready to gangup’ on the Principal’s son, now understood I could punch. I still love baseball. Here in the USA, the kids fight and do not box when confronted, preferring to grapple and tussle instead of the artistry of the fist. I have stopped enjoying boxing as entertainment after meeting Sugar Ray Seales after he was blinded. Also, I am not sure what sport is on tv nowadays they call boxing since most don’t have the skills of the old days.
Dfdh,
Thanks for the memories, especially about your experiences with the “boxing mentality” in Panamanian boys, Westindian or Spanish. I still enjoy boxing but tend to agree with you on its brutality even though more protective measures are now taken with regards to the boxers themselves. Street fighting is not as prevalent in Panama today. The gang culture have come to mature with the “gun” instead of the fists, and even bystanders and good Samaritans who intervene to protect women and youngsters are not safe from death. The graphic and violent cultural themes, if we can call them that, coming out of Hollywood do not help any in this matter. RR
Ken,
I think Raton Castaneda is the kid I’m talking about since he lived somewhere in Marañon. Someone told me he had a small barber shop over near Calle “L” right off Central Avenue, but every time I go to look for him, he’s not there. Just like when we were kids.
It is, indeed, a shame about Figurina but at least he will continue to live in my memory and on this web site.
RR
The only thing that bothers me is not the fights and growing up trials and errors but the treatment that you would get over everyday life by your parents…
I was lucky there. My Dad would have said I hope you, beat him good…. He would have been upset if I did not fight good shirt or not.
Hope all is going good in your part of the world.
Spring has sprung here at last.
Kyle
Svet says Hello from up North.
Dear Kyle and Svet,
The reasons for recording this story are to bring just these things out, of the treatment and experiences of Silver people parenting and its relation to the treatment they- our people- were getting from their cherished employment. Writing the story is not just a catharsis for us but it is an opportunity for some of the stories just like mine to be humanized at last and at the same time to see that Black Studies gets its due place in the literature of our times.
I would not try to figure out my parents, or anyone else’s parents, who displayed such wanton child abuse and neglect. However, I will say that having the opportunity to have gone to college and to study English Literature, gave me a handle on the “tradition” of child abuse rampant from before the period of Queen Victoria. If I had not gone on to be a college educated person I probably would have still harbored the feelings that this is the way to treat one’s children.
We are fine and having a good time with our work on the Silver People of Panama. Soon we will be writing about the things we are attempting to get the government to finally do for our heritage and culture.
Summer here has been extreme and even exhausting to go out into the streets for anything.
We will always appreciate you guys, Kiss Svet for us.
)
RR and Lydia
I recently told an acquaintance that boys born in Panama are given a baseball in one hand and a boxing glove in the other. We are probably the best nation in the world when it comes to this sport.
It seems all boys HAD to fight and even in the Zone you saw men preparing to make it their life’s earnings. In Camp Coiner, we had an aspiring boxer. He was Hispanic. I just remember his first name. He ran, nowadays called jogging, along the road to Margarita EVERYDAY at 5am. He would spar with the boys in our little corner of Rainbow City. One day I jumped in but it was complete embarrassment, swinging widly and him holding me off on the forehead.
In Gamboa, years later, some boys thought I squealed about a prank we had pulled. I was confronted in the showers of the old Santa Cruz gym. This boy had been sent away to NYC, and now at 12, was ‘training’ to be a boxer. ‘Naked and in despair’ I took the boxing stance in the shower. By then, I had to learn to fight. I got picked on a lot. I could not run or back down. There was no escape out of there. Even if I could get by the boys blocking the entrance, I was naked. For West Indians, we know “sink or swim” very well. I swam; fought back.
It was over quickly. He stiffened my face with a swift jab; a punch Laguna (one of my boxing heroes to this day) had perfected but I never understood until that moment. A punch, however, as anyone growing back then understood, wakes you up. My response came around ‘bam’ on his jaw the boom to the chest. Not to be embarrassed he laughs it off “I don’t want to hurt you… so let’s stop.” The welt below his eye would not sit well with people grooming him back in Brooklyn, but the gate of boys blocking my way opened up so I get dressed and leave. This same bunch had surrounded me a few minutes earlier ready to ‘gangup’ on the principal’s son, now understood I could punch.
I still love baseball. Here in the USA, the kids fight and do not box when confronted, preferring to grapple and tussle instead of the artistry of the fist. I have stopped enjoying boxing as entertainment after meeting Sugar Ray Seales after he was blinded. Also, I am not sure what sport is on tv nowadays they call boxing since most don’t have the skills of the old days.
Ocho Gritos,
My Brother Man, times change. Sometimes a generation goes from the wheel to inventing the wheel all over again. In my days we did not have television, only the radio to “picture” how boxers moved and punched. You are right about not enjoying boxing these days and I wonder sometimes if we were so clumsy as the kids today.
However, the lack of artistry in these kids coming up is noticed not only in the fist department but in the moves that make boxing a drama of dance. Shifting stance and weight easily, from right to left, shuffling and floating while at the same time letting go hard punches is the art in it all.
Roberto Duran just had a brand new arena named after him inaugurated Friday May 1st. All agree that he had been the best “brawler” who took on all commers. But Muhamed Ali was and is the best stylist and strategist for me. Talking about ganging up I too went through that experience and will be writing about it some more.
We missed your comments, don’t stay away so long! We need you and appreciate you.
Bless
RR