From the Grave

I haven't published anything on this blog in over 2 years. Mea culpa, kiddies. My fault. I've been trying to stay alive, you know? Pay my bills. Survive.

Last year I re-wrote my 3rd book "Falling for Enemy" which I originally published under a different Author Name because of its mature content. I never actually re-published that book.  After that, nothing. Just ramblings on paper. Different short stories that didn't quite lead to an ending. For a while, I admit, I went into a bit of a slump.

Despite being fully educated, with a Bachelor's in Engineering, a Master's in Business Administration, and, now, another Bachelor's in English:Creative Writing, I find myself employed at a $15.00 an hour job where I don't write anything at all. Creative Writing doesn't get you employed unless one goes into academia or is a prodigious writer that can chug out a novel every couple of months.

Nevertheless, my heart cries out for more writing, more stories. Went back to that old re-write of the 3rd book yesterday, a whole year later, and found many things I wanted to change. So I did.

My job sucks, but my dream lives.

I'm back. Wounded. A little mauled by the world, but back.

How True are Stereotypes?

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I am an independent novelist, poet, and general bum with a joy for the written word.

My Twitter: @JYCalcanoauthor Twitter Account Page

My Goodreads: http://tinyurl.com/GoodreadsCerberus

My Facebook: Facebook

Blog: http://www.jycalcano.blogspot.com

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Stereotypes are often a form of bigotry as well as valid first order approximations. When we apply a stereotype to someone, we’re automatically robbing that person of individuality and traits that make him/her more than a blank slate for our expectations and/or prejudice.

Yet, now, I’m worried about the power of stereotypes.

Are stereotypes useful as an initial base expectation of a type of people, culture, or ethnicity?  Certainly Israel seems to think so, with their Passport Control asking questions like “Are you an Arab?” to arriving individuals and denying access to Israel based on questions and suspicions that originate in ethnicity. Ethnic profiling continues to serve an integral part of the security protocols in identifying potential threats to national security to Israel.

But we don't have to cross the pond or involve national politics to talk about stereotypes and profiling.
I currently reside in a house with a popular AirBNB master bedroom that has, so far, yielded a wealth of information about people’s habits. What worries me is how damn accurate some of the stereotypes can be applied to some of the passing guests.

Let’s see if the stereotypes match your expectations.

1. The American male alcoholic stereotype– Notable for drinking a lot, couch-potato on weekends, and passing out on the couch while surrounded by junk food, empty bottles, and beer cans.

Teddy – A transient man looking for work in Orlando, found it, and within a week decided that he could be doing the same thing back in his beloved Los Angeles. So, he quit and moved out. As a lover of basketball, all basketball, he spent his evenings passed out on the couch surrounded by Bud Light cans, weekends in the same state but with basketball jerseys. No matter of prodding could get him to move from the couch when basketball was on. He coaxed me into a few quite addictive dicing and drinking games. He had a penchant for exaggerating or diminishing debts to coax me into getting him beer or retain more booze within his bottles. He left behind all the food he’d bought, but took every single spec of alcohol he’d acquired. Not one beer can or bottle of whiskey avoided his scrutiny.

2. Spoiled rich kids stereotype– Notable for a disregard of the law, inability to conduct manual labor in the form of say... washing dishes, and unable to accept responsibility for daily routine, and a lack of understanding about the cost of money.

The Kids (Cath and Dave) – My personal appellation for a young couple of nineteen year old entitled kids and their super-spoiled pug Margo that were quite enjoyable company. They struggled to be responsible given an upbringing of wealth-empowered irresponsibility. Cath had a suspended license, outstanding tickets, and still drove. She told me about getting kicked out for underage drinking in Catholic school and sent to boarding school. (Like, why can’t other parents mind their own business? It was, like, just a bottle of whiskey.) Parents were away on vacation most of the time. She could cook some really good squash recipes. Dave had a head for Apple computers, camera drones, and their nuances, but couldn’t find his way around cleaning a bowl if given a map and compass. Met Cath in boarding school and faced all the forces trying to pull them apart while rolling pot reefers. They left behind one bottle of cherry vodka, one bottle of white wine, three bottles of expensive lager beer, a gallon of milk, and a kitchen disaster zone of dirty paw prints and grime, and moved to a $1600 a month apartment middle class resort. They took every single box of Mac & Cheese and the dog food.

3. The unhygienic Chinese stereotype– Who have a cursory association with cleanliness and otherwise keep to themselves.

The Addam’s Family – My roommate’s sobriquet for a family of 8 individuals, some who only spoke fluent Mandarin. They spent two days in the master bedroom and house. In that time they fiddled around with the grand piano on the 1^st floor (hit the keys, laughed at it), had the TV loud until midnight. Most of the time was spent in their room, doors closed to anyone, separate, and yet their family laughter seeped through the walls. They left behind shopping bags full of water bottles and used baby diapers around the kitchen garbage can (yeah, ugh), bags of McDonalds, and half used water bottles on top of the wood finish of the grand piano. Inside their room we cleaned dozens of Nerds candy from the floor, boxes of Publix breaded friend chicken, food residues, a stack of sauce-stained leftover Styrofoam containers inside the cupboard, and three or so more bags of discarded water bottles. I have no idea what they took with them, except themselves.

At what point does the intrinsic bigotry of stereotypes have to yield to the reality of observation?

At what point are stereotypes reflections of habits and actions, not bigotry? Can stereotypes be both?

I don’t have an answer to that. It scares me how easy it is to match certain stereotypes to people... and how easy said people seem to embrace the stereotypes without realizing they do so.

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I am an independent novelist, poet, and general bum with a joy for the written word.

My Twitter: @JYCalcanoauthor Twitter Account Page

My Goodreads: http://tinyurl.com/GoodreadsCerberus

My Facebook: Facebook

Blog: http://www.jycalcano.blogspot.com

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Kiwanis: People that Care

J. Y. Calcano
May 22, 2017


The Heroes of Kiwanis 

Who or what are Kiwanis?

My first impression was, "Oh crap... a cult." I dreaded a circle of holding hands and a quick “Dear Being From Beyond” preamble followed by a prayer I could not join and my sad withdrawal behind a polite smile

Nothing of the sort.

Despite a name that made me think of loin cloths, painted faces, and feathered spears Kiwanis was a group of individuals who simply wanted to help children and those in need. They didn't ask for anything in return.  They didn't ask for recognition. They wanted nothing but the satisfaction of a good deed.

Seriously. Talk about endangered.

How did I become involved with these fools; these individuals who gave of themselves to help people they would, in most cases, never meet? As all things horrible and millennial, I blame social media. Curse you modern age.

These dastardly Good Samaritans roped me in through the Meetup App and into their group: Orlando Volunteers.

As a stranger to Orlando, a traveler from Puerto Rico seeking greener pastures, I wanted to meet others who shared the on-and-off itch to help for the sake of helping.

Camp Challenge popped on my browser. From the meetup:

Camp Challenge's mission is to provide safe, fun, and fair recreational activities for children and adults with physical disabilities and special needs in an outdoor environment. You can learn more about the camp at their website. 

Guess what happened? I'll tell you. Since you asked.... *shifty eyes*....

About fifteen people went into a multi-room cabin and spent two happy and communal hours talking while slapping brown paint on just about everything vertical. Rhinos didn’t rampage. No one sang Klingon opera. Megan Fox didn’t dance for us.... so much the pity. We worked, shared an uplifting moment, and left with a feeling of satisfaction.

There was some attempt to recruit the newcomers, but it was a simple invitation to see and experience. Being part of Kiwanis was not a necessity for helping. There was no entrance exam. There was no coercion.

**There was no Witch Doctor in a corner chanting “One of Us. One of Us” while holding a doll dressed in cleverly tailored  Dorito bags. That never happened. Never.**

I thank my new Kiwanis friends for the experience. I thank them for being out there, in the shadows and lack thereof, helping without an ulterior motive. I thank them and invite others to partake from this wonderful atmosphere that shows there really is good out there in the world. There is no need to join Kiwanis. Just meet them. Grab a brush and paint a little joy in a child's heart.

I am an independent novelist, poet, and general bum with a joy for the written word.

My Twitter: @JYCalcanoauthor Twitter Account Page

My Goodreads: http://tinyurl.com/GoodreadsCerberus

My Facebook: Facebook

Blog: http://www.jycalcano.blogspot.com

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The Walls We Build

The Walls

by J. Y. Calcano

It is another day in Orlando. At the risk of sounding boring: the sun peeks above the neutral brown tiles of the neighbor’s roof. A couple of squirrels munch on nuts and berries and squeak indignation at my own peeking. If the sun can do it, so can I. A blue jay (which surprises me cause I think blue jays are only seen up around Toronto and wear jerseys) perches on a bush and cocks a wide inquisitive eye my way. Azure feathers glimmer incandescently under the morning’s rays. It is a morning of welcomes and hellos.

Caramel, my landlord’s caramel colored dog (I suspect a poetic naming scheme), trots around the yard and poses like a model: white tipped tail high, light brown ears squared and wrinkled by intriguing scents, one paw frozen mid stride as his doggie brain decodes the cryptography of canine thoughts.

The neighbor’s dog, a shadow twice Caramel’s size, hurls back and forth behind the old picket fence. The unpainted wood, stained black with moss and rain, shakes under the impact of a probing paw. The entire section of the fence creaks like maracas. The two squirrels high-tail it up bark and branch. The blue jay defecates, with proper decorum mind you, and flies behind the shed.

Caramel investigates the creaking fence and is rewarded by another heavy impact. The snowy tipped tail whiplashes back and forth with excitement. He paws at the fence and turns wide, imploring eyes at me. A needy whine reaches my ears, not from Caramel but from the large shadow beyond. There is no doubt in my mind that Caramel wants to meet the neighbor’s dog as much as it wants to meet him. I can tell there is no hostility between them. Two dogs of different races pull toward each other. The dissimilar coloring of their fur matters little. Their size and differences are equally unimportant. They’re excited to share, to stick noses into butts and really get to know each other like only dogs can. A fence divides them, a wall. A human wall.

A bitter taste fleets over my taste buds as thoughts turn to the day before. I see a tall pale man behind a counter at Winn-Dixie. The pale man strains to keep a steady, even tone as he says, “I am refusing you service, sir.” A chromed balloon hovers in the air with the words “WELCOME” and a stylized pink curved line below them.

A darker skinned client stands across the counter, “Why you doing that man? I—”

“You called my co-worker an ignorant jackass, sir. There was no call for that, sir.”

“No, I didn’t.” The client adjusts a black baseball cap. “I said he was acting like an ignorant jackass. I don’t see why I have to wait so damn long. And you take care of a bunch of other people. I just trying to send money to my family. My family, man.”

“They had already asked a question and came back for an answer, that’s it. Either way, sir, I am refusing you service at this time.”

“Why you gottah be like that, man?”

“I am concerned with the well being of my coworker.”

The darker man gesticulates with both hands. “You’re concerned with me? Is that it?”

The pale man leans back, eyes as flat as his tone and repeats, “I am concerned with the well being of my coworker.”
           “This is some racist bullshit!”

The pale man scoffs. The "protected" fair skinned coworker in question shakes his head. I hear true disbelief in his tone when he says, “Oh, my God.” A blond woman passing by mutters, loud enough for me to hear all the way down the aisle, “You just keep shooting off your mouth.”

“Nah. You’all racist. That’s what this is!” The darker skinned man retrieves a smartphone from his blue denims. He begins recording a message about Winn-Dixie’s racism and lack of service. The argument escalates with terms involving “illegal” and “refuse.”

A woman calls from the neighbor’s house and wretches me from the memory, "T.K. Come on boy!" The dark furred shadow whines louder and delivers a tremendous pawing to the fence. Caramel does the same from this side. The woman’s tone becomes insistent. T.K. departs. Caramel lowers his head and tail, bereft. The fence remains in place. Its high tips remind me of upturned teeth and castle ramparts.
I call Caramel. He slinks over and sits down next to me, eyes on the fence. I scratch behind his ears. A cloud passes over the sun..

Moving to Orlando: Personal Moment of Fear

Fright

J. Y. Calcano

I’m 39 years old and have abandoned a career in Electrical Engineering for a dubious vocation in Creative Writing. I’ve pushed aside my first degree, a Masters in Business Administration, and sixteen years of work to pursue this love. Sixteen years of dull, soul crushing effort, but effort and experience non-the-less.

It’s four in the morning. May rains fall on the Orlando house where I’ve rented a pigmy sized room at a premium price. Thousands of droplets pinprick the wood in a multitude of leaky faucets. The night brightens in a strobe of lightning. An infinity of three seconds pass before thunder stampedes over the house.

I’m scared. It’s the sort of fear that heaves in every breath like a tight shirt or a belt cinched one hole too many. Shadows prevent scrutiny of the walls, the bed sheets, and roof. Brooding is best done in the monochromatic.

Doubts plague waking moments with questions. Will I make it? Am I doing the right thing? Can I handle it? What else can I do to succeed? Will I do well in my classes? Will all this effort help me find a job where I can write, compose, and follow the path I am besotted with?
Still images of Mom’s sun-baked, experienced face frown through my psyche. Dad’s quiet, stone gaze judges in sepulchral tones like a bass chime more heard than witnessed. Family acquaintances hear the strange path of my ambition, smile below the eyes and say, “You’ll  make it. God’s will. God be with you.”

The words are empty. They are a casual brush-off of association and a testament to the words they do not say: Only the divine can help you now.  God’s will. Not your will. Sure as fuck not my will. Man, what a loser. Good luck, ‘cause you’ll need it.

They know I’m an atheist but forgive my straying from Truth in their condescension. God’s will.

Almost unanimously, the words are accompanied by turning their body and presenting their shoulder or back. Conversation over. Go away.

Almost unanimously, they turn to comfort my Mom and Dad. Lawyer and Doctor. Tangible success. We’re so sorry you have a writer in the family. What can you do? There is always one of those.

God’s will.

My Books: https://www.amazon.com/J.-Y.-Calcano/e/B00YGQPS2Y/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1493979847&sr=8-1
My Twitter: @JYCalcanoauthor Twitter Account Page
My Goodreads: http://tinyurl.com/GoodreadsCerberus
My Facebook: Facebook
Blog: http://www.jycalcano.blogspot.com
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