My Master's Sandals: Embrujo Uno

By Mario Arturo Ramos

Where did we come from? What are we doing here? Are we alone in the universe? Where can we get those answer?

This book is about an inner dialogue that started when I was a child and has led me to the answers within. You might relate to my story of struggles and pain that most humans go through in the process of remembering who they really

• Language: English
• Publisher: ibukku, LLC
• Release date: Apr 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781640868595

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EMBRUJO UNO

MY MASTER’S SANDALS

Israel Kelly

Mario Arturo Ramos

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the copyright holders. The infringement of such rights may constitute an intellectual property offense.

The content of this work is the responsibility of the author and does not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher.

Published by Ibukku

www.ibukku.com

Graphic design: Índigo Estudio Gráfico

Copyright © 2020 Israel Kelly, Mario Arturo Ramos

ISBN Paperback: 978-1-64086-858-8

ISBN eBook: 978-1-64086-859-5

Index

DEDICATION

FOREWORD

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

AFTERWORD

DEDICATION

My words permeated my father’s feelings, turning into a surprising admiration that touched his life. Sitting alone, accompanied by a family conversation, on one of the many visits to my country, my father listened carefully to my story. At that time, I was determined to let the world know about the different facets of my life--both those that I delayed understanding, and the voice that was a permanent figure in each life situation. At this point, the voice already made sense and was part of me, and the experience of it reached full effervescence.

This book is not about the life of my father, but I cannot fail to mention how his life affected mine. In the many moments of anguish, poverty, hunger, pain, and sadness, he was present and by my side always--in the difficult moments as well as the good moments that were full of joy.

I begin this story of my life, with all the love, respect, and gratitude to you, my great father, and my beloved mother, the one who gave me life and who is no longer by my side. To my family, who is an important part of my journey, and the real reason to continue moving forward, I also dedicate this book to everyone else, I am grateful for the continuous support you provide me with.

Forever thankful,

ISRAEL KELLY

FOREWORD

Between April 24, 1965 and September 3, 1965, the civil war took place in the Dominican Republic. This was known as the April War or the Revolution. The constitutionally elected president, Juan Bosch, with a group of civilian and military followers, overthrew President Ronald Reid Cabral.

General Elías Wessin organized military personnel loyal to President Reid; this organization was involved in mafias and helped form the civil war. The Dominican population suffered massive consequences from the indeterminate attacks of both parties involved. The sounds of bullets and heavy weapons were an uncontrollable situation every day. I discussed with Father the anguish and fear that my family felt in the face of the constant noise of artillery that forced us to remain united. The uncontrollable crying in the family was a constant, and the only comfort we had was through giving hugs to each other. Every day I fell asleep knowing the family was tied up with nerves and full of fear. This feeling, mixed with the taste of anguish, became our everyday life. Father, numbed by my words, remained still and silent, waiting for a pause to intervene.

The events taken from a history book tell us about the facts of the conflict in the Dominican Republic at that time. We discussed none of this at home. The extraordinary thing is that the details about what was happening at the time within the family nucleus, accompanied by the noises, how stormy the attacks were, etc., were being accurately narrated to Father by me. I told the story just as it had happened, except it was from the memory of all the protagonists of that emotional moment, as though this was a time I had lived through. Instead, this happened, I was an innocent child that was only a few months old. Father listened attentively to my story’s meticulousness, only awakening from his anguished astonishment when I mentioned the kindness of one of his hens, who produced an egg daily. This egg was exchanged for milk and was the only reason I was able to eat. No one in my family has ever told me a single word of this story’s content that I am now discussing with you. For a few seconds, I tried to stay calm when I saw that it was causing a kind of agitation in him. His expression was quite strong on his face, as he felt the uncertainty of how I even knew this and wondering who had told me this information.

Logically, the questions would not take long to appear, and I knew this would cost me some explanation. Slowly approaching me, he didn’t stop staring at me for a second, totally incredulous of what he was hearing.

My uncle Daniel had put us under the bed to playhouse since we were the smallest of the family. My uncle Miguel, who was called Miguelito, had drowned in the Ozama River. The pain from the loss of our dear relative was immense. As the reunited family mourned the departure, the children tried to distract them from that event, as we played without realizing what was happening. Somehow, I was on the bed looking at the ceiling, which was a dark oil black colored cardboard. Suddenly within the environment, there was only the suffering, and we were plagued by a cry that did not stop. Sadness enveloped the family who tearfully pronounced the name of the late uncle Miguelito. Father suddenly touched my shoulder, wondering what was going on.

What’s wrong with you? Where did you get that information? Who told you all this? You were a child of less than a year old, and you remember everything so clear, the history and the death of Uncle Miguelito. Undoubtedly, I understood his questioning. I had had those same questions for many years without developing the voice that had lived with me all this time. The voice that appeared throughout my life stopped hiding without explanation. I finally came to decipher what its meaning was, why it was there, and why it appeared in a way that only I should discover.

It was highly unlikely that Father could immediately understand what I was disclosing even though he was the person I shared so many moments of struggle and sacrifice with for so many years. It was difficult for me to understand as well. I began to tell the story just as it had happened, even though I was barely an infant without any knowledge when all of this happened.

Now is the time to share my experiences with the world and transport all of you to a journey that I will explain in detail. So many things have happened in my life, and my struggles have taken up most of the time I have been here. I know that most of you have experienced similar difficulties and will be able to relate. I humbly wish to express many of my life experiences--from the very harsh reality of my childhood, to the strength that I depended on since I was a child and teenager, to the adventure I found in learning, and my adulthood that has been full of stepping stones. I wish for you to share in my sufferings and my joys. All of you are the reason I am here writing this today, and all of my life has led to the light that grows in my eyes every day and to where we are all one.

CHAPTER I

In a sea of quiet water driven by the wind whispering near the waves, and before the imposing sun woke up every day by drawing the landscape of my tropical land, existed the joy of my people. This environment was flavored with the beach and a fever that was experienced in the poverty of everyday living. It was plagued with Merengue, Bachata, Ripped Parakeet, or Ripiao, as we initially called it, in these rhythms that only my country knows. There, in this beautiful land with a generous atmosphere distinguished by the heat and a friendship between the night and its breeze, I arrived in the world, defying the destiny that was preparing for me. It was February 1, 1965.

I come from the nineteenth century. I was born in a very peaceful country that recognizes Merengue as its typical dance, full of subtlety, with many versions of the dance. Concerning this dance, various theories emerged, such as that of Fredila de Nolasco, a historian and musicologist, who said that due to the frivolous and light character of the dance, it was given the name of Merengue because it was comparable to the derivative of sugar and egg white known by the same name. However, the folklorist Fredick Elizardo proposed a different theory and stated that the name of Merengue was given in the Dominican Republic from rhythms from Cuba and Puerto Rico, but that it cannot come from the sweet dessert because in the country it is known by the name of Suspiro.

Perico Ripiao was born in 1932 in a city called Santiago de los Caballeros, where the Merengue reaches popularity across lower social classes. Within this city, there is a neighborhood called La Joya that has a brothel called Perico Ripiao and located on Street Independencia. A brothel is where one lives with prostitutes.

This local place had a very successful band and was why people who were not from Santiago, or Cibaeñas, identified sets of instruments played with the name of Perico Ripiao.

Then when they wanted to spend the night partying they said, We are going to dance the Perico Ripiao, and became a custom that made that typical ensemble from that time to be named the Perico Ripiao. The truth is that although I grew up in a tropical country with a banner of joy, I was a precocious, lonely child that was not very happy to have Dominican blood identified with him. I was a child who was looking for constant learning, growth, and adventure.

At any point, fate could await me with another alternative without my knowing it. I was not likely to survive in an environment of great need. Eight brothers, four women, and four men did not have a good time at home, struggling to do their best every day. I was alone in my thinking that tomorrow things would get better. I liked the idea of the outdoor life and hoping that there I would find freedom.

The year of my birth was 1965, and it was also the emergence of another musical style in my country. This popular alternative became what is now more commonly known as Bachata.

May 30, 1962, turned into a historic day for my country. That day, a young man named José Miguel Calderon recorded a Bachata style song called, Condena (What will become of me?). It was composed by Bienvenido Fabián and the Los Juveniles Trio, where the Dominican güira replaced the maracas. They began considering it a genre for the low-income classes, and at that moment, the radio stations stopped playing it.

La Bachata continued to succeed in the humblest neighborhoods. They did not stop playing it until 1964 when a radio businessman named Radhames Aracena created a new radio station known as Radio Guarachita. This station officially opened April 5, 1965, when I was two months old.

After a trial period beginning in October 1964, it was transmitted at 690 amplitude modulated under the acronym HIAW located on Palo Hincado 74 Street in Santo Domingo. This music continued to be seen in marginal places, bars, and places with prostitutes. Otherwise, it was only listened to in secret.

In 1982, Luis Segura recorded the song, Pena, also known as, Pain. Since then, Bachata has managed to find its way into the public and is no longer associated with only the lower class. With the passing of time and the advance of this musical current, my life advanced also.

Perhaps it was still too early to think that I would get to know myself in a deeper context, but something I discovered was my musical charm. My first perspective was learning to play the guitar; when I was little, I got my first experiences from one that happened into my hands.

My friend, Alejandro de las Casas, appeared in my life, and he was essential to my gaining experience with and fondness for this instrument.

We came to live in wonderful circumstances, which filled us with joy. Making popular presentations after having formed a music group, we met many people from the area who gave us good experiences. However, we also had a difficult time in the face of the repression that the country lived in, where the government occupied control for many years.

I also became accustomed to the martial arts; they were inevitable companions during my life, which were more prominent within my youth.

A photo of a me as a very young boy. I was around 8 to 10 years old. I keep this photo with much affection. I do not have many photos, perhaps the only one of that age, where I can be seen smiling. Other photos I have during this time, I only had an expression of being in desperation.

I liked solitude; I was always looking for time to enjoy it, as I was in those moments, I was given an inner peace even when I was so young. Perhaps I was discovering a new path. It was precisely that time when I began to feel a sensation, a living vibration near me, a presence that I could not explain but was always there. It was challenging for me to understand it—a presence that I did not fear and caused no discomfort to have or feel so very close. Perhaps I could have created the idea of having an angel. Still, I didn’t consider this to be the case because, during the development of my life, I was taught beliefs under Biblical scripture, and this was very different and not particularly in alignment with what I had been taught.

Discipline in some homes, in this case, as happened to me, was drastic in terms of raising a child. The first images that come to my memory are quite strong and painful and of much discouragement.

This is not about blaming anyone, because that is not the intention. Since my parents were raised in the same harsh way, with a lot of discipline, a lot of rigor, and with a strong hand, it was only understood to instill fear in their own children in order to correct them, as there were not many ways or means to intercede communication between parents and children.

My parents came from a religious belief to which they belonged since the time of my grandparents, so it could have been more difficult for them to change their ways of thinking when they became Educated, in the same way. Mother’s experience, in particular, was quite painful. Before I was born, she had had two other children, which were the product of different relationships. Now I presume that she did not want to pass on the bad experiences of the result of my brothers, and this included Father. However, the remembrance of the discipline always stayed in my mind, perhaps due to Mother being in volatile emotional stages.

Because she dragged with her the many residues of the bad experiences she had lived, she was a hard, dry woman, who was very strict and showed little affection. I did not label her as bad, although I understand that her actions were because of her early parenting by my grandparents. My childhood was left with few positive events, far from love and affection. I do not remember any loving or tender words from Mother; instead, I feel that they did not belong to her vocabulary.

I could say that the first images I remember from my childhood, at maybe three or four years old, are images of punishment and much pain. There was not so much crying, but more biting the rage of helplessness and discomfort, and screaming without help--not with my voice, just with my eyes, trying to tell Mother that the pain was enough. Then, only after my tears, I had questions that went without explanation.

In the Dominican Republic, we have a food utensil called Guayo, in other countries known as a grater, which serves to scratch vegetables, such as a carrot or potato, and cuts cheese when preparing pasta. It is rectangular and flat in appearance and is made of a metal like tin, with many small holes, which are quite sharp so the food can be cut.

I am reminded of some bad behavior of mine that meant immediate punishment by mother. I see myself kneeling and being inflicted with the Guayo or grater. It served as the executing part of the reprimand, usually without my understanding, and the one that caused me an impressive pain.

Each of my knees met with the sharp teeth of the metal penetrating my skin. This caused scars physically, but I became scarred deeply emotionally as well, like an indelible mark on my memory. Mother learned this practice from childhood, and without hesitation, I can say that she once was also the victim of punishment with the Guayo and felt the pain as I did. She did not show emotional stability, and after numerous medical visits, she was diagnosed with Bipolar Personality Disorder.

Because of her behavior, my mother became an unrecognizable person to her children, especially me. I could not make a judgment toward her; I just kept believing that everything was a product of her growth.

Kneeling on a Guayo gave me hours of endured pain, but through the passing of the years, I realized that it was very popular in those days to use it as punishment in the Dominican Republic. I understand that the idea of this type of punishment can be classified as primitive and disastrous because doing this to anyone, from a child to an adult, is irrational and inhuman.

This was the Guayo, the object that Mother used for punishment.

At that early age, I had a nervous complication as a result of my fears, which led me to a somewhat strange but valid hobby for me because it was a way to calm my feelings, an escape to find tranquility. I started eating cardboard--not the kind used to make boxes--but another type used to divide walls. It was quite thick, known as cardboard stone, which is much more rigid than what is used for putting together regular boxes.

This cardboard was sold in large sheets, and I found it hard work to acquire it, as I looked for hours in certain buildings or unfinished housing. Believe me; I was not eating it because I was hungry. I would hide while I would eat it. I resisted it, yet it was all I knew to do to get a sense of calm. I had developed an emotional disorder that also surfaced in my personality. It was like I ate in order to find myself.

I never found a real reason why my older brothers were not required by Mother to follow the same rules or subjected to the same punishment. I wish I could have figured out the reason for the different treatment to maybe feel better or be able to justify things. I asked myself if I was a bad boy or behaving so badly to earn Mother’s gaze, followed by unsustainable mistreatment that made me suffer. I considered myself incorrigible, or perhaps the black sheep of the family.

These were some thoughts that crossed my mind but were always left unanswered.

Talking about my childhood is not enjoyable. I did not have those kinds of indelible memories impregnated in my mind, like that of a toy or a game that would have made me happy- -much less a bicycle, scooter, tricycle, or some device with wheels that would fill me with the beautiful kind of tiredness, smiles, some falls, and sweat. My dreams were left undone.

Of course, I remember Mother as a human being. Still, I have other experiences that filled those gaps of growing up with a lot of adult tint that made me interpret many things that a child does not.

When I was seven years old, my grandmother Eufemia became ill with bone cancer and was bedridden for a time. No one let us enter her room when my brothers and I visited her. I came to see her when she was in the last stage of her life and was very deteriorated. I found my grandmother weighing between fifty and sixty pounds, very slim.

I was so affected by the sight of her that I could