A Day To Remember
4th of July is always a day to remember. Not because I celebrate the Independence Day of the United States of America, although I flipped through enough pages of American History books to understand what it means to the Americans. Not that it matters to me nor do I care about it but everytime when somebody mentioned the date, I could feel the adrenalin came rushing through every single veins in my body. 4th of July 1989, that was the day to remember. That was the day why 4th of July means so much to me.
Like every 1st of July, that year, downtown St Louis, from Market Street through Olive Street and all the way to Riverfront and historic site of Laclede’s Landing and especially the areas surrounding Jefferson Memorial and the Gateway Arch were crowded with people.
The whole city was filled with spirit of celebrations as everybody anxiously waiting for 4th of July in party mood. For 4 days in a year starting from 1st through 4th of July, the city changes its character, color and sound. The ever tame and innocent downtown St. Louis began to show the other side of it. Perhaps, a little more adventurous and a twist of boldness were showing in every corners of downtown. The whole downtown glowed with colorful atmosphere with decorations everywhere and filled with music and sounds of joy and happiness.
It was like the whole city was just awakened from her long sleep. And, it was all because of Veiled Prophet Fair or V.P. Fair (from 1992 onwards, it is called Fair Saint Louis) where the city hosted a celebration with non-stop music, entertainment and fireworks. Some called it "America's largest birthday party" as the event showcased a variety of attractions including air shows, educational activities, a barbecue competition, stage performances featuring popular entertainers, and an enormous fireworks display held nightly enough to attract crowds from in and out of the state. The city was never so full of life except perhaps when the Cardinals won the World Series and the Rams (the Ram was still in LA when I left St. Louis) won the Superbowl and especially if the Blues could win Stanley Cup (which they have consistently failed to do from the dawn of time until present).
There I was, an outcast even to my fellow countrymen to add to my usual ‘stinking curry-smelled foreigner’ tag to the rest of the Americans. Just because I was a huge Jazz fan. Just because I was drawn more to Kenny G, Earl Klugh, George Benson, Grover Washington Jr., Stanley Jordan, Chick Corea, the Marsailis Brothers and David Sanborn (to name a few, names that I still have on top of my head) rather than to the moonwalker Michael you-know-who and the ‘hair’ generation of rockers, Guns & Roses, Metallica, Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and the teenage sensations at the time, the New Kids On The Block, which people in the main stream like them fancied. Put all of them aside, I was hungry and looking for some saucy yet soothing sounds of Jazz music so I dragged myself to the Fair because I knew there were gonna be open-air Jazz performances by Jazz bands, either quartets or fusion, playing classical or modern Jazz, the solo saxophonist and guitarist, and Jazz singers. Best of all, they would took turns to perform round the clock for 4 days. Yes, you read it right, the performances and concerts were non-stop for 4 days.
I booked one of those small tents that were erected along side of the streets and empty spaces around Riverfront areas to provide shelters for the visitors, especially people from out of town. For those 4 days, many people including the weird 21-year old me were at the same social class as the homeless except maybe our clothes and the fact that we were homeless by choice. It was still summer so I didn't really mind being outdoor and sleeping on the grass and pavement as long as I was close enough to the stage to see the performances.
The stage was erected on the bank of the Mississippi River and the exhibition booths were lined up all the way to the historic site of Laclede’s Landing. I am not sure whether I am right but I think Laclede’s Landing was the place where Louis Laclede landed when he took the historic trip on the small plane named Spirit of St Louis from Paris, hence called Laclede’s Landing. A popular attraction in St. Louis and located just north of the Eads Bridge on the Mississippi Riverfront, the Landing is a multi-block collection of cobblestone streets and vintage brick-and-cast-iron warehouses dating from 1850 through 1900, now converted into shops, restaurants, and bars. It was the centre of crowds especially during weekends where St. Louisans come to chill out and have a beer or two after a grueling and painful week of hard work.
Needless to say, I was having the time of my life by myself. For 2 full days (except for a few minutes a day at home for showers and such), I was alone in the ocean of people, enjoying the performances while lying down and sleeping under the moon and stars of St. Louis’ skies. I didn’t know a single soul although there were times when I was involved in unofficial interviews by curious tenants of the neighboring tents. I still think that until today, I was at the peak of my happiness that day. I didn’t feel any pressure from anyone. No one can tell me what to do and I felt that at that very moment, I didn’t need anyone, not my family, not my friends, not the government and not my country. I felt that I could live there forever, even under a tent. Even if I would be the loneliest guy alive, I wouldn’t mind. And, at that point in time, I pledged to myself that I would call St. Louis my home and spend the rest of my living life there. I was ready to pledge allegiance to the US of A, "the land of the free and the home of the braves". I decided that if I ever go back to Malaysia, it would be only to visit my family.
The third day came as a surprise and drastically changed the whole experience. Maybe God decided that I was not meant to be alone although He was kind enough to let me have the feel of it for 2 whole days. I was walking around the Landing when I met a college friend, Christobal or Chris as he was fondly known.
I first met Chris when he was in the same class with me in Fall’88 semester. He was a Graduate student but he had to take the undergraduate class to comply with the university’s elective requirement. Oh yeah, it was Latin American Economics, the class that brought us closer to Latin American countries and their economy. Being a Hispanic, Chris was often mistaken as an Asian as he looked like a typical Malay with tan skin and stood only 5 ft 5 inches tall.
We hang out a lot, especially after class either to discuss on our assignments or studied for other classes. And, often, our meeting place was at our unofficial HQ, a smoking room on 5th Floor of the University Library. The quorum wouldn’t be complete without 5 other foreign students : Ali Kareem, a 30-something Somalian graduate student who always introduced himself as "I am Ali Kareem: Ali as in Mohamad Ali, the boxer and Kareem as in Kareem Abdul Jabbars, the basketball player" who smoke the not-so-famous, yellow-box Merit; a Spanish guy named Carlos who was a part-time model and dated a Black girl; another Spanish guy who stayed across the hall from Carlos’s apartment whom I forgot his name; and 2 Japanese guys whom I totally forgot until today and ofcourse, I didn’t remember their names. And together, we were 7 wonders of the world, sharing the space in the smokey room on 5th Floor where not many others would dare to enter. From our small chats, I learned a little bit of their backgrounds, enough for me to know them personally to call them on first name basis.
For the next 2 days at the VP Fair, I spent enough quality time to get to know Chris even closer. We talked and talked while listening to the music from the stage. We shared about our countries and what was special about it, the people, the culture, and the life we had when we were growing up. I was cracking jokes on my parts but I realized that he talked in a different tone when he started talking about himself.
I almost jumped when he said, “I am actually a Cuban.”
“What do you mean? I thought you are an American, I mean I knew you are a Cuban-American but I thought you were born here?”
“Yes, I am, technically, American. On paper, I am an American citizen but I wasn’t born here.” he paused for 5 second breather before continued, “I came to America when I was 10 years old. I was put on a boat ride from Havana and after a few rough days, she landed in Miami (Florida). Practically, my whole family were there on the boat including my parents, my grandparents, my uncles and aunties and cousins. The whole enchiladas.”
“Even at that tender age, I knew and understood why my father brought our family here. I knew he was concerned about our lives and our future. You know, to live in Cuba under Fidel Castro’s Communist regime was terrible. Life was really tough. There were days when we had no food to eat. And all of us sat around the table and stared at each other and then my mom started crying and we all cried together.”, he told me with teary eyes before continued with his childhood stories when they started building back their lives in Miami, all from scratch and how he ended up travelling half way across the continent to St. Louis to follow his dreams.
“Hope brought us here and hope will bring us back there. All these years, I can’t help it but hope that the situation in my country would be better. I am still waiting for that day. The day that I will rewind my life journey and find myself in Cuba again. I am still hoping that one day I’ll go back to Cuba and help them rebuild the nation”, he continued.
“I love Cuba, with all my heart. I would remain a Cuban, wherever I am.”
On 4th of July that year, I learned about love and loyalty, and the words from Chris that day stuck to my mind until today like they were hard-coded into my brain. All those words came into play in November 1990 when I woke up one day and decided to come home, only after almost 1 year after my graduation.
I’ve never heard from Chris again after I left St Louis in April 1990. I ‘d never know if he’s still in the US or Cuba, but I know that his heart is big enough to have all of Cuba in it. And until today, I celebrated every 4th of July with pride and joy, that I’m home, now surrounded by my family and friends in my own country. Deep in my heart, I know that things are not perfect here but I’m happy because I know that my freedom is here, at home.
Chris, muchos gracias, amigo!
Chazz
Like every 1st of July, that year, downtown St Louis, from Market Street through Olive Street and all the way to Riverfront and historic site of Laclede’s Landing and especially the areas surrounding Jefferson Memorial and the Gateway Arch were crowded with people.
The whole city was filled with spirit of celebrations as everybody anxiously waiting for 4th of July in party mood. For 4 days in a year starting from 1st through 4th of July, the city changes its character, color and sound. The ever tame and innocent downtown St. Louis began to show the other side of it. Perhaps, a little more adventurous and a twist of boldness were showing in every corners of downtown. The whole downtown glowed with colorful atmosphere with decorations everywhere and filled with music and sounds of joy and happiness.
It was like the whole city was just awakened from her long sleep. And, it was all because of Veiled Prophet Fair or V.P. Fair (from 1992 onwards, it is called Fair Saint Louis) where the city hosted a celebration with non-stop music, entertainment and fireworks. Some called it "America's largest birthday party" as the event showcased a variety of attractions including air shows, educational activities, a barbecue competition, stage performances featuring popular entertainers, and an enormous fireworks display held nightly enough to attract crowds from in and out of the state. The city was never so full of life except perhaps when the Cardinals won the World Series and the Rams (the Ram was still in LA when I left St. Louis) won the Superbowl and especially if the Blues could win Stanley Cup (which they have consistently failed to do from the dawn of time until present).
There I was, an outcast even to my fellow countrymen to add to my usual ‘stinking curry-smelled foreigner’ tag to the rest of the Americans. Just because I was a huge Jazz fan. Just because I was drawn more to Kenny G, Earl Klugh, George Benson, Grover Washington Jr., Stanley Jordan, Chick Corea, the Marsailis Brothers and David Sanborn (to name a few, names that I still have on top of my head) rather than to the moonwalker Michael you-know-who and the ‘hair’ generation of rockers, Guns & Roses, Metallica, Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and the teenage sensations at the time, the New Kids On The Block, which people in the main stream like them fancied. Put all of them aside, I was hungry and looking for some saucy yet soothing sounds of Jazz music so I dragged myself to the Fair because I knew there were gonna be open-air Jazz performances by Jazz bands, either quartets or fusion, playing classical or modern Jazz, the solo saxophonist and guitarist, and Jazz singers. Best of all, they would took turns to perform round the clock for 4 days. Yes, you read it right, the performances and concerts were non-stop for 4 days.
I booked one of those small tents that were erected along side of the streets and empty spaces around Riverfront areas to provide shelters for the visitors, especially people from out of town. For those 4 days, many people including the weird 21-year old me were at the same social class as the homeless except maybe our clothes and the fact that we were homeless by choice. It was still summer so I didn't really mind being outdoor and sleeping on the grass and pavement as long as I was close enough to the stage to see the performances.
The stage was erected on the bank of the Mississippi River and the exhibition booths were lined up all the way to the historic site of Laclede’s Landing. I am not sure whether I am right but I think Laclede’s Landing was the place where Louis Laclede landed when he took the historic trip on the small plane named Spirit of St Louis from Paris, hence called Laclede’s Landing. A popular attraction in St. Louis and located just north of the Eads Bridge on the Mississippi Riverfront, the Landing is a multi-block collection of cobblestone streets and vintage brick-and-cast-iron warehouses dating from 1850 through 1900, now converted into shops, restaurants, and bars. It was the centre of crowds especially during weekends where St. Louisans come to chill out and have a beer or two after a grueling and painful week of hard work.
Needless to say, I was having the time of my life by myself. For 2 full days (except for a few minutes a day at home for showers and such), I was alone in the ocean of people, enjoying the performances while lying down and sleeping under the moon and stars of St. Louis’ skies. I didn’t know a single soul although there were times when I was involved in unofficial interviews by curious tenants of the neighboring tents. I still think that until today, I was at the peak of my happiness that day. I didn’t feel any pressure from anyone. No one can tell me what to do and I felt that at that very moment, I didn’t need anyone, not my family, not my friends, not the government and not my country. I felt that I could live there forever, even under a tent. Even if I would be the loneliest guy alive, I wouldn’t mind. And, at that point in time, I pledged to myself that I would call St. Louis my home and spend the rest of my living life there. I was ready to pledge allegiance to the US of A, "the land of the free and the home of the braves". I decided that if I ever go back to Malaysia, it would be only to visit my family.
The third day came as a surprise and drastically changed the whole experience. Maybe God decided that I was not meant to be alone although He was kind enough to let me have the feel of it for 2 whole days. I was walking around the Landing when I met a college friend, Christobal or Chris as he was fondly known.
I first met Chris when he was in the same class with me in Fall’88 semester. He was a Graduate student but he had to take the undergraduate class to comply with the university’s elective requirement. Oh yeah, it was Latin American Economics, the class that brought us closer to Latin American countries and their economy. Being a Hispanic, Chris was often mistaken as an Asian as he looked like a typical Malay with tan skin and stood only 5 ft 5 inches tall.
We hang out a lot, especially after class either to discuss on our assignments or studied for other classes. And, often, our meeting place was at our unofficial HQ, a smoking room on 5th Floor of the University Library. The quorum wouldn’t be complete without 5 other foreign students : Ali Kareem, a 30-something Somalian graduate student who always introduced himself as "I am Ali Kareem: Ali as in Mohamad Ali, the boxer and Kareem as in Kareem Abdul Jabbars, the basketball player" who smoke the not-so-famous, yellow-box Merit; a Spanish guy named Carlos who was a part-time model and dated a Black girl; another Spanish guy who stayed across the hall from Carlos’s apartment whom I forgot his name; and 2 Japanese guys whom I totally forgot until today and ofcourse, I didn’t remember their names. And together, we were 7 wonders of the world, sharing the space in the smokey room on 5th Floor where not many others would dare to enter. From our small chats, I learned a little bit of their backgrounds, enough for me to know them personally to call them on first name basis.
For the next 2 days at the VP Fair, I spent enough quality time to get to know Chris even closer. We talked and talked while listening to the music from the stage. We shared about our countries and what was special about it, the people, the culture, and the life we had when we were growing up. I was cracking jokes on my parts but I realized that he talked in a different tone when he started talking about himself.
I almost jumped when he said, “I am actually a Cuban.”
“What do you mean? I thought you are an American, I mean I knew you are a Cuban-American but I thought you were born here?”
“Yes, I am, technically, American. On paper, I am an American citizen but I wasn’t born here.” he paused for 5 second breather before continued, “I came to America when I was 10 years old. I was put on a boat ride from Havana and after a few rough days, she landed in Miami (Florida). Practically, my whole family were there on the boat including my parents, my grandparents, my uncles and aunties and cousins. The whole enchiladas.”
“Even at that tender age, I knew and understood why my father brought our family here. I knew he was concerned about our lives and our future. You know, to live in Cuba under Fidel Castro’s Communist regime was terrible. Life was really tough. There were days when we had no food to eat. And all of us sat around the table and stared at each other and then my mom started crying and we all cried together.”, he told me with teary eyes before continued with his childhood stories when they started building back their lives in Miami, all from scratch and how he ended up travelling half way across the continent to St. Louis to follow his dreams.
“Hope brought us here and hope will bring us back there. All these years, I can’t help it but hope that the situation in my country would be better. I am still waiting for that day. The day that I will rewind my life journey and find myself in Cuba again. I am still hoping that one day I’ll go back to Cuba and help them rebuild the nation”, he continued.
“I love Cuba, with all my heart. I would remain a Cuban, wherever I am.”
On 4th of July that year, I learned about love and loyalty, and the words from Chris that day stuck to my mind until today like they were hard-coded into my brain. All those words came into play in November 1990 when I woke up one day and decided to come home, only after almost 1 year after my graduation.
I’ve never heard from Chris again after I left St Louis in April 1990. I ‘d never know if he’s still in the US or Cuba, but I know that his heart is big enough to have all of Cuba in it. And until today, I celebrated every 4th of July with pride and joy, that I’m home, now surrounded by my family and friends in my own country. Deep in my heart, I know that things are not perfect here but I’m happy because I know that my freedom is here, at home.
Chris, muchos gracias, amigo!
Chazz
1 comment:
Good stuff uncle. I also have "A Day To Remember" entry in my blog but it's totally crappy stuff. Haha.
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