03/05/04
Nuyorican Poet Pedro Pietri
1944-2004

Nuyorican Poet Pedro Pietri 1944-2004
(from Democracy Now, March 5, 2004)
http://www.democracynow.org/
article.pl?sid=04/03/05/1543212

Pedro Pietri died on Wednesday at the age of 59. We hear him reading his work in 1968 and Democracy Now co-host Juan Gonzalez reads Pietri's epic poem "Puerto Rican Obituary."

The famed Nuyorican poet Pedro Pietri died Wednesday at the age of 59. He was born in Ponce Puerto Rico and his family moved to Harlem in the 1940s. He would go to become of the city's best known poets capturing what it was like for Puerto Ricans to live in New York. In the 1970s he helped start the legendary Nuyorican Poets Café on the Lower East Side. He published more than 20 books of poetry and plays. His best known work was the epic poem "Puerto Rican Obituary."

Pedro Pietri
Puerto Rican Obituary

They worked
They were always on time
They were never late
They never spoke back
when they were insulted
They worked
They never took days off
that were not on the calendar
They never went on strike
without permission
They worked
ten days a week
and were only paid for five
They worked
They worked
They worked
and they died
They died broke
They died owing
They died never knowing
what the front entrance
of the first national city bank looks like

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
passing their bill collectors
on to the next of kin
All died
waiting for the garden of eden
to open up again
under a new management
All died
dreaming about america
waking them up in the middle of the night
screaming: Mira Mira
your name is on the winning lottery ticket
for one hundred thousand dollars
All died
hating the grocery stores
that sold them make-believe steak
and bullet-proof rice and beans
All died waiting dreaming and hating

Dead Puerto Ricans
Who never knew they were Puerto Ricans
Who never took a coffee break
from the ten commandments
to KILL KILL KILL
the landlords of their cracked skulls
and communicate with their latino souls

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
From the nervous breakdown streets
where the mice live like millionaires
and the people do not live at all
are dead and were never alive

Juan
died waiting for his number to hit
Miguel
died waiting for the welfare check
to come and go and come again
Milagros
died waiting for her ten children
to grow up and work
so she could quit working
Olga
died waiting for a five dollar raise
Manuel
died waiting for his supervisor to drop dead
so he could get a promotion

Is a long ride
from Spanish Harlem
to long island cemetery
where they were buried
First the train
and then the bus
and the cold cuts for lunch
and the flowers
that will be stolen
when visiting hours are over
Is very expensive
Is very expensive
But they understand
Their parents understood
Is a long non-profit ride
from Spanish Harlem
to long~sland cemetery

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
Dreaming
Dreaming about queens
Clean-cut lily-white neighborhood
Puerto Ricanless scene
Thirty-thousand-dollar home
The first spics on the block
Proud to belong to a community
of gringos who want them lynched
Proud to be a long distance away
from the sacred phrase: Que Pasa

These dreams
These empty dreams
from the make-believe bedrooms
their parents left them
are the after-effects
of television programs
about the ideal
white american family
with black maids
and latino janitors
who are well train
to make everyone
and their bill collectors
laugh at them
and the people they represent

Juan
died dreaming about a new car
Miguel
died dreaming about new anti-poverty programs
Milagros
died dreaming about a trip to Puerto Rico
Olga died dreaming about real jewelry
Manuel
died dreaming about the irish sweepstakes

They all died
like a hero sandwich dies
in the garment district
at twelve o'clock in the afternoon
social security number to ashes
union dues to dust

They knew
they were born to weep
and keep the morticians employed
as long as they pledge allegiance
to the flag that wants them destroyed
They saw their names listed
in the telephone directory of destruction
They were train to turn
the other cheek by newspapers
that mispelled mispronounced
and misunderstood their names
and celebrated when death came
and stole their final laundry ticket

They were born dead
and they died dead

Is time
to visit sister lopez again
the number one healer
and fortune card dealer
in Spanish Harlem
She can communicate
with your late relatives
for a reasonable fee
Good news is guaranteed

Rise Table Rise Table
death is not dumb and disable
Those who love you want to know
the correct number to play
Let them know this right away
Rise Table Rise Table
death is not dumb and disable
Now that your problems are over
and the world is off your shoulders
help those who you left behind
find financial peace of mind

6
Rise Table Rise Table
death is not dumb and disable
If the right number we hit
all our problems will split
and we will visit your grave
on every legal holiday
Those who love you want to know
the correct number to play
Let them know this right away
We know your spirit is able
Death is not dumb and disable
RISE TABLE RISE TABLE

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
Hating fighting and stealing
broken windows from each other
Practicing a religion without a roof
The old testament
The new testament
according to the gospel
of the internal revenue
the judge and jury and executioner
protector and eternal bill collector

Secondhand shit for sale
Learn how to say Como Esta Usted
and you will make a fortune
They are dead
They are dead
and will not return from the dead
until they stop neglecting
the art of their dialogue
for broken english lessons
to impress the mister goldsteins
who keep them employed
as lavaplatos porters messenger boys
factory workers maids stock clerks
shipping clerks assistant mailroom
assistant, assisant assistant
to the assistant's assistant
assistant lavaplatos and automatic
artificial smiling doormen
for the lowest wages of the ages
and rages when you demand a raise
because is against the company policy
to promote SPICS SPICS SPICS

Juan
died hating Miguel because Miguel's
used car was in better running condition
than his used car
Miguel
died hating Milagros because Milagros
had a color television set
and he could not afford one yet
Milagros
died hating Olga because Olga
made five dollars more on the same job
Olga
died hating Manuel because Manuel
had hit the numbers more times
than she had hit the numbers
Manuel
died hating all of them
Juan
Miguel
Milagros
and Olga
because they all spoke broken english
more fluently than he did

And now they are together
in the main lobby of the void
Addicted to silence
Off limits to the wind
Confine to worm supremacy
in long island cemetery
This is the groovy hereafter
the protestant collection box
was talking so loud and proud about

Here lies Juan
Here lies Miguel
Here lies Milagros
Here lies Olga
Here lies Manuel
who died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
Always broke
Always owing
Never knowing
that they are beautiful people
Never knowing
the geography of their complexion

PUERTO RICO IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE
PUERTORRIQUENOS ARE A BEAUTIFUL RACE

If only they
had turned off the television
and tune into their own imaginations
If only they
had used the white supremacy bibles
for toilet paper purpose
and make their latino souls
the only religion of their race
If only they
had return to the definition of the sun
after the first mental snowstorm
on the summer of their senses
If only they
had kept their eyes open
at the funeral of their fellow employees
who came to this country to make a fortune
and were buried without underwears

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
will right now be doing their own thing
where beautiful people sing
and dance and work together
where the wind is a stranger
to miserable weather conditions
where you do not need a dictionary
to communicate with your people
Aqui Se Habla Espanol all the time
Aqui you salute your flag first
Aqui there are no dial soap commericals
Aqui everybody smells good
Aqui tv dinners do not have a future
Aqui the men and women admire desire
and never get tired of each other
Aqui Que Paso Power is what's happening
Aqui to be called negrito
means to be called LOVE

Puerto Rican Obituary, Pedro Pietri,
Monthy Review Press, N. Y., London, 1973, pp. 1 - 11

March 4, 2004
Pedro Pietri left this planet Wednesday, as he was returning home from a clinic in Mexico. Here he is in his own words, first in a recent interview, then as the great poet he was. If you never had the great fortune of seeing him read or perform in person, you missed a force of nature, a human comet who blazed a brilliant trail through the heaven and hell of the Lower East Side and beyond to wherever his exuberant spirit now dwells. He inspired us and set our hearts afire, and the legacy of his work will keep the flame burning.

Carol

February 6, 2004
There Was Never No Tomorrow,
Nuyorican Pedro Pietri In His Own Words
a storytelling edited by Raymond R. Beltr‡n

I have to admit that when I received a chain letter from the Nuyorican Poets Café, I hadn't the faintest clue who Pedro Pietri was. I hadn't read the book Puerto Rican Obituaries, or any other world-renowned plays or poems he's written, The Masses Are Asses, Traffic Violations, or Invisible Poetry. Although, the Nuyorican culture he helped to create is a name that stands firm in the ground of poetic minds across the world.

The letter said that this man, Pedro, is struggling with a tumor in his stomach, one side effect related to the exposure to Agent Orange, while serving time as a draftee in the U.S. Army during the climax of the Vietnam War. The letter read that after surviving exploratory surgery at Bronx-Lebanon Hospital Center last month in New York, Pedro sought out holistic healing at Oasis of Hope Hospital in Playas de Tijuana, México, no more than thirty minutes from my neighborhood in National City.

Nuyorican Poet, El Reverendo Pedro Pietri, tells his story from Oasis of Hope Hospital in Playas de Tijuana, MŽxico.

In hitching a ride across the border with Calaca Press to visit Pedro in hopes of raising his spirits and interviewing him for a story, I came across a man whose experience and whose story helped to create a Nuyorican culture, not far from the Chicano experience in the past and in the present. In fact, they parallel. To ask questions and to receive answers was not a problem. The problem was writing his story in a way that you, the reader, would understand him. In wrestling with words, I've come to the conclusion that only Pedro, El Reverendo de La Iglesia de Tomates; Pedro, product of Operation Boot Strap; Pedro, Nuyorican Poet; Pedro, Spanglish Metaphor Consultant of the Latin Insomniacs Motorcycle Club Without Motorcycles; Pedro, Young Lords Poet-Laureate; Pedro, honorary member of the Royal Chicano Air Force; Pedro, a person who won't let anyone determine his fate, and only Pedro, has the right to tell his story. In conclusion, the following is only an attempt at that story, through an interview from Oasis Hospital, and only after a careful editing process. Meet one of the original Nuyorican Poets, Pedro Pietri, in his own words...

It was in New York City where I was trying to cure myself, thinking I was a physician, and suddenly, I couldn t hold food. So, I asked my brother and sister to take me to the hospital, and it was at Bronx-Lebanon Hospital Center where the bad news happened. They did a CAT scan, then they did exploratory surgery, and they found the cancer. That's when they cut me up and got scared, sewed me up and sent me home, so I could waste away.

So, I come out of recovery, and this jerk came into my room with crushed pieces of paper, and one of those crushed pieces of paper was my medical record. They told me, What you have is incurable.

I told them, What you have is incurable. They were making it real hopeless, you know? And that isn't the approach. It's by being positive. That can heal. They made it like life was over, so, I called Papoleto to the Intensive Care Unit, because I refused to stay there. Papo came with the suitcases and everything. I don't know how much time they gave me to live, but I gave them the same time to live also. At least that way, I can rest in peace. That was the beginning of the end, and the saddest time in my life.

To take you back, I was born in 1898, during the climax of the Spanish/American War. I say 1898 because that was the year that the U.S. invaded Puerto Rico, the year when they colonized us. Now, I was born again in 44 to my mother in Ponce, Puerto Rico and again in 47, at the age of three, when my folks migrated to New York City through the epic of Operation Boot Strap. We're all part of the casualties of the Inquisition, the American Inquisition.

I also say I was born in 1949, because that's the day I went to the first theatre with my grandfather, who felt deceived by Operation Boot Strap and committed hara-kiri, but I don't think it was suicide. He was killed by the system that deceived him, the system that made him sell his land in Borinquen. What happened was the disillusion. The voices in his head were of the Central Intelligence, compelling him to sever his jugular vein. Think about his friends. There's nobody to talk to, nobody to communicate with, and there's nothing to go back to, but the industrialization of the island that had deceived so many people. So, that was the first theatre I went to, at Monje's Funeral Parlor, in a brown suit. Actually, that was my first teaching, or my first awareness of Puerto Rican history. Puerto Ricans die and go to a Puerto Rican funeral parlor. And Monje was a ghoul; he looked like a ghoul. How you going to have the name Monje, and be a proprietor of a funeral parlor? You 'l scare the customers away, but he didn't scare us away.

There were five of us, four guys and one girl. My elder brother had a heart attack, and my younger brother went joyriding one night, and I haven t seen him since. So, there s a total tragedy, because then there were only three of us. So then, we went back to Monje, and we kept going back to Monje for other people. Every week there was a different funeral, and after a while, I said, Let me just stay dressing in black.

Now, when we came to New York City, they sent us to public schools, introducing us to the Nuyorican culture. I graduated with a general diploma, thinking I was going to become a General in the army, ended up as a private. I failed the post office exam thirteen times after high school, and after failing all these examinations, the last thing I was going to do was make a career out of earning minimum wages. Come to the land of milk and honey, they say, but they didn't mention the endless dog sh-- you keep steppin on, going to the welfare department, going to look for a job. You step into reality; you step in dog sh--. You step into church; you step in dog sh--, especially.

Now, before I was drafted to the army, they said I was incapable of adjusting to military discipline, and I celebrated it. Then the Vietnam War escalated, and they said, You're okay! There s nothing wrong with you! You re not crazy! So, they send the freaks to the front, and that's why my prize is the fondest memories of that country, and being an accomplice to assisting America in losing it s first war ever. Because it was then I realized who the real enemy was. I was just a mercenary. So, I came back and wrote the Puerto Rican Obituary, dedicated to my mother, and that's the Vietnam that I wrote about go kick the ass of people who were born warriors; kill women and children first, but only after you rape them. That made no sense. So, what do I think about the war in Iraq? I don't think about it, because the war never ended then. This is a war that s been going on since the invasion of North America.

So, I return to New York, and there was all these radical changes going on at home with the Young Lords Party. Now, I wrote poetry before I met the Young Lords, or the Black Panther Party. Back then, I was the best poet at baptisms, funerals, birthdays, confirmations; you name it, I was there. And it was all by memory back then, in the old tradition. I met Jorge Brandon at Washington Square Park, who years later reappeared as the Saint of the Nuyorican Poetry Movement. It was his influence that made me decide whether it was poetry or suicide. We met again on Sixth Street at Miguel Algarín's apartment, with Papoleto Melendez, Tato Laviera, Américo Casiano, Lucky Cienfuegos, the notorious Miguel Piñero, and we used to read our poems there, our first draft poems. That is the original Nuyorican Poets Café, on Sixth Street, and that's where I come to the conclusion that the Nuyorican Movement is the First Draft Movement, because we were all very enthusiastic about reading the first draft, something that s rarely done now.

First draft is you scribbling it on a notebook, or a paper, or a napkin and you read it there. And if you make mistakes, man, it makes the poem much more interesting and exciting, and that's when history started being made. At the time, it was the decline of the Beat Generation, and poetry went back to the universities and became an academic thing, but here come these street poets, man, and we pushed academia out of the way and took over the scene. What this movement did was give an audience to all of our talented, the kind of poets that didn t have an audience. Allen Ginsberg, Bob Dylan and the ghost of Pablo Neruda even read at the Café. We were all there because of the poetry, and it was all poetry.

The Nuyorican Movement set an alliance with the Royal Chicano Air Force, and we became honorary members, because the Chicano and the Nuyorican Movements are the same. We all suffer the same destiny and the same experience. We ve both had our land stolen from us, our culture stolen from us. Once you have a movement, you have all these other people who want to also make history, and they start their own movements. We just needed a cultural outlet. Spanglish is not an indication of an inferior mind, but it is an indication of an imagination that should be completely fertile. You got to be brilliant, not dumb! Everybody had a different outlook, and that was good. We weren t competing against each other. We were just sharing the interpretation of what this cultural dynamic should define. We were making history and didn t know it at the time, and sometimes we should've known it. But now? Everybody knows about the Nuyorican Poets Café. I went to California, San Francisco, Chicago and everywhere I ve been, the Nuyorican experience is still spoken about and highly praised. So, that is what this movement is about. And thirty-five years later, to let you know, it was and still is a phenomenon.

We're still together writing poetry. We re still not trying to impress anybody, and too, you have new generations of poetry. You have the Welfare Poets and Mariposa Fernandez. There's people that come up to us and say, You invented us. So, where s the movement now? It's where it began. It s flourishing, and that's futuristic.

They gave me a life sentence at Bronx-Lebanon. They sentenced me to my death, and the sad thing about it is that there are many patients there that don't have any options. You get a month to live in and that s it, they close the pieces and then they start radiating you, and the radiation could kill you quicker. I told the guy, You know, you should get some radiation yourself, cause you don't look too good to me. I told him, You get some radiation and if it works, then I might do it. So, they released me from the hospital and sent me home to die. But I refuse to die, because my destiny is a decision that only I can be solely responsible for making, and that was it. That was the first and last time I went there.

I want to get better. I am getting better, but not by following orders. I have to do my own thing. So, Papo found a place out here that's nice. It's private, they speak my language, and it's legal to smoke whatever treatments you need to get the message across to that part of your spirit that conveys you to that territory of your soul, and in no time, you will be outta here. There's no end to the phenomenon, The First Draft Nuyorican Poetry Movement.
-El Reverendo Pedro Pietri,
Feb. 3, 2004

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