During my, in the grand scheme of things, very short tenure on this big blue ball, I have for one reason or another, been drawn to persons, to whom, and against the advice of almost everyone, decided to abandon the path of least resistance, and forge a journey into an almost always, uncharted landscape. Quite possibly not because they believed it would further their pursuits into the fields of expertise they had chosen , but more often than not, would become a hindrance, and burden, that had they known how obstructive the cross they had chose to bear would become, may quite probably have given up, and almost assuredly thrown in the metaphorical towel. An unanswerable question in so much as hindsight was often a luxury, historical legends, had neither the time or inclination to entertain as a discretionary practice. Forays into the unknown, and dangerous, hinterland of yet unseen consequences, are often the occupation of either fools, or the fanatically terrified. Many war heroes when pressed on this subject, will almost always defer to the latter part of that description to explain a great deal of their legendary heroic feats.
Two of the people I admire more so than any other persons, either living or dead, have been at times, fraught with controversy. They are in fact my personal heroes, not because of their steadfast pursuit of perfection, but more accurately, it was their courage to persevere in spite of their own human inadequacies.
Muhammad Ali is still with us today, and continues to inspire me on an almost daily basis.
Courage is synonymous with Ali and I believe his picture should replace the Websters definition of that word. A photo of Ali is all that would be necessary, as it would be hard to argue that there is a more recognizable individual on the planet than Muhammad Ali.
I am realistically aware, that there is, without any fear of contradiction, many others whom have suffered at the hands of despots, and tyrants, from the global perspective, and on all too many occasions, and throughout the history of our at times bloody propensities, have truly been put to the test. But when the rubber hits the road, and from a willingness to adhere to ones own convictions, Ali truly is "THE GREATEST".
Ali is, in my most humble opinion, and from a, I really wasn't there, but that won't stop me from opining perspective, did more for the advancement of minorities, and the underprivileged, than any person, before or since. I believe he accomplished this, not by taking an either or, militant tone, or a passive resistance approach to injustices, but by standing up to the forces that for reasons we can only speculate upon,( fear and prejudice come to mind), to us would have seemed at worst, an extremely hostile, and insurmountable task, and at best, nothing more than an exercise in futility.
Ali simply let us know, and in no uncertain terms, that there was nothing wrong with any of us, that justice and a conviction of character, mean something, and that we were in fact, all deserving of the same rights and freedoms that the privileged enjoyed. Ali sums this up better than I could ever do justice to when he was quoted as saying:
"I CAN'T BE WHAT THEY WANT ME TO BE,
AND I'M FREE TO BE WHO I WANT TO BE".
Wherever you are on the pro fighter, turned political icon fence, whatever you feel about Ali's importance in the annuls of history, or if you agree or not with his, at times over the top diatribe, you cannot deny that he made difficult choices, and he lived by the consequences of those decisions. Ali quite simply, and to use the vernacular of our times," walked the walk".
As of late, and via an attempt to understand, and hopefully blend more into my soon to be adopted home in Mexico, I have taken to the history books, and discovered an extremely complicated, rich in folklore, and often at times downright incredible morass of textured historical events that often border on the macabre. Mexico is not lacking in chaotic adventures, tragical catastrophes, or in flamboyant characters that participated in the overall insanity, that more often than not, was not part of any original idea or plan. Stuff just happens, and manana is another day. I find this part of the Mexican psyche, endearing , and very often, extremely comical. To quote an amigo of mine, whose occupation is making jewelery on the beach, and who periodically likes to let me know ....... "MEXICO IS VERY SURREAL".It was during these forays into the history books that I discovered another monumental character of such importance to Mexican culture that I find it heartbreaking that his country of birth, misunderstood his prose, and often felt it necessary to remind him that perhaps his skills as an artist, and talents as a writer, may well be better served under the protective wing of his neighbors to the north. These recommendations were forthcoming solely with the considerations of the said deportee's general health, and well being at the forefront of their agendas I'm sure.
Perhaps a sojourn into the Land of the Free may be just what the the doctor, and in this case, despot, should order to ensure the aforementioned deportee, a more prolonged visit on our little planet, and garner an opportunity to remain among the, still vertical and breathing oxygen crowd. And in keeping with the interest of the greater republic, be beneficial to all concerned.
So it is in fact possible to derail an individuals life, and career with all the tact and decorum of a runaway train, and send them scurrying off to places unknown, and still get a good nights sleep. Tyrants rarely suffer from insomnia.
JOSE CLEMENTE OROZCO was as abstinent an individual as ever to make his journey in and around the Sierra Madre's of his birthplace, in the real estate we now know as Mexico.
As with his opponents, tact and decorum were not Orozco's forte either, and would later prove to be a thorn in the side of many an ambitious political.
While studying as an architect, Orozco lost his hand in accident. With his knowledge of design, and engineering, he switched his studies to art. Orozco would soon become one Mexico's pioneer muralists, and would one day mentor the now infamous Diego Rivera.
Twice in the almost yearly upheavals in the political landscape of the time, Orozco had to flee his homeland and take refuge in cities like New York and Los Angeles, where his genius as an artist was not lost on bureaucratic malfeasance.
His unapologetic,and realistic depictions of life in and around Mexico City were often more than the puritanical collaborators of chaos could tolerate. His murals of brothels were the bane of the societal muckedy mucks, and were regularly ordered destroyed.
On one occasion, and while in exile, any and all murals on and in government buildings were ordered to be whitewashed.
It was only luck and fate that preserved these masterpieces for then as well as now. Only when the government at the time decreed this atrocity against art and culture, in what can only be described as an assassination of spirit, did the gods of justice and passion intervene.
As it turns out that while the government conscripted contractors were mixing up their paint, and putting on their coveralls, there was at the time a group of foreign art dignitaries in the capitol. The audible collective gasp of the artisan elite, could quite possibly be heard as far away as Monterrey. It was certainly not lost on the high society lords, and ladies of the time, desperately trying to vie for recognition, and the much needed cash it would require from offshore accounts to keep the rapidly growing, ever militant masses in line.
During the revolution years in and around 1910, a more hospitable, albeit just as bloodthirsty, Mexican milestone was taking place.
Tierra E Libertad was all the rage , and the up and coming recipients of the new era wanted it documented. Enter one Jose Clemente Orozco with a fresh hostility to the old regime and an acerbic tongue to lead the fray and keep the folks at home apprised of all the triumphs of one Poncho Villa. Orozco got the gig as perhaps one of the first war correspondents of the time.
But the love affair would not last long . Orozco did what he had always done as an artist and writer. To use the baseball idiom...." He called em the way he saw em".
At times Orozco was so critical of Villas exploits that he sometimes feared for his own life. He would at times refer to Villas assaults on the the villages he rode into as not much more than an adolescent foray into the unassuming public populace, who quite often did not know what all the fuss was about. A debaucherous escapade with little plan and even smaller purpose.
Mexico finally had enough. They were aware that certain indiscretions had occurred, but this was after all the liberator. The man with the big white horse and the giant hat. This was the man who had successfully invaded the giant to the north.
Mexicans are for the most part deeply romantic, an attribute of innocence I hope they never lose, and heroes in their history are few and far between. Poncho Villa stands tall among them.
Orozco crossed the line. He was buried in Mexico with only a few of his most loyal artist friends and his direct family. Diego Rivera among them. No one from the government of any political persuasion dare attend. But he left his mark and we are all better for having had his presence here. He deeply loved his country, as much as all Mexican people do, and even when he was critical of them, only wanted what he felt they deserved, and were entirely capable of.
With all it's inherent problems, and seemingly insurmountable hurdles, and as I have recently found out through my Mexican partner to whom, when I become a little too critical of her country to suit her, and with hands on her hips, and a gentle stomp of her foot, always reminds me.
"ESTOY MEXICANA
TO BE MEXICAN IS TO BE FREE"
"WHY MUST WE BE ETERNALLY ON OUR KNEES
BEFORE THE KANTS AND HUGOS
ALL PRAISE TO THE MASTERS INDEED
BUT WE TOO COULD WREST IRON
FROM THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH
AND FASHION IT INTO IT SHIPS AND MACHINES
WE TOO COULD RAISE PRODIGIOUS CITIES
AND CREATE NATIONS AND EXPLORE THE UNIVERSE
WAS IT NOT FROM A MIXTURE OF RACES
THAT THE TITANS SPRANG"
JOSE CLEMENTE OROZCO
