March 6: Odds Would Change, Arm Wrestling, Big Recognition

Santiago remembers a moment of victory in his life . . . 

As the sun set he remembered, to give himself more confidence, the time in the tavern at Casablanca when he had played the hand game with the great negro from Cienfuegos who was the strongest man on the docks. They had gone one day and one night with their elbows on a chalk line on the table and their forearms straight up and their hands gripped tight. Each one was trying to force the other's hand down onto the table. There was much betting and people went in and out of the room under the kerosene lights and he had looked at the arm and hand of the negro and at the negro's face. They changed the referees every four hours after the first eight so that the referees could sleep. Blood came out from under the fingernails of both his and the negro's hands and they looked each other in the eye and at their hands and forearms and the bettors went in and out of the room and sat on high chairs against the wall and watched. The walls were painted bright blue and were of wood and the lamps threw their shadows against them. The negro's shadow was huge and it moved on the wall as the breeze moved the lamps.

The odds would change back and forth all night and they fed the negro rum and lighted cigarettes for him. Then the negro, after the rum, would try for a tremendous effort and once he had the old man, who was not an old man then but was Santiago El Campeon, nearly three inches off balance. But the old man had raised his hand up to dead even again. He was sure then that he had the negro, who was a fine man and a great athlete, beaten. And at daylight when the bettors were asking that it be called a draw and the referee was shaking his head, he had unleashed his effort and forced the hand of the negro down and down until it rested on the wood. The match had started on a Sunday morning and ended on a Monday morning. Many of the bettors had asked for a draw because they had to go to work on the docks loading sacks of sugar or at the Havana Coal Company. Otherwise everyone would have wanted it to go to a finish. But he had finished it anyway and before anyone had to go to work.

It has been a slow, arm wrestling kind of a day.  Trying to get thigs done.  Getting tired.  Taking a break.  Starting again.  Trying to force the day's hand down to the table.  

I ended the day leading a poetry workshop with some wonderful writers.  All good friends.  I am tired, and I'm not sure if I have won the wrestling match.  At the moment, I'm sitting on my couch, watching a documentary about Toni Morrison.  It's the second time I've watched it in the same number of days.  Morrison spent her life arm wrestling with writing and racism and misogyny. 

Earlier this evening, I learned that my sister-in-law in in the running for a $25,000 prize for her art and crafting.  Amazing.  Well-deserved.  She has been working toward art degree for several years.  Full-time job.  Full-time student.  And now, in the running for a really big recognition.  Lots of arm wrestling.

Once Saint Marty finishes typing this post, he's done arm wrestling and ready for bed. 

Voting for my sister-in-law:

Vote for Cindi Carlson