Piraton

All the Peisas call me Piraton. so I hear.

"Do you know why they call you Piraton?" S. R. is a Mexican immigrant who is in prison for dealing coke. Everyone calls him Chilango - sometimes I call him Chimi-Chango; in a friendly way, not a condescending racist way. But he is always asking me if I know why I am called Piraton.

And I usually say, "You're the only one who calls me that." He used to call me Bin Laden; everyone here thinks I have some middle eastern ancestry, but really it's my English side - I have in my blood the sort of Englishman who can grow a really mean beard. I suppose my Arabic tattoos throw people off (never mind my Latin ones, French ones, English ones, Japanese ones, German ones, et. al.) - anyway I shortened my beard and now I'm Piraton.

We talk often, but there is somewhat of a communication barrier because our first languages are different. Peisa is short for Peisano. It is a term Mexican natives use here to distinguish themselves from Chicanos (States-born Hispanics). There are cultural distinctions between these groups and sometimes breakdowns in mutual understanding occur. I suppose superficial similarities make it easier for projections to happen, and disappointments, when the projections are revealed to be false.

"No," he says. "All the Peisas, they call you Piraton. Do you know why?"

And I really don't. Piraton, I think, means pirate. When I asked him what it meant, he covered his right eye and grimaced - which seemed a reasonable imitation of a pirate to me.

We have variants on this conversation every week or so.

"Hey Piraton!" I'm microwaving some instant coffee in a common-area when I catch Chilango's eyes as they narrow in contempt and he mutters "Pinche Piraton." But he can never keep a straight face. He laughs as I tilt my head back, widen my eyes, and stare as if looking through him. I take my cup, saunter up to him, and set it on his bald head, which is about 2 feet shorter than mine. (My cut is actually a popular attraction - it's one of the Salvation Army cups they hand out every year [which, honestly, isn't doing anyone any good; why the hell are they doing that?]. Using a toothbrush, I buffed off the Salvation Army logo and in it's place carved PUNCH CHRIST FOR JESUS with a pin, using shoe polish to fill in the cracks. On the other side I carved in an image of Jesus [which bears a strange resemblance to myself] being punched in the face; for the illiterate, I suppose. It is a confusing cup. It is a confused cup.)

I tell him to go minche his Padre, exaggerating my accent, and it's so stupid he can't help but laugh. He imitates me. Tew - Ma - Dray. He starts up again, "you know why they call you Piraton?"

I roll my eyes. "No."

"Because you're crazy, vato loco." He also calls me that.

And I thought it was because I'm a tattooed, tri-lingual international. I've been called Ach-Ul-Arrab by Savehs and Marrocans, Bin Yom (son of Day) by Muslims, and a "brother-from-another-mother." It is interesting to speak about my spiritual delusions with the Buddhists, the mystics, the occultists, etc. Who, ironically, are more Christlike than the Christians here.

I pick up my cup, take a sip, and replace it on his head. It would seem that much of my behavior mocks the "seriousness" of prison, but I feel it brings some much needed joy here.

"Pinche Piraton." He says, laughing. "Why are you so crazy?!"