A few months ago I dropped out of medical residency. It was not a well though out plan, more so a chronic bubbling of uneasiness that was waiting to spill over at any given moment. The moment came like a lightning bolt. As I was walking into the hospital at 4am I stopped dead in my tracks, paralyzed as the automatic doors opened for me. I turned back around, walked the block several times trying to talk myself into going into the hospital. “It’s just another day at work.”

I came up to the door again, stopped, and stared…

Turned back around, got in my car, and drove back home in a daze.

I called the residency director and told him I quit. My life changed completely from one day to the next. I had no direct recourse of action so needless to say this was just as anxiety provoking as it was liberating.

While figuring out exactly what I was going to do next, I knew I had to engage in an activity that would keep me sane throughout this process. So, I did what I have always done when life gets hard. I laced up my old ragged pair of black Asics and hit the pavement everyday. I never knew where I was going nor how far it would be, and I did not care. I simply ran till my legs trembled.

One day I end up running by the ocean boardwalk. In the distance I hear a pair of drums rattling away. It was like a signal calling me from a distance. As I got closer it got louder until I could see it’s source. A man sitting on a bench, enraptured with a pair of bongos.

His hands, arms, and shoulders moved fluidly, precisely, and rapidly while his body gently swayed with the rhythm. His eyes were closed as he spoke with the ocean. She responded, crashing her waves into the rocks on shore, celebrating each emphatic strike of the animal skins that resounded over her liquid surface. His eyes were closed but he was fully aware.

My cadence slowed, the sun beamed on me, sweat trickled down my back as I studied this figure before me. He was an older gentleman with a full head of white hair neatly combed back. A full white goatee with a posture that radiated strength. I stopped, not daring to interrupt this séance. I sat on the floor in front of him and watched. He continued rattling away.

The ocean then calmed her waters as he gently decreased his tempo, softened his strikes, and eventually came to a close. He opened his eyes and immediately met mine, piercing directly into my soul, speaking without words, “what do ye seek?”

I wasn’t sure what to say but knew I had to say something. Words blurted out of my mouth, “My father passed away when I was young, he was a salsa player and taught me to play the drums, but I haven’t touched them since he died.” His gaze softened and he motioned me forth. I got up off the floor and stood before him.

With a thick Brooklyn-Italian accent he asks, “Have you ever played The Bongos before?”

“Never” I respond.

He motioned me to sit next to him. I took a seat. He demonstrated how to position The Bongos properly between my legs “place the metal pegs right behind your knees like this.” Taught me the proper manner in which to strike them, and then demonstrated a simple pattern for me to follow.

I did as he instructed, insecure as other people walked by and stared. I looked straight ahead but I could feel him next to me, observing me very, very closely. Nonetheless I continued, loosened up, and then found my groove.

He then tells me, “You know what? I think you got something kid.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Do you really want to learn to play The Bongos?”

“I do.”

“You serious?”

“I am.”

“Meet me here next week at 11am.”

“I’ll be here.”

Next week comes and I excitedly run down the boardwalk towards the bench I found him at last time. I left my house early so I could get there early to show him I was serious. He was already sitting on the bench waiting for me.

“How you doin’ Marcos, it’s nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too sir.”

There was an extra pair of Bongos on the bench sitting next to him, “Go ahead and get comfortable with those,” he says.

I set myself up. He puts an old school Latin record on his Bluetooth speaker and we start playing together. I felt like I was cramping his style with my clumsy attempts to fill in, so I just stuck to a very simple beat that was hard to mess up. Clumsy fills or not, he continued unperturbed.

After warming up with a few songs, we then got into the lesson:

“Sit up straight, don’t slouch. The Bongos are a masculine instrument, you need to assert yourself with dominance.”

“The Bongos are the Spirit of the band and you as the Bongocero can make or break the song depending on where your head is at, don’t get into arguments with anybody before you play.”

“Don’t play the skins with a weak hand, hit it, hit it with intention, show that you are sure of what you are doing.”

“This side is the Macho and this is the Hembra, the Masculine and the Feminine, The Bongo brings them together to create the Universe.”

“This is the Spaniard and this is the African, The Bongo is the expression of the Mulatto.”

He taught me the basic Martillo, “this is the horse trotting, can you hear it? Every once in a while the horse does a little trick.” [Rapid fire.]

I hung to every word he said and quickly realized this was more than just a drum lesson. It was a lesson on Life. I was in the presence of a true elder who was imparting to me the blessing of his time, wisdom, and attention.

At the end of the lesson, he puts The Bongos in a case and hands them over to me, “these are yours.” I didn’t expect that, he asked nothing from me except my dedication. Now I had to get good, there was no excuse. “Practice for at least 30 minutes a day, you think you can do that?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Good. You did good today. If you keep practicing you’re going to be amazing, keep at it.”

I went home and started practicing immediately. Watching all the videos he shared with me, playing to all the songs he gave me, drilling all the techniques he showed me, over and over again.

Over the next several months we continued with our lessons. He eventually invited me to his home and showed me his collection of instruments. He had congas, bells, guiros, cajons, and claves to spare. We would sit in his small apartment drinking Bustello, cracking jokes, telling stories and smacking drums, driving his neighbors mad. I invited him to my home, introduced him to my family and friends.

There were many times when he would speak and I would have to sit and listen attentively. He would impart on me codes of ethics, on how to be a man. Not the cheesy, watered-down, codes of ethics we hear from mainstream society. No, he would share codes that spoke to a deep part of my soul, old school codes. Codes that have been passed down from great grandfathers since time immemorial. Codes that have since been lost to carelessness, weakness, and lack of honor. He would pull an embroidered white cloth out of his left back pocket “This handkerchief is for your lady.” Then pull a red bandana from his right pocket, “this one is for your enemies.” I understood.

I began to change the way I saw myself, my role as a father and a husband, the standards for myself and those around me grew. I thought I knew what it meant to be a man, but he showed me there was so much more for me to learn.

This train of thought eventually led me to realize that I had to cut off all my addictions. I had been struggling with cannabis, tobacco, and alcohol since my teenage years. I had managed to get their usage down to an all time low, convincing myself that it was okay as long as I kept it “in moderation.” I was lying to myself, and I knew it. I had enough. I wanted to reach the next stage in my life and be a better man for myself and my family. I was sick of it, so I quit everything cold-turkey.

For anyone that has gone through this process, you are familiar with the sleepless nights and uncomfortable emotions that arise to the surface. Emotions that you have not faced in years. I was struggling on one of those sleepless nights trying to make sense of my life. It was 3 am and I was tired of staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning, perseverating on negative thoughts, so I decided to just get up and do something. I got in the car with my Bongos in the passenger seat and drove down to the boardwalk.

I got out of my car, walked down the boardwalk and sat on the bench we met on. I got the urge to call him, but hesitated, thinking I didn’t want to bother him. I wasn’t even sure of what I wanted to say to him, so I decided to just invite him to come play drums with me. He was a sporadic sleeper so I knew there was a good chance he would be awake.

I called. He picked up the phone, “Hey Marcos, what’s goin’ on.”

We talked for a bit, catching up, and then he intentionally asked, “Marcos, how are you?”

I paused for a second, then responded “I’m alright.”

He was silent, then said, “I know that when a man says he’s alright, he is not okay.”

He got me…I started venting…He listened…

I told him about my tumultuous relationship with my stepson. Explained that I have two of my own kids that I am struggling to support financially, wrecked my health with poor habits for more than a decade, anxiety is getting the best of me, and I’m trying to figure out what to do with my life at the age of 31, I should have it figured out by now. I told him that I couldn’t be mad at anyone for any of it, that it was all my fault, I should have known better, I did know better, I just didn’t listen to my instincts, I just always gave way to instant gratification, or other peoples wishes, why was I so stupid, why was I…

He interrupted me right in the middle of my emotional crescendo:

“No Marcos. Don’t put that all on yourself, you didn’t have guidance.

A lot of us didn’t have guidance growing up as Latin Men.

What’s the first thing you told me when you met me? That you didn’t have a father.

I will never forget that.

Well, we’re here now,

and I’m here to be what your father would have been for you.

Us men, we need to do that for each other.”

Tears began rolling down my face.

“Go home and comb your hair.

Put on nice clothes.

Remember I always tell you Marcos,

appearance is important.

Be militant.

The private doesn’t do what the sergeant does.

The sergeant doesn’t do what the general does.

The drill instructor wakes up before everyone else to wake them up.

Be the drill instructor.”

“Thank you.” I whispered.

I went home and did exactly as he said.

I spent the rest of the early day thinking about my father. The lack of guidance that he had which contributed to his early demise which as a result left me without guidance. I cried in the shower, mourning all the wasted years of error, misfortune, and violence due to this lack of guidance. Not just for me, but for all of us, for all the men I know, both friends and enemies.

“Us men, we need to do that for each other.”

His words reverberated in my mind.

I feel grateful and blessed to have this man in my life.

Someone that I could look up to.

Someone that could teach me how to guide another man like me.

“Us men, we need to do that for each other.”