They Call Me Benito
If you are like me, there is only one person you associate with the name Benito and that name rhymes with Linguini. That particular Benito led the first fascist coup in 1922 that turned Italy to National Fascism and then spurred on his brethren like Adolph and Francisco to drive their own people into a lather over the next fifteen years. Il Duce, Das Fuhrer, El Caudillo all mean the same thing and they were the self-installed titles of these strongmen, warlords, “guides” and leaders in whatever language and culture you want. It was a trend that was bred of the times. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that it was a result of the Great Depression. That may have given a boost in Germany and Spain, but my beloved Italy set its course during good times and Benito was the leader of the band. I defy anyone in America today to take some yellow/orange spray-stiffened hair and put it on the head of Benito and tell me who that looks like with the jutting jaw and the pursed lips. It’s uncanny.
Whenever they refer to Benito and his actions that involved the seizing of power, they always say “and his followers”. Who were those followers? We know who the acolytes of Hitler were: Himmler, Bormann, Goering, Goebbels, Speer, Hess, Raeder, Keitel. But who exactly were Benito’s buddies? We know he had his son-in-law as his foreign minister (sound familiar?), but my quick reading up on Il Duce does not reveal a list of his buddies, these “followers” who helped him craft and execute his reign of terror and violence across Italy. We know his girlfriend of the moment, Clara Petacci (and her poor son-of-a-bitch brother) were all killed along with Benito on that grey day in Como, Italy in 1945 as he tried to skulk off into Switzerland dressed in a German uniform. But the very thing he sought more than anything, the adulation and recognition of the crowd, did him in as he was easily recognized for all the face-time he had forced of himself on the people of Italy. When he went down by firing squad, he was then dragged into an infamous square in Milan where he had arbitrarily had some anti-fascists (that would today be perhaps shortened to Antifa’s) executed. It was there that the masses of every-day Italians, including a woman who had lost five of her sons fighting his useless and futile war, took a gun and mangled what was left of Benito’s skull by putting five bullets into it.
Such is the displeasure of people who have had their lives ruined (492,000 lives precisely) by the egotistical rantings and ravings of Benito. That was about 100,000 per year for five years (less than 25% the pace of death we are seeing right now from COVID-19 in the United States) By the way, Benito was notoriously racist and believed everyone without an Italian surname should be thrown out of Italy or killed. The story seems more than a little too close for comfort, especially for someone like me, whose father supposedly escaped war-torn Italy in 1943 when Benito was dethroned by the King of Italy and dear-old granddad lost his job in Benito’s fascist empire. What’s a retired fascist to do but move to a small town in Venezuela and open a little grocery store, right?
That is the true story of my Hispanic-sounding surname, which is very common in places like Puerto Rico, but is actually from the Piedmont section of Italy, not unlike where Benito came from. As the child of a career UN Diplomat and Ivy League graduate, I have never considered myself anything less than relatively privileged. I had no silver spoon, but I did at least have a spoon. So whenever I am asked on a form to declare if I am of Hispanic origin or if I consider myself Hispanic, I say no despite having been born on home leave from Caracas and living six years of my early life in the tropics of Latin America. I do not want to make any false pretenses to any affirmative action or profiled preferences.
So, today I finally met a another and very real Benito. He is the father of Juventino, who has been doing our gardening this year until he mysteriously disappeared a couple of months ago. I have now learned that Juventino is in Mexico having surgery on an abdominal tumor and he will not be returning for several months. Benito, after years of hard work, had passed his clientele on to Juventino just as Juventino probably plans to do for his son Roberto. But with this sudden health set-back, Benito has come out of retirement in Mexico to take over the ten-hour work days being otherwise done by Juventino. Benito must be over seventy years old now, but he seems strong and solid as ever and mostly, he is dedicated to helping his son maintain his clients while he recuperates. This is amazing. Benito probably doesn’t need the money given his humble Mexican lifestyle, but he does feel the need to help his son keep his livelihood and he is not afraid of strapping the saddle back on for a few months of hard physical labor to help do that.
I do not ask the immigration status of people of Hispanic origin who do work for me around my house. Some work for companies and may be legal and many are probably not legal. I believe they all deserve work if they are willing to do it and I need it done. I am rabidly pro-immigration (and pro-immigrant) and do not worry so much about what is legal and illegal because I believe that is superseded by what is right versus wrong. I believe these hard working people who have built a multi-generational life out here have nothing but righteousness on their side, no matter what pieces of paper they hold or are missing.
One of the expressions that we hear about all the time now in the era of Donald Trump, Il Duce of Mar-a-Lago and Bedminster (though the people of Bedminster who recently paid $250,000 to get a full-blast exposure to presidential Coronavirus sputum may want to string him up by the heels soon) is that no one wants to be the guy holding Benito’s coat. It didn’t work out too well for Clara and her brother. Sooner or later all bad actors get their comeuppance. There is a day of reckoning for evil intent and self-centered absorption. Dictators fare badly in the history books too. Sometimes it comes from the mob and sometimes it comes from the sword (as in live by and die by) and yet even other times it comes through some other force majeure that you were sure would never touch the hem of your gold-threaded robes….like a common virus.
Donald Trump is in Walter Reed hospital getting the best of medical care that the strongest nation on Earth can muster. Meanwhile, Benito is in Escondido at Donald’s age, putting in ten or more hours a day of back-breaking landscaping work while his erstwhile and low-profile son, Juventino, lies in some Mexican hospital (probably less special than Walter Reed’s Presidential suite) dealing with post-surgical recovery for something he probably got from an excess exposure to a carcinogenic pesticide or some such unintended collateral consequence of having to work hard for a living as an immigrant son of America. Benito is coming over to my house in a week to work on my yard and if he wants me to hold his coat, I will be honored to do so.