Muses and Musings

This Blog has Moved

2011-06-25T22:18:00.001-04:00

Please note that my blog has moved. You can now find me at:

http://apalessandri.wordpress.com/

Please make a note of this change! :)

It's a Writer's Life for Me

2011-06-24T20:47:00.000-04:00

In the lull between semesters, as I scurry to get the grades in for one semester and the courses set up for the next, I find myself wanting to wedge between responsibility and whim. After all, what's paying the bills is my teaching, not my writing.

But in that lull (a word which, really, is ironic as it's applied to that space in time between semesters that's neither here nor there), as it often happens when I'm overwhelmed or ecstatic or sorrowful or angry, I am consumed with the need to write. Any emotion that courses through me becomes a flame igniting the desire and need to put into words said emotions - either in the form of characters in a story, a personal essay, a poem, or just some scribbles somewhere.

I've often contemplated what a "writer's life" means. Does it mean, as the romanticized version leads us to believe, that one must sequester oneself from the world, live in misery and abuse, contemplate suicide, and skirt the borders of sanity? Does it mean that a wife and mother with a day job can't live the writer's life? Absolutely not! A writer's life means the dedication and commitment to keep pursuing that passion of words that brings about a flurry of emotions to oneself and one's readers. It means carving out some time of one's busy schedule (and we all know our schedules are busy) to read and write and learn. Because a writer's life is one of constant sacrifice and discovery.

I'm leading a writer's life by writing every day as much as I can. By giving life to characters and stories, either made up or real, and by discovering and rediscovering who I am in relation to those characters of my past and present. I'm navigating through this uncertain territory of writing and publication, redefining who I am, and learning that there's more than one way of having a writer's life. Though some aspects of a writer's life might be ideal (as in weeks or months of solitude to only write), the ideal is what we make of it. I take the minutes and hours I can get - in between naps, a night's stay at grandma's, a day out with daddy, some hours at Starbucks - and make a writer's life out of it.

Self-Satisfaction

2011-06-13T20:57:00.000-04:00

Today during dinner, my husband, son, and I sat, eating an array of leftovers that consisted of rice, spaghetti, carrots, pan-fried tilapia, eggs, teriyaki chicken, and salad. We sat, said our prayers, and began chatting about our day. Mid-way through the meal, the conversation went something like this:

"I don't like salad," my son says.

"That's okay," I reply. "I like it. Do you know what I like about it?"

My son shakes his head.

"The colors." And he proceeds to name the colors in my salad with me.

Daddy chimes in and says, "Carrots are good for you, baby. They give you super vision, like Superman."

"I don't want to be Superman," my son says.

"Then how about Spiderman? Spiderman eats salad to make him strong."

My son shakes his head. "I don't want to be Spiderman."

"Then, who do you want to be?" I ask.

"No one," he replies. "I just want to be Lukas."

My husband and I were caught off guard by the innocent, yet profound statement uttered by my almost-four-year-old.

We spend our lives looking up to and wanting to be others. We look up to role models, and work our behinds off so we can achieve the sliver of fame or recognition or status that we want, because we want to be like someone else. We want money because we want to be like those who are well off. We want those shoes because they're the latest fashion and all the "cool people" have those shoes - and we want to be one of those "cool people." We want that car because it says something about a status that we may or may not have. (And by the way, the "we" refers to us as humans, the general population, you, me, the guy in the corner, the girl at the mall. It means everyone.)

Sometimes, we believe we're happy with who we are and, at times, we are. We like ourselves. But there are other times, and more than once, like during a mid-life crisis, when we just want to be someone else or we want what someone else has. We let ourselves be influenced by this and it clouds our judgement, our actions, our behaviors.

Lukas is on to something. "I just want to be me." With imperfections and character flaws. I hope I can remember this next time I want to change something about me so I can be like someone else.

POV Exercise - Dianita

2011-06-13T08:26:00.001-04:00

Do you remember what I looked like when I married you, Mario? I was Diana Carolina Restrepo, slender, beautiful, wild. You liked me because I wasn’t as India as the other girls you slept around with. You could see the Spanish in me, you said. The light skin, which I hated, you loved. You would tell me I was tu reina.

But what did that get me? I fell for you, Mario. I left Jaime, who really loved me, for your promises of a good and rich life. Yes, you gave me two kids who I would sacrifice everything for. But you also took them away from me. The allure of the drug cartel was too much for you and dragged you away from the cafetales. It was more money than you could’ve ever imagined and it came easily. All you had to do was smuggle, lie, and kill.

You couldn’t kill me, though, not literally. You lied and snuck me out to protect me and our kids. At least I know you did love us in your own way, though I know you did it because it would’ve been much harder to explain the blood on your hands to them if you’d killed me. You don’t have to explain it to me. I know.

I want to hate you. I want to kill you sometimes, too. But I don’t have the connections you do, unfortunately.

Instead, I’m in exile here. I’ve aged; I see the wrinkles and the circles under my eyes. I saw them a few days after I got here, ten years ago. I’m lucky if I can keep a job because times are tough. But what do you know about honest work and tough times, Mario? I wonder if you’d recognize me; if I snuck back home, would you know it was me? Would they? If we were still together, if none of this had ever happened, you’d probably have already left me, or at least found a younger girl to satisfy you because that’s just the way you were. I should’ve known that, listened to Jaime when he tried to warn me that you were trouble, but I didn’t listen. I never did until you told me to leave, or the kids would get it. We’d all get it. Then I finally listened.

I’m tired now. Tired of the crap, tired of the exile, tired of missing my kids. I don’t miss you, Mario. Not at all. It was a sad realization that the only good that came out of us, was them. Sofia and David. You could go to hell, for all I care! I just want my kids back; I want them to know what really happened, that I didn’t leave, I was forced to leave. I sacrificed my happiness for their lives. That says a hell of a lot more than what you did for us.

If we spend our lives dreaming, will we ever know when we reach our dream?

2011-05-25T10:37:00.001-04:00

This issue of dreams is risky business. We're always told to dream, and to dream big. Nothing is out of our reach so long as we roll our sleeves back, our pants up, and get neck-deep in the process. We need to get dirty, stress, suffer - and with all the hard work, we'll get to that dream.

Trouble is, we tend to have many dreams. At least I know I do. It seems as with human nature, we're not content in reaching one destination. We're always pushing for more. I can think of a slew of cliched phrases that demonstrate this, starting with: "The grass is always greener on the other side." I say "starting with" because that's why we dream. We want something other than what we have in the present. I'm no exception. I'm always dreaming of something else. Fo example, I dream of leaving South Florida. I'm tired of the traffic, the rude (and highly volatile) drivers, the packed cement blocks. I'm tired of the fast-pace of the city. I dream of open land, pastures, green (that doesn't involved painted trash cans). I dream of friendly people, like those I met in Virginia, who, instead of saluting with the middle finger, gave friendly waves and hellos, even though we were outsiders. I also dream of writing full time. Dedicating the hours while my son is in school, to writing down all these characters and memories that plague my mind. Sometimes, I even dream of inventing some sort of time machine to go back to a healthier, livelier, more energized me.

The problem with these dreams is they interfere with my living today and now. I think there's a saying that says something akin to: the past already happened, the future is yet to come, but today is a gift. That's why it's called the present. In dreaming so much of tomorrow, and in working so much for a future (retirement, fame, whatever), we oftentimes neglect today. And in today lies family and friends. When it's all said and done (I'm just full of cliches today, aren't I?), what do we have to look back at in our lives? Will we be happy? Will we be satisfied that we did all we could do at each stage?

I find myself often at this point, stuck between the dreamer and the realist. I remember my godparents, who worked their behinds off (might as well keep at it with these trite expressions), saving up for an unsure future, only to die in a plane crash in Long Island, on their way back from Colombia after the Christmas and new year holidays in 1990. What was that worth? Then again, if no planning is done, no dreams to pursue, our future might be just as bleak. There's no denying that retiring here, with nothing but Social Security (if that) is simply not possible. What's the right answer? Is there one?

I don't have the answers. I am pretty sure, though, they lie somewhere between dreaming and planning, drifting and cementing roots. There's got to be some balance there.

Who's Eating My Cucumbers? Pickleworms, That's Who.

2011-05-21T20:55:00.001-04:00

My humble vegetable garden is, of late, my pride and joy. Since I don't have a particularly green thumb, the mere fact that we were able to get seedlings to grow, and we were able to actually harvest what we planted, well, that was an accomplishment.

We harvested a total of six cucumbers before I encountered a nasty pest that has forced us take drastic measures to eradicate it (without having to turn to harsh chemicals or pesticides.) The culprits? Pickleworms.

In case you'd like to see what a pickleworm looks like, here's one I caught on my cucumber plant. I took the picture after I cut the stem off.

Apparently, pickleworms are larvae from a specific moth, and they attack mostly cucumber, squash, and other cucurbit plants. I spotted the eggs first this morning, though I didn't know what they were at the time. I just found a bunch of gooey, white blobs around my cucumbers. Then, early this evening, we were performing our normal rounds in our garden: watering, pruning, inspecting. My husband noticed two of the cucumbers were ready to cut, so I got the shears out and was getting ready to cut when I noticed the above critter on one of the cucumbers. It was on the outside, apparently munching on the skin. When I cut the other one, I noticed two minute holes on one side. After my initial gross-out, I gave the cucumber with the worm to my husband so he could take care of it, and I proceeded to dissect the other cucumber. Though it has those two holes, there is no evidence of pickleworm inside, much to my relief. However, I'm not sure if I can do anything with the butchered cucumber, nor do I know if I want to, especially since the holes means the pickleworm was inside that cucumber....that just doesn't sound very appetizing to me.

We busted out our organic pesticide, chopped off all remaining fruits (all which had pickleworm holes and egg residues) and damaged leaves. Instead of the immense foliage we had, we're now left with a bare-boned plant. I have no idea if we did the right thing, but after much consulting online, it seems as if there's little to do once these pests take hold. Very sad day for me.

I also discovered another possible pest: Vegetable leafminer. I've been wondering why the leaves of our plants (from the larger cucumber and squash leaves to the small basil ones) have these zigging and zagging lines on them that look like this:

Photo taken from http://www.sciencephoto.com.

Upon some "googling," I found my answer.

I think I now understand why chemical pesticides are used; and why it costs more to grow organic.

Chocolate Dreams

2011-05-17T07:30:00.000-04:00

My son's sleeping has finally become regular over the last few months. This semester was certainly much better than last, with only two weeks of multiple wakings due to a cold, croup, and ear infection. By 8 PM he's in bed, and because he's pretty much given up on napping during the day, he only mumbles, sings, chats for a few seconds before his eyes shut, his breathing slows, and soft snores escape his lips. In the morning, he's up anywhere between 4-6 am, at which time he drowsily pit-pats his way into our room, climbs in bed with us and, if it's our weekend (meaning neither of us have to go to work), he'll keep sleeping until 7-8 am.

This morning was no exception.

His routine before settling himself back to sleep is as follows: Once in bed, he rolls from me to my husband. At each of us, he leans over, smacks a wet kiss on our cheek, and says, "Mommy [or daddy], I love you." We say I love you back, he smiles, sighs, and turns over. Sometimes he'll do that a few times before he goes back to what children dream of.

Occasionally, he'll talk in his sleep. We know he is prone to sleep disturbances, as he's had night terrors pretty badly, but on the smaller, less intrusive scale is the sleep talking.

This morning, after he'd fallen back asleep in our bed, he sighed, smiled, and whispered, "Mmmm, chocolate."

Oh how sweet his chocolate dreams must be!

Growing Gardens

2011-05-13T17:28:00.000-04:00

In early March, a few month's after my son's school had planted a garden and my son came home excitedly talking nonstop about cabbage, broccoli, and carrots, I decided to try our hand at planting a vegetable garden. This was also around the same time that my health was pointing me towards healthier, organic alternatives. So son in hand, we headed to Home Depot and picked out a few seed packets, a greenhouse kit for kids (with cucumbers and tomatoes), and an herb set. We planted the cucumbers, tomatoes, lemon-basil, oregano, chives, and thyme first. In those first weeks, the herbs took off, as did the cucumbers. The tomatoes died.

As our "garden" started growing, we decided to invest in a larger area for the vegetable garden. In BJs, we found an inexpensive option for a raised bed, and converted a part of our backyard into our garden. We transplanted the four original herbs, and the cucumbers, and planted more seeds: summer squash, peas, lettuce, mixed greens, dill, spinach, and radishes.

The verdict? We've already harvested two cucumbers (and five more are growing), lettuce, and herbs. The peas are almost there. The radishes, well, those I had to replant because the first ones didn't yield anything. The squash plant is large and leafy and healthy, but I don't see any squash yet. I've already had amazing salad with my own lettuce and cucumber (and some organic carrots, nuts, seeds, raisins, cranberries, and chia seeds). I've already cooked meals with my thyme, oregano, basil, and chives. The dill is just getting ready to harvest, so I'll be using that soon.

I'll post some pictures soon. I've been feeling quite proud, as before this, neither my husband nor I have ever had a "green thumb" - this is certainly a step up!

Lazy Afternoons in the Backyard

2011-05-13T16:52:00.002-04:00

I'm sitting in my backyard today with my husband and son, amidst a lazy afternoon. The smoke from nearby brushfires is, thankfully, not blowing in our direction, and we can enjoy the sunshine (or in my case, the shade). A small child's sprinkler - a kaleidoscope of greens, oranges, purples and blues - waves its arms relentlessly, spraying cool water as my son jumps and runs, squealing and giggling. My husband has fired up his grill, and the scent of the turkey burgers cooking reminds me I'm hungry. Our outdoor rock-inspired speakers sound off an eclectic array of tunes: 80's, Disney, country, and pop/alternative. The simple breeze adds a backdrop to the tunes, a soft whisper. I love lazy afternoons like this; they make me feel content.

They also remind me of my childhood. I lived most of my adventures in the backyard of my Westchester home, la casita de Westchester. Though it was a humble home on the inside, just right for a family of three, its backyard was what dreams were made of - or at least, dreams for a six-year-old or eight-year-old. Or an eleven-year-old.

I can't say exactly how big the backyard was; such exact measurements escaped my interest as a child. Instead, I was more interested in the ampleness of the grass, where I could try my headstands and cartwheels, falling laughing and laying there, arms stretched out, the soft prick of grass comforting as I stared out into the sky bright with the South Florida sun, imagining castles in the clouds and princesses waiting to be rescued.

Or, I was more interested in the two dips in the ground, one towards the center of the yard, the other towards the left, right outside my bedroom window. They became fortresses, lakes, obstacles. The one on the left became a pet-cemetary for my two parakeets when I was about seven.

Or, I would run with my dog, Lucky, waving an adult-sized full skirt, part of the traditional Colombian costume that my aunt (though which one, I don't remember now) had brought me. Though I loved that skirt and how it made me feel (like a princess, beautiful and delicate), it was much too large, and it was much more fun to wave it around and watching Lucky snap at it erratically until he finally caught the material in between his teeth. I'd tug and pull and he'd growl, and then I'd turn round and round until Lucky would lift slightly off the ground, teeth still attached to skirt. When we both let go, he'd run to me as I lay on the floor, and I'd laugh while he licked my face.

Or, I would sit on the outside air-conditioner unit after having a fight with my father, my face tear-streaked and my chest heaving. The hum, and Lucky's wet licks on my hands, would comfort me and there I'd imagine I lived somewhere else where "life wouldn't be so unfair."

That backyard was my haven, my domain. I could be anyone or anything.

At one time, my father said he'd build me a small house in the backyard and I could live there. I think I might have imagined that, but I remember the dreaming vividly: a small, wooden "house," just one room with a cot and a window with flowers. It would be right next to the dip in the center, and I could enter and exit into my backyard as I pleased. I would have the stars at night for company and the next-door-neighbor's banana tree for food. I really wanted that backyard house, like I wanted the Barbie doll house my father had started building me, but alas, neither became reality. The first was never started; the second, he destroyed half-way in a rage.

But sitting out here, in my own backyard now, watching my son play, I remember those afternoons in that backyard so many years ago. Much has changed since then, but the peace and possibility that arises from a simple backyard - that is still intact.

Remembering Papi

2011-05-10T12:04:00.003-04:00

I've been remembering my father quite a bit lately. Not that I had forgotten him and somehow stumbled across his memory. No, it's more like I now have an inkling of the pain he must have felt, and I get it, or at least, I get some of it.

I still see him, in his later years, sitting at the dinning table in his wheelchair, a small glass of lukewarm water to his right (he sipped water all day), a bottle of tylenol to his left. He was always taking tylenol because of his headaches and my mother was always arguing with him that it was going to fry his liver. Or his kidneys. But he always took those small, white pills, in hopes of relieving a smidgen of the pain he was feeling, or maybe just in hopes of taking the edge off of the pain. His face was leathery, worn, and his eyebrows were more often than not scrunched up; he winced often. I imagine his whole body hurt, with deep aches and a never ending loneliness because of it. I imagine he missed his younger, healthier self. I do know he wished often to be taken in his sleep, so he could suffer no more.

Before the leg amputation that sentenced him to the wheelchair, his walk was slow, steady. He wouldn't drive; instead, he'd take it to walking from our apartment, eight blocks south to Publix or eight blocks north to Navarro. Those were his daily outings. I remember walking with him, I was in my mid-teens, and trying to have conversations. As judgmental as he could be, my father was a talker and he'd talk to anyone who'd listen to him. At times, on the bench outside of Navarro, my father would sit, and whoever was sitting there would soon find himself/herself in a tete-a-tete about current world affairs or the downward spiral this country was facing.

Immediately following his amputation and after he'd outlived his hospital stay, he was in a recovery home for several weeks. We'd visit him every day, bringing in chicken, rice and beans from the nearby Pollo Tropical. There, we'd find my father rolling around in his wheelchair from room to room, chatting up the little ol' ladies in the neighboring rooms. In between the groans and cries, you'd hear some laughter.

I do miss him. I see his character in my son, in his stubborn refusal for help or in his angry outbursts because something went wrong. I also see him in my son's eyes - dark, round and bright with mischief and imagination.

Key Largo Sunset in Pics

2011-05-09T21:38:00.000-04:00

NCL Cruise in Pics

2011-05-09T21:34:00.000-04:00

Nassau, Bahamas

NCL Sky Docked

NCL's Private Island

Miami Skyline

Miami Skyline and Carnival Cruise Ship

Invisible Illnesses

2011-05-05T14:01:00.001-04:00

The semester is finally over. Grades are in, and as I sit here, reveling in the resounding quiet that comes after the chaotic finish, I can hear the whispered chants of: freedom, freedom, freedom! It feels good.

This semester's end is punctuated, though, with a follow up with my rheumatologist. It's been a harrowing academic year, though more because of my health than because of any academic impositions. Back in March, my diagnosis expanded to include undifferentiated connective tissue disease (UCTD) in addition to the fibromyalgia. What does that mean? For those that don't know what UCTD is (or who might resist the urge to go off into space at the "undifferentiated"), UCTD is an auto-immune condition that is lupus-like. It's not lupus, and it might never get there, but it could. It basically means that right now, between symptoms and labs, there is enough to know there's "something auto-immune" going on, but not enough to really be able to classify it into one disease.

I've taken to the web-waves to find more information. I've visited (and joined) online forums, filled with questions that I forget to ask when I'm at my doctor's office. I've heard these auto-immune diseases labeled as "invisible" illnesses and I found that so fitting. They're invisible because we don't generally have any outward showings of any illness. Sometimes we might limp, or we'll look tired, but from the outside, there's not much seemingly different than those who've just had some bad nights of sleep. And people who don't know we have an illness might label us as lazy because we don't take the stairs or carry boxes or say "no" to late night gatherings.

But inwardly - oh my. The pain. That's the worst. Sometimes it's a burning deep in the bones or muscles, like lava has temporarily taken over my extremities. Or, like I like to call it: growing pains on steroids. Other times it's a throbbing in the joints, my fingers, my toes, my knees, my hips, my elbows. Sometimes it hurts when I breathe in, and other times my head starts pounding in an attempt at a migraine. Every day, I hurt. Sometimes less, sometimes more, but every day. And my memory - it's mush often. Part of the fibromyalgia is the "fibro fog." It sucks. I'll forget simple things, like words, or something that happened recently. I have to write down everything now because there's a very good chance I will forget by the time I need to remember.

I've had to make some decisions, prioritize, so I don't stress myself and trigger an anxiety attack, and more pain. Writing has had to fall a few places down on that list, during the regular terms, so that I can be an effective mom, wife, daughter, and teacher. I have to make peace with that. During the main semesters I will have to resign myself to a few scribbled notes, a few Facebook poetics, and an overabundance of mental notes that, ironically, I might forget. But now that summer starts, oh, now I will redeem myself.

I have my moments when I want to cry. Usually, it's when the pain is the worst (and these last 4-5 weeks have been on a particularly bad, active "flare-up" of symptoms). Or when the medication I'm prescribed back-fires with the side-effects (apparently, I'm extra sensitive to medication) and withdrawal-like symptoms (I never have and will NEVER EVER do drugs - knowing that what I felt for four days and nights is similar to what those on addictive drugs can feel during a detox is enough for me to say this, with certainty.) Or when I want so badly to run with my son, kick the ball, enjoy a sunny afternoon in the park, but I can't because I'm exhausted, fatigued, in pain, or simply because I have to avoid the sun (the sun triggers inflammation, and since UCTD is an inflammatory disease, the sun will trigger flare-ups). I grieve my health then. At thirty-one, I feel ancient. And it sucks. These are my moments for grieving because I am grieving the loss of my health.

But more often, I am optimistic. One of the "silver linings" is that this invisible illness is not life-threatening, especially with the proper medication that helps halt the progression of this disease (thankfully, this medication, Plaquenil, I've been able to tolerate well, and the side-effects are relatively few). I am forced to slow down, and enjoy the time I have with my family more. It fuels my creativity. It makes me want to reach out to those that have similar diseases, these so called invisible diseases, because alone, it's hard to make sense of it all.

There's more that I want to say, but right now, my mind went blank - darn that fibro fog! Look for me more often, because I will be here. :) And don't feel sorry for me. I may complain and vent and grieve at times, but I don't feel sorry for myself. Behind each cross we carry, there's a blessing. And I certainly count my blessings.

Growing Up

2011-04-06T09:46:00.000-04:00

Lately, my three-year-old son has become obsessed with growing up. It's not the simple obsession of "My birthday's coming up" or "I'm getting older." No, he wants to be a grown-up "like mommy and daddy."I'm certainly not ready for that yet. I'm still mourning the infant and the baby as he's now an active, rowdy, funny kid. There's not much baby left in him yet.

Yet the delicate balance between dependence and independence is such a wondrous phenomena, especially in children. They year to do things themselves (we constantly hear in our home: "No, I do it myself!") but at the same time, they don't want mom or dad to be too far away (we still get tears and sobs, with little arms clung to my legs and his sad voice begging "Mommy, don't go. I want to stay home with you.") At each stage, my heart melts and breaks, becoming an indefinite form of mush. At night, when he sleeps, I can only pray, God, please keep him safe always.

Last night, we were reading I Love You Forever, a children's book about a mother's love as her child grows up, through each stage, until the mother herself is old, frail, sick, and the roles reverse. It's a beautiful book (though some find it creepy as the mother creeps into her child's home to hold him, rock him, and sing to him - I take it figuratively), though I can hardly ever finish the book without a lump tugging and threatening to bring on the waterworks. So I don't read it to him too often. Last night, when we got to the part of the teenager now grown into a man and leaving home, we have the following conversation:

Him: Mommy, why is the boy leaving his house?
Me: Because he's a grown-up now, and grown-ups don't live with their mommies and daddies.
Him: Why?
Me: Because they have their own houses and families.
Him: (pause, then eyebrows bunch up, head tilts back) I don't want to be a grown-up anymore.

We followed this conversation in the morning, on our way to school.

Him: Mommy, I want to be a grown-up.
Me: But then you won't live with mommy and daddy anymore.
Him: But I want to live with you! (his eyes were starting to shine)
Me: Me, too, baby. I want you to live with us for a very long time. That's why I'm not ready for you to be a grown-up yet.
Him: Okay.

I know he'll be a grown-up soon enough. Before I know it (or like Kenny Chesney's song says, as I blink), he'll be that teenager going off to college, getting married, having kids. And I'm so not ready for that yet. I don't know if I'll ever be, but he's already growing up way too fast and I'm afraid I'm blinking too much. He's going to be four this summer; he's starting Pre-K in Aug. Next year, he'll be in Kindergarten. Yet, I feel as if I just brought him home from the hospital yesterday, cuddled him in my arms, nursed him, sat mesmerized by his gummy smile.

It's bittersweet indeed.

I Remember: Middle School (7th Grade)

2011-01-23T20:43:00.000-05:00

I remember middle school. Seventh grade to be exact. I was in that awkward transition from girl to preteen and trying my hardest to be "cool" - what "cool" meant at that time is a foggy memory, though. I wanted shaved legs (the memory of the previous summer in Colombia and the ambush to see my hairy legs still a vivid hue of humiliation), I wanted make up. I wanted a boyfriend.

Of course, my father wouldn't hear of it. Me estaba madurando biche, or growing up ahead of my time. Like a fruit, I wasn't ripe enough, and yet that's what I wanted to be: ripe. After the short taste of freedom in Colombia, where I spent three months with aunts and uncles, away from my father's gaze, and after I realized that women, in order to receive men's attention (or, in my case, for girls to receive boys' attention), needed smooth legs, painted lips, I sought that in my small, Westchester house. When I pleaded to shave my legs, and my father responded with a short "no," I proceeded to sneak my mother's razor into my bathroom and, with lukewarm water and some soap, I shaved my legs. That was my first act of rebellion, and it came with some sharp, stinging cuts. I don't remember my punishment, but perhaps my mother interceded for me and I was allowed to continue shaving my legs. For me, it was a blessing; I was cursed with pale skin and dark hair, something that didn't quite cry feminine for me.

When I started middle school, it was the first year that six graders would be moved to middle school, and I was in seventh grade, so I never got to be in the bottom of the hierarchy. Other seventh grade girls were showing their legs, in rolled-up or cuffed shorts, or skirts. They wore their big hair, bangs stiff with hairspray and teasing. And they wore makeup. I wanted to be like them, but when I asked permission for at least a little blush and lipstick, I was told, again, absolutely not. So I snuck it.

I took a small, private bus to school then. Camacho's Bus Service, with Camacho being our driver. I would sit by the window and, when we were a safe distance away from my house, I would bring out the compact and lipstick. I didn't choose anything loud. A simple mauve was my favorite shade. When I was on my way home, I'd quickly scrub the makeup off with some wet napkins and my parents never found out.

Finding My Center of Balance

2011-01-07T18:53:00.000-05:00

The new year is here, and with it, I've joined the gaming community. Well, "joined" is a strong word since I don't actually do any online gaming nor am I playing hard core video games. Or maybe that's just what's inferred when one says "gaming community." We simply purchased our first video game system: the Nintendo Wii and Wii Fit Plus. Our goal? Family fun games (with a three-year-old) that would also allow us to get healthy. That's one of our resolutions/goals for this year: get healthy.

It's been fun, actually, though already I see the beginnings of possible addictions. The first thing my son says in the morning and when we get home from school is: "Mommy, I want to play our game." That scares me. So, we're building it into our schedule. Just like we have nap time, play time, dinner time, etc., we'll have game time.

I do like this game, though. The game console came with two games, Sports and Resort Sports (or is it Sports Resort.... I don't remember), and the Wii Fit Plus came so many exercise possibilities that I haven't missed a beat in the past seven days. I've moved my body more in these seven days than I have in the last few months - that's got to be a great thing!

One of the things I like about the Wii Fit is the ability to track my own coordination and balance, in addition to weight, BMI and time spent "working out." (It also has yoga and strength training poses that are great for beginners like me.) Every morning, I wake up and, while getting breakfast ready, I lay out the yoga mat and balance board. Every morning I turn on the console and select my little avatar. And every morning, I step on that board and do my weigh-in. After my balance (which is always slightly to the left or right, but never centered) BMI and weight are displayed (and after my Mii avatar gets socked with a sudden gut, belly rubbing and all), I am then guided towards the body tests, which supposedly test my balance and agility. Then, like in the Biggest Loser, I am given my approximate age based on how I perform on those tests. Well, the first time I took those tests, without knowing what the heck I was doing, my "age" came back at 48 - I'm 31! Yea, that was fun. But, once I figured out what was expected, and once I warmed up, I was better. I've been able to lower my "age" to 27. Not bad. :)

Of course, what I find the most ironic is that my "center of balance" is off, literally. This I knew. I'm clumsy. I trip over my own feet. I've fallen down the stairs in my house, twice. I'm constantly finding bruises on my arms and legs because, well, I'm constantly hitting myself with things and bumping into tables, and chairs, and walls. So, when I stepped on that balance board, and the little machine came back and said I was off-balance and asked if I bumped myself or tripped often, I laughed. Out loud.

It's not just my literal balance that's off. I seem to be slightly off balance, period. I'm constantly trying to find that balance between family, career, and creativity. It's hard. Freaking hard. And I'm still bumping myself along the way, finding new bruises just when I though I'd balance myself out.

The good news is that after day 7 of this Wii Fit thing, I'm almost dead center. The yoga poses and fun "exercises" and games have kept me going, and I've been losing weigh and feeling more flexible - hey, I can actually touch my toes now! In this new year, I find I'm also closer to finding that other balance. I'm trying to plan ahead, to keep myself on track, to sketch out times and assign priorities, so I can do it all. I CAN do it all.... I hope.

El Niño Dios: A Christmas Reflection

2010-12-22T15:44:00.002-05:00

While I was growing up, Christmas celebrations always centered around the coming of el Niño Dios, or Baby Jesus (well, actually, the literal translation would be something like the child God). Presents under the tree would be addressed from el Niño Dios, and, after I found the stash of presents in my parents' bedroom closet, my father explained that el Niño Dios gave mommies and daddies the money to go buy the presents.

Santa Claus was an American abstraction. I don't remember him much in my childhood, though I'm sure I must've believed in him somehow. After all, I grew up somewhere in the gray area between el Niño Dios and Santa - between Colombia and USA.

We spent the nine days leading up to Christmas Eve, the main celebration, migrating from family home to family home, reciting the prayers of the Christmas Novena (each day, a different prayer in addition to prayers for Baby Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and San José) and singing villancicos, spanish Christmas songs. We'd bring out guitars, maracas, panderetas and any other noisemaker to accompany the songs: Tutaina, Rin Rin, A la Nanita Nana, Noche de Paz, Los Peces en el Rio and many more. We'd cram into the homes, because we were many and our homes were small, and lay out buñuelos and natilla to munch on after we'd prayed and sung. Then, we'd just talk, laugh, and spend time together, as a family.

(Side-note - this is the bulk of my memories as an older child/teenager/young adult. As a young child, when I still lived in Westchester and my mom's family was still scattered between Cali and New York, I don't remember lively Novenas. Instead, I remember my father teaching me to play the piano and then playing select Christmas songs in English and Spanish for my neighbors while reading verses of the Christmas story from St. Luke.)

On Christmas Eve, we'd gather in someone's house, like with the novenas, and each family would bring a dish. Chairs would line the walls and the furniture would be temporarily rearranged to make room for everyone. When everyone was there, we'd pray and sing the last novena. The kids would run around (and there were always many kids), and the teenagers would meander around the front yard or sometimes sit on the stairs, rolling their eyes at the traditions but enjoying the time with their cousins. Adults would sit and reminisce, as is usually done when they get together, far from their native land. They'd say a lot of "Remember when..." The "party" would start anywhere between 6 and 8 PM, and we'd stay up past midnight. At midnight, we'd exchange gifts and then some would go home, some would go to midnight mass, and others would sleep over and leave the next day. Christmas day was spent quietly, in smaller numbers, with immediate families.

But celebrating Christmas was always about the coming of the Christ child. Baby Jesus. El Niño Dios. While Christmas trees and lights were nice, and we had both, they weren't the focus of the holiday.

I see my son now, at three, beginning to understand what Christmas is and I worry. I love the "non-religious" associations of Christmas: the trees, the lights, the Santas (and snowmen). I love that it's a time to spend with family. But I worry because sometimes it seems that's all Christmas is today. If you go to the store, the commercialization of Christmas is evident. Isles and isles of indoor and outdoor decorations, lights, presents, and knick knacks fill the stores. Neighbors try to outdo each other in decking the homes with "Christmas cheer." But ask anyone to talk about the real meaning of Christmas, the reason why we celebrate, and people get quiet. They whisper.

Of course, that's not everyone. I smile when I see nativity sets embedded in the Christmas decorations. It's a way of saying: I enjoy the outward showings of this holiday, but I know why I'm celebrating it.

My son doesn't yet understand Santa. When he had his picture taken with Santa, Santa asked him what he wanted for Christmas. My son replied: jingle bells and a star. (That might be because he was watching Mickey Mouse Christmas DVD, but I found it cute that he didn't ask for presents.) But everything we see on TV about Christmas is related to Santa bringing presents. There's no mention of Baby Jesus at all. I mean, I like Santa. He's a nice guy and he's got a giving heart. I love watching the Santa/Christmas shows that show good values, the "Christmas Spirit," etc. But what worries me, I guess, is that if I didn't explain to my son why we have Christmas, all he'd know is that Christmas is a holiday to spend with family and get presents from Santa. That's certainly part of what's done in Christmas, but it's not the reason we have Christmas.

(Side note, I've realized I don't know much about Santa, either, other than what's been fed to me by the media. I mean, how did the figure of Santa come to be? Why is he known as Santa, St. Nicholas (who was actually a Catholic saint), Kris Kringle? I've heard rumors of him being a pagan figure to representing the winter solstice. Someday, I'll find the time to read about the history of all that with which we associate Christmas.)

But I want my son to know why we celebrate Christmas. It's because el Niño Dios was born, the first Christmas gift given to a world that was in need. It's because we're celebrating the birth of Baby Jesus. There are other good associations that I want him to take from Christmas: hope, faith, love, family. Doing good. Helping others. Of course, many of these should be done year-round, but Christmas seems to be a good time to remind ourselves of those things that are important to us, really important (not the latest video game or gadget - those are nice if we can afford them, but they're NOT the reason for Christmas). In the middle of it all, though, is that lonely manger where God's only son was born. That's why we're celebrating.

There's a beautiful section in Epcot's Candlelight Processional, possibly one of my favorite renditions of the Christmas story, and it says something along the lines of this: of all the kings, armies, parliaments, put together, none have affected mankind the way this one man, Jesus, has for over two-thousand years. Jesus's birth is the reason we celebrate Christmas.

I'm still trying to find ways of merging the two forms of celebration so it's seamless for my son. So he can understand. We bought a Christmas flag recently, which I think sums it up nicely: Santa is kneeling down besides Baby Jesus, his head bowed. Underneath is an inscription: Santa's first stop.

I've made a decision: Santa's not bringing my son presents this year, el Niño Dios is. But I'm not going to keep Santa away, either. Somehow, someway, I'll make the two fit together so it's understandable for a three-year-old.

Fibro-what? Oh yeah, I'm Back.

2010-12-17T11:48:00.001-05:00

The semester is finally done! Though I'm going to miss my students, I am happy to have a break. This semester has been beyond rough for many reasons, the biggest one being my health.

Right before the semester started, I began with some joint pain. The pain progresse throughout the semester to the point where I was having trouble doing the basics, like brushing my teeth, walking. And then I had an anxiety attack. Not fun. Well, I went to see a rheumatologist mid-semester (I blogged about that before) and then I just waited - first for the results of blood work, and then for the follow up appointment so I could talk to my doctor.

(The pain, while better, hasn't gone away and, in fact, had been getting worse this week. My hands and fingers, especially, have been aching so bad I was having trouble driving and typing. But yesterday, after all grades were in, I felt the culmination of pain: I couldn't move because every movement was excruciating, from my arms, to my wrists/hands, to my hips, to my legs and knees. All I could do was take some Advil and lay down.)

Wednesday morning I had my follow up appointment. My blood tests came out, to use the doctor's words: "perfect" except for Vitamin D being slightly low. This is very good as that rules out other, more serious illnesses like lupus or rheumatoid arthritis. Or, rather, it rules them out right now. She explained there is a possibility I could still have any of these diseases, but at the beginning stages where they wouldn't register in blood tests. Great. Comforting.

She did the physical examination again, which consisted of pressing several areas around muscles and joints, which hurt - a lot. Diagnosis? I don't have one yet. I have obvious inflammation throughout the body. She said while she won't call it fibromyalgia just yet, I seem to be headed in that direction. The first step, for now, is to "fix" my sleeping, since that may be triggering the pain response in my nervous system. She prescribed a small dose of a muscle relaxant and some pain medication to see if it helps me. I'm to take these for the next couple of weeks and see if my sleeping improves and if my pain subsides.

I go back in two months for another follow up.

So though I still don't know what's going on with me, I'm a little closer to finding out. I've realized a few things:

1) Glucosamine seems to help me a bit, especially the knees.
2) Caffeine, even in the smallest quantity, seems to make me feel worse, so I'm taking everything decaf for now.
3) Stress makes me feel worse. The worst I felt this semester was during midterms and finals.
4) Sleep helps.

Most of this seems basic. All I can do is try little things that will help me out. I am praying this doesn't develop into anything worse.

I also think a lot about my grandmother, who I never met. She suffered from inexplicable pains and was sent to "warmer climate" to get better - this was in Colombia in the early- to mid-1900's. My father, too, was always in pain. I wonder if their unexplained pains are the same I have now. I guess I'll never know because both have passed on.

Pardon the Small Hiatus

2010-11-30T20:59:00.000-05:00

I'm taking a small hiatus from blogging. The papers to grade have accumulated, the Thanksgiving weekend (and Black Friday shopping and Christmas decorating) demanded my attention, and I got sick. Too much for one person, I tell ya. So blogging has taken a back seat.

I will say, however, that soon (I just don't know HOW soon yet) I will be on here to write my review for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part I, which we saw this past Saturday night. In short, I was disappointed. It wasn't as magnificent as it could've been. But perhaps, no movie could ever live up to the book's expectations. I don't know. I'll explain more when I write the review. I want to try to churn it out before things get really sticky since we only have a week left of classes (and two more weeks if we count finals) and I have A TON of grading to do. Way too much grading. Did I mention it was a lot of grading? Oh yea, I did. Sigh. I never learn.

But anyway, I digress. Writing on here is taking a small backseat. But when I come back, I have plans. Oh, so many plans, so I hope you stay tuned. :)

Miami Book Fair International 2010

2010-11-21T08:47:00.000-05:00

This is one of those busy weekends where several fall and/or literary events are going on and I want to go to them all, only that's not feasible. We allocated Saturday to the Miami Book Fair International at Miami Dade College's Wolfson Campus is Downtown Miami, though we hoped to get there early enough so that we could go to Miracle on 136 Street Parade at The Falls Shopping Center with my son. That last part didn't happen for two reasons: 1) had a crappy night the night before where my son didn't sleep well (which means we didn't sleep well) so we got to the book fair late and 2) we stayed longer than we anticipated.

The Miami Book Fair International is one of those events I look forward to every year. I stalk the website months before the event, looking for clues that detail the upcoming authors. I also look for workshops that may be offered in conjunction with the fair. This year, Cristina Garcia (Dreaming in Cuban) was giving a workshop on the first day of the street fair, Friday, but unfortunately, I had meetings and work that had to be taken care of. The Book Fair consists of both street fair and author readings. Everywhere you look you see authors proudly displaying their books and eager to sign them for you, if you buy them, of course.

The tents - with their red, green, orange roofs that contrast on the white shells - line up the street of MDC's Wolfson Campus/Downtown in the shape of a cross. Book vendors include bookstores (like Books and Books), publishers (like University of Florida Press), self-publishing, electronic publishing, book T-Shirts (these were NEAT! They're T-shirts that resemble sports shirts: a name and number on the back, only the name is a famous author! Some have images on them; e.g. Edgar Allan Poe's shirt had a black raven on it. It was awesome!), literary magazines, the world's smallest books, newspaper subscriptions, and so many more. Some of the booths house an author displaying his/her work.

There's a Children's Alley where characters from children's stories walk through, getting pictures taken with children. Clifford the Big Red Dog, Olivia, Curious George, and others I've seen but don't know were there. My son's favorite was Curious George - when he saw him, my son squealed his name, jumped up and ran towards him with a grin on his face. In Children's Alley, several larger tents, all themed, are set up with stations inside for stories, games, activities for the kids. These were a little too packed so we only looked around before continuing.

We mostly meandered throughout the street fair. I think we covered every side twice: Once before my son fell asleep, and once after. We spoke to authors, we bought books, and we ate ice cream and frozen lemonade. It was a hot day, but in the shade, a nice breeze kept us comfortable.

I enjoyed getting there rather early (not as early as I'd have liked, but before noon). The street fair hadn't gotten packed yet (which it does), and we could comfortably move.

The best line of the day was my husband's. When we arrived, a lady asked him, "What kind of books are you looking for?" To which he replied, without missing a beat, "One with words." She automatically looked at her list only to stop and look at him quizzically; then she just laughed, and my husband laughed, and my son laughed (though he had no idea why he was laughing) and I laughed.

Zoo Miami

2010-11-20T18:18:00.003-05:00

Here are some pics I took at Zoo Miami (formerly known as Miami Metro Zoo):

And the hubby took these:

Grasping for Patience

2010-11-18T09:45:00.001-05:00

I've debated whether or not to blog about this. On the one hand, I don't have any concrete answers. On the other, I feel I'm *thisclose* to finally getting some answers, whatever those may be. One thing's for certain: the last couple of months have been rough physically and emotionally.

Last Friday I went to visit a rheumatologist because the pain in my joints had started to interfere with regular activities, like brushing my teeth, walking up stairs, typing. The beginning of the semester brought with it subtle pains in my jaw and my wrists, but by last week, I was aching in elbows, ankles, fingers, toes. Forget wearing heels - I couldn't do that (I tried, heeled boots, and boy did I regret it!) Added to that was the fact that sleep has been shaky for the bulk of this semester. My son went through over a month of night terrors, and while he doesn't have those severe episodes anymore, he's still waking up at least once or twice throughout the night (monsters, shadows seem to be the culprits). My memory has been fading. All this I understood to be part of the role of a parent. Suck it up, right? Then, why, when he does sleep, do I still have trouble sleeping? The few times he slept through the night, or those Saturdays when my mom took him, I still woke up a few times or, if I slept through, I still woke up tired. And the week before Halloween, I had my first anxiety attack. This can't just be a turning-30 thing. There's more, but I'll spare you the entire clinical symptom list.

During my regular doctor's office, when I had the anxiety attack and she claimed I was too young to be having a heart attack, she suggested if the joint pain continued to go see a rheumatologist. So I did just that (right when I struggled to brush my teeth and, after, dying my hair, my left arm became practically useless).

I took a leap of faith and picked a name out of the listing. I saw some reviews, all positive, online, so I went with my gut. I wanted a woman doctor (for whatever reason I feel more comfortable with them) and received my appointment with one of the newer doctors in the group the Friday after I got back from Sanibel. After a slew of questions and xrays to the wrists/hands and knees, this is what she said: From the physical examination, she suspects fibromyalgia. I looked up the symptoms to fibromyalgia and they do seem to fit. However, apparently, fibromyalgia is only diagnosed through exclusion of other diseases with similar symptoms: hypothyroidism, lupus, rheumatoid arthritis (RA), vitamin D deficiency, strep-induced RA. So I got six vials of blood taken and I'm anxiously watching my phone for the results. One reason why I'm anxious is because back in 2005, my ANA (antinuclear antibodies) came out positive/elevated and since then, have for the most part remained positive (they have gone back to "normal" once or twice - I get them checked every year). Positive ANAs are, sometimes, precursors to autoimmune disorders, like lupus and RA. So of course, I'm nervous.

The xrays showed I have the beginnings of osteoarthritis in my knees, which really means I have to get up off my behind find time to exercise and lose weight. Walking, according to the doctor, is not enough. I need something like an elliptical machine. Which means gym. And I have no time for gym. I barely have time to grade all my students' papers! But whatever- I have to figure how to make it happen. The xrays also showed some possible inflammation in my fingers.

But I can't jump to conclusions, so I not-so-patiently wait for the blood work results (which I was told could take up to a week). All I really want is to find out what's going on in me so I can get some energy back and not feel like I'm falling apart. Is that really too much to ask?

The Island, Part 3 (The Conference)

2010-11-10T16:04:00.000-05:00

The actual conference - the reason why I was in Sanibel to begin with - started off slow, but ended nicely. The first few workshops I attended were, I think, designed more for the beginning writer. While I'm certainly not a pro (yet), I don't consider myself a beginning. If I were, I wouldn't be teaching writing in any sense of the word! Therefore, I had an issue when the bulk of one of the workshops revolved on the "show don't tell" principle. No shit, Sherlock! I assumed anyone who was in a writing conference would have a grasp on that concept.

But as Thursday bled into Friday, I was happier with my choices and I even carved out some writing time in between the workshops and panels. My favorite workshops were John Dufresne's workshop on the novel, Debra Monroe's workshop on memoir writing, and Denise Duhamel's workshop on poetry. That's not to say I didn't enjoy the rest, only that these were my favorites because I learned new "things" (yes, vague word, I know). The panel on memoir writing was interesting, though I didn't get much out of it that I didn't already know. The panel on online publishing was better; it tackled blogs, Facebook, twitter, publishing, copyrighting, and the pros/cons of publishing in online journals.

Meeting the authors, though, had to be one of the best parts of this conference. It reinforces the ideal that writing and publishing is possible, even with a family. I gained encouragement from the manuscript consultation with Debra Monroe, who was so down to earth, helpful, funny, and real. I was validated as a writer which, sometimes, is needed. Well, at least I do, anyway. In trying to juggle a full-time job (or, like they called it, a "day job"), motherhood, family life, and writing, sometimes I feel like I'm failing at all, because it's too much. I'm splitting myself into too many scarps. Forget binary opposites - there is nothing binary about it!

So it was nice, seeing Margo Rabb, author of young adult fiction, there with her two kids - a baby and a preschooler - and her husband. It was nice hearing Debra Monroe tell me how she got two books published in the first ten years of her daughter's life. It was comforting to know Robert Wilder can teach, write (and publish) and still have time for his family. It was reassuring seeing Steve Almond and his wife, both writers, there with their two kids, navigating the responsibilities of writer and parent.

Damnit - if they (and countless other writers) can do it, so can I! ;)

Of course, ironically, after the wonderful review of my manuscript, I received in the mail, when I got home, two more rejection letters. So close. Oh, so close. But I'm revisiting the pieces and sending out more work. If only the wait wasn't so excruciating.

The Island, Part 2

2010-11-08T07:54:00.000-05:00

There are very few "chains" here on this island. No Starbucks. No Burger King. No Marriott. Most of the stores, restaurants, coffee shops, and hotels are individually owned places. For this city girl who has become alarmingly comfortable with known names (and known food), this was disconcerting. Thank goodness for the Trevor, the front desk supervisor at the Sundial, who knew the area.

That's how we ended up, on Thursday, at the Island Cow for "linner" and Sanibel Bean for coffee.

The Island Cow is a cute establishment. When we got there, the large smiling cut-out of a cow greeted us. Outside, wooden beach chairs in pastels - blue, lavender, pink, yellow - decorated the entrance to the restaurant. An empty parrot cage stood near the door, and I briefly wondered where the parrot was. The food was tasty. I had the Beer Battered Fish and Chips with New England cod and home-made chips. My husband had the Dream Burger, and it was, in the words of my son, "kind of good."

The Sanibel Bean embodies the appeal of local coffee shops, at least, the appeal they hold with me. According to our "guide," the Sanibel Bean is family owned. When I walked in, pictures of customers holding an "I Love Sanibel Bean" sign decorated the walls, and the more I looked, the more pictures I found. Behind the register, there were a variety of coffee beans in plastic canisters, labeled by flavor: French Vanilla, Sumatra, Cinnamon, Colombian. I ordered a Latte Caramel, which was not quite my Caramel Macchiato, but was sweet and satiated that need for coffee dessert. It was, though, a little to sweet, so every subsequent visit I ordered a Vanilla Latte, which was perfect: sweet, milky, and enough caffeine to keep me awake and alert. On one of my breaks during the conference, I sat in the adjacent, screened-in section. This was the sit-down area, in a perfect blend of indoors and outdoors, and it was decorated with small, constant lights.

From there we explored the Blue Giraffe, where we ate two days in a row. Their Blue Giraffe Bistro Salad - which had lettuce, mandarine oranges, strawberries, walnuts, blue cheese (I opted not to have the blue cheese) and raspberry vinaigrette - with walnut crusted tilapia was fabulous. The combination of sweet, sour and salty comforted me. I've normally had this version of a salad with chicken but was won over with the tilapia. The other day I tried their lobster bisque and turkey/bacon wrap, but I was somewhat disappointed. Two spoonfuls into the bisque and I pushed it back, not able to take one more sip. To compensate, the waiter didn't charge us for the key lime pie - a home made delicacy that had just the right amount of tartness. We appreciated the gesture.

We also visited Jerry's Supermarket. It was clean, smaller than a usual Publix, but replete with that familiarity that only comes from a small, island establishment. The actual supermarket sat on the second floor of a building on stilts; the first floor was the designated parking and a conveyer belt, which we later learned was to bring down the groceries which an employee would then place in our car. I didn't feel in Florida. Jerry's Supermarket shares the building with several other boutiques and stores, as well as with five or six parrots, each of a different species. I can't remember them all now, but one of them (it was either Mia or Babe) like to say "What?" as we passed by while another (again, either Mia or Babe) croaked out "Hello" - my son scurried up and down the benches, leaning in to the plastic railings that separated the birds to the rest of us, and saying, "Mami, look!" He had fun.

One thing that I couldn't get over, even at the end, was how nice everyone was. Drivers actually respected the pedestrian crosswalks, and gave the right-of-ways. No one honked, yelled, or saluted with middle fingers. Everyone, all strangers, said "Hello" or "Good morning" or any other form of salutation, the good kinds. My husband rented a bike with a trailer, and both he and my son toured the island, from the wetlands and reserve to the playground to the barber shop. And all he could say was, "Wow, everyone's so nice! No one tried to run me off the road while I was on the bike!" That says a lot; try doing the same in the streets of South Florida, and you'll be lucky to get to your destination in one piece.

The Island, Part 1

2010-11-05T08:37:00.003-04:00

Sanibel Island is a small, heavily wooded island on the southern, Gulf Coast of Florida. It's tranquil, quiet, the only sounds coming from the crashing of the waves and the hum of the passing cars. I have yet to see an aggressive driver lean on his (or her) horn impatiently because the car in front is turning. But then again, I've only been here for one full day.

At night, Sanibel Island is dark. Not the kind of dark where you can still see in front of you because of some dim street light in the back corner. No, I'm talking about the kind of dark that comes with no artificial lights (no street lights, no house lights) mingled with abundant vegetation. There are no outlines of houses or trees, or bridges. Only blackness. It's the kind of darkness where you're swallowed whole, or where you walk with your hands in front of you, trying to find the way because you can't see. We arrived at Sanibel Island in this darkness, since the sun had already set when we drove through from the mainland and over the bridges - narrow, one-way bridges - and were engulfed in the darkness. I don't like crossing on bridges over any body of water - possibly as a result of the flimsy, wooden bridge suspended over a river by ropes, that we'd always have to drive over to get to my uncle's farm in Colombia, a bridge that sunk and rose and creaked, as if our weight were too much for its ropes and wooden planks - but I like less going over them in the dark, where I can't see the waters below me.

Thank God for GPS on phones. With it, we maneuvered through the darkness and made our way to the hotel. Imagine our dismay when we arrived, tired, cranky, late, only to see that where we were staying was more akin to a motel on the beach, refuge for passerby's, hitchhikers, and prostitutes. Our room was small and had the pungent scent of cigarette smoke and mildew covered up with air freshener. The one in-wall air conditioner hummed roughly. The carpet seemed dirty, with dry carcasses of centipedes, or worms. The white curtains had red stains on them, and they reminded me of a murder scene in a hotel room that's been cleaned up, only they missed a spot. I could not stay there. No way, no how. I was not sleeping in this dirty and decaying room with my husband and son. I didn't care if we had to sleep in the car. We were shown three other rooms, all in similar conditions, before I finally said: We're looking for another hotel. Now.

At 10 PM at night, in the darkness that envelops Sanibel Island, we locked ourselves in our car, with my son in the back asking continuously "What are we doing?" and the rain falling furiously on our car, drowning out the country music radio station we were playing. We took out our phones and began searching for hotels in the area. The downfall was that unless we got to the place, and unless there was light, there would be no way to really see what kind of accommodations we were getting ourselves into. In our search, we came up with the Sundial and in that moment of desperation it clicked - we'd stayed there before and we'd liked it. We called, there were rooms available, and we drove the five minutes to our new hotel.

The new room was better. It was actually a one-bedroom apartment with a full kitchen, for only $30 more a night. We settled in restlessly, and shortly after midnight, fell asleep. It was a night of wakings, night terrors, and little sleep.

The Need to Write

2010-10-25T07:47:00.000-04:00

I never feel the need to write more than when I'm stressed, wedged between responsibility and whim, on the edge of my own sanity. The semester begins and so do the stacks of papers to grade, classes to plan, committees to attend (and now, chair). That leaves little time for my own writing. The weekly essays I was getting out have halted, a screeching, smoke-building halt. I just don't have time.

But I have to make time because that writing is what keeps me sane. It's that simple.

So I'm stealing a few seconds between papers to come on here and blog. Because I don't have the time to work on anything longer. Because my trips in quiet solitude (or Starbucks solitude) are too few now to allow me to type out anything longer than a couple paragraphs of meandering thoughts. Because I want to write these stories that are swimming in my mind, reminding me of their existence, but I don't have the time to get them out. And it's frustrating. Infuriatingly frustrating.

It's not all gloom, however. In two weeks, I'll be attending the Sanibel Island Writer's Conference. I'm excited because I'll finally have a few days to write - just write. I'm hoping to attend some workshops on memoir, fiction, and young adult fiction. Maybe poetry, too, if I can fit the schedule. But my main projects now involve memoir/personal essay, fiction and young adult fiction, so that's where I hope to be. My hubby and son can enjoy the beaches and I'll enjoy the writing. I'm also excited because I have a manuscript consultation. I prepared and sent out the 10-page scene of my father's death and look forward to receiving feedback on it. At least I feel as if I'm getting some work done on my memoir.

I'm also waiting to hear back from Creative Nonfiction magazine and Brevity.com. I keep receiving rejections, but they haven't kept me down. Each rejection I receive puts me that much closer to receiving an acceptance. It also makes me better. I take that rejected piece, review it again, revise further, and resubmit. Sometimes, the piece is finished, for me, so I just resubmit. I wanted to submit a couple more pieces to Narrative Magazine and Glimmer Train (among others), but I haven't been able to work on those essays. We'll see if I get to make the deadlines.

But right now, my priority is to keep the words moving, dancing on the screen (or the page). My anxiety/panic attack this week is a confirmation that I need an outlet for my stress, and while others need to exercise, I need to write. Somehow, someway, I need to make that time.

Unhinged

2010-10-20T16:01:00.000-04:00

I feel myself becoming
unhinged
the seams tearing
one by one,
breaking.
Submerged, perhaps,
but more than that
sequestered
inside the four walls
that bleed yellow into
a flowered wallpaper
like my father had in my Barbie house,
long ago, before he became unhinged.
The voices don't speak,
I hear silence except for the
pat-pat-pat of my heart,
the tempo rising so I cover my ears
but I still hear it.
Loud.
Strong.
My hands shake, my chest caves in.
I can't breathe.

Birthday Blues, or Singulair Side-Effect?

2010-10-04T19:49:00.001-04:00

I've been feeling rather blue for the last two days. (I find that term so funny. Why blue? Why not maroon or green or yellow? The colors we associate with moods are interesting, for sure.)

Yesterday was a real doozy without a big reason. I felt odd, out of it. I couldn't make a decision and just felt lifeless. Sad. Overwhelmed. As if pressure were squeezing me slowly. My poor husband. It was my birthday weekend and Saturday we'd had a nice, small dinner at my mom's. I was okay then, only tired. Yesterday, we were supposed to go to a wedding in the afternoon and I was looking forward to dressing up, going out (sans kids) and dancing. It didn't happen. Earlier in the day, my husband tried cheering me up by forcing me to get a manicure and pedicure, which I hadn't gotten in several months, and it was okay. But it didn't cheer me up. All of this was minor and consciously, I knew it. I knew I had no reason to feel the way I did, but I just couldn't shake the sadness off. I felt like a dog wanting to shake herself after a bath but no matter how hard I shook, the water still clung on. I cried myself to sleep last night.

Of course, my son woke up several times last night, which means I didn't get a good night's rest. I woke up feeling better but the veil was still over me. I felt just like I did a few years back when I went through depression. There was no rhyme or reason; it just was. I wondered if I was feeling the birthday blues since tomorrow's my birthday, though that's new for me, too, because I love my birthdays. I love celebrating. I don't mind being another year older if I get to celebrate!

At work, I wasn't my usual cheerful self. I dragged through the day though I did start to feel progressively better towards the latter part. By the time I got home, I felt livelier. I didn't feel the pressure. I wasn't suffocating. I was aggravated and irritated by some things, but within my normal self. I was relieved. And then I thought - wait, I didn't take Singulair today. Click. My allergies were bothering me. They didn't bother me the last two days when I took them. Click. Oh crap - what are the side effects for Singulair? Click. So I looked it up, and here's what it says (online):

SINGULAIR may cause serious side effects.

Behavior and mood-related changes have been reported. Tell your healthcare provider right away if you or your child have any of these symptoms while taking SINGULAIR:

agitation including aggressive behavior or hostility
bad or vivid dreams
depression
disorientation (confusion)
feeling anxious
hallucination (seeing or hearing things that are not really there)

irritability
restlessness
sleep walking
suicidal thoughts and actions (including suicide)
tremor
trouble sleeping

Great. That's the problem with any type of synthetic medications - side effects. Loads of them, too! Of course, I'm not feeling most of these, just a mild case of the blues (and maybe some agitation and irritability and anxiety), but still, maybe I'm going to skip the Singulair tomorrow and put a call in to my doctor. Just in case. Of course, I researched this after I took it this afternoon because my allergies were driving me crazy. Eh, we'll see how I feel tomorrow. I'm just happy to know that maybe this is just a side effect of the medication and I'm not depressed about turning older! ;)

Miami Skyline

2010-10-01T16:01:00.000-04:00

I never get tired of seeing the Miami skyline. Or maybe it's because I don't see it that often that every time I have to drive towards Downtown and enter the highway, either from US1 or from 836), I suck my breath in and hold it for a few seconds. Awe washes over me and I feel poetic. You'd never think concrete buildings, glass, and towering structures could do that, but they do. As much as I feel I belong in the country (because, really, I'm a country, mountain girl at heart), the city sights really do it for me.

Today was one of those days. After rushing out of a doctor's appointment, and needing to head up north for a meeting, I decided to take a different route, one that took me by the city's center. As soon as my car entered the lanes of I95, I felt the change. The towers of white, gray and green rose from the side of the bridges and I inhaled sharply. It's beautiful. On either side of me, the buildings grew. Blues and yellows came in focus, adding to the palate. The glass window panels of the buildings reflected the sun; we had no rain today, so the clouds couldn't take away from the beauty.

The most striking part about this scenery is the contrast of wealth and poverty. I guess it's like this in many centers, but on that drive on I95, the differences are sharp. The roads need work, the cement sides are peeling, with graffiti in some corners. New buildings are erected everywhere, next to dilapidated towers, some barely standing. Camillus House stands next to the highway, reminding travelers of the reality of the homeless that, in this plummeting economy, have grown in number.

The pictures of the skyline are abundant. It's fed into advertisements for tourism precisely because of its beauty. It's undeniably impressive. But just looking at the buildings, really looking, gives us a glimpse beyond the facade.

New Bookmarks

2010-09-26T19:49:00.000-04:00

Here are two more bookmarks. I have eleven more I'm working on, which I hope to finish sometime in the next week or so. It all depends on what happens with my writing and my grading.

My Love Affair: Starbucks

2010-09-23T20:28:00.001-04:00

I admit it, rather candidly at first, my eyes downcast, my cheeks flushed: I have a love affair with Starbucks. Or, rather, with coffee shops with writing-inducing, relaxing atmospheres. There's just something about walking into a Starbucks (or the like), and inhaling deeply the rich scent of brewing coffee, that sets me right. It's my happy place. I can get a quick fix and just drop by to get my usual: a tall Caramel Macchiato; or, as I prefer, I can claim a table, bring out my laptop, set up my station, and just lean back and dive into my world, my memories. This is my time.

Not all coffee shops are created equal, not even all Starbucks's. The ideal ones have a few things in common: friendly baristas, good music that's not too loud (and I have no specifics for good music; I have an eclectic taste), and a collection of customers that come and go, leaving whispers of their days behind. That, for me, is perfection. Is that such a bad thing? Perhaps for my wallet and my waist line, though I do have my rewards card (so I can indulge in free coffee periodically) and I do limit myself (to one or two treats a day, depending on how hectic the day is).

So there. My confession for today.

Lost Treasures

2010-09-17T19:07:00.002-04:00

Today I relished in a day off from having to drive up to work. No thirty-six-mile commute for me. Instead, after dropping my son off at school, I drove three minutes to the nearest Starbucks, where everyone knows my name (I have the melody from Cheers in my mind...) I parked myself there, with a venti Caramel Macchiato, and proceeded to rewrite the scene of my father's death. I had decided that would be the scene I wanted to benefit from the manuscript consultation at Sanibel Island Writer's Conference because it's been one of the hardest to write. It will more than likely be one of the last chapters in my book, and one that is still raw. It's been two and a half-years since he died, but I still remember every second of that day (though some parts have begun to fade along the edges and time has warped a little.)

I sat for almost four hours. I had a six-page "draft" I had churned out about a year and a half-ago. But it was all telling. It was a synopsis of what happened, but not real writing. So I put it aside and started fresh from memory, choosing a starting point that wasn't the beginning, and worked it. I ended with ten pages, the limit I needed for the manuscript consultation. I know I can expand it more, though I don't know if I need to. We'll see how the consultation goes. It's a deeply personal piece, one that I hope can stand on its own (in narrative) and that will be a part of the bigger picture (the book.)

After I finished, I had a quick bite at Subway (the usual - six-inch turkey and provolone cheese with lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, spinach, oil, vinegar, salt and pepper - I don't stray from that either.) Then I returned a pair of shoes, and sat in my car, not sure where to next. I had at least another hour before I could go pick up my little one, since he was napping at school, and then it hit me: Go to mom's house. I had to go anyway, because she'd made some Abui yogurt and soup, so it was the perfect excuse to go and esculcarle for the music sheets my dad had written me.

It's always the same when I go to my mom's house: I expect to see my dad. Even though a chair now sits at the head of the dining table, which was his place, and since he was in a wheelchair, didn't need a chair, there was a glass of water on the table and a small prescription drug bottle on that side. My mom's taken it over, but it reminds me of him.

(Note: I keep saying house, but it's an apartment. We just always called it la casita when referring to it among ourselves.)

Anyway, my first greeting was a large roach on its back, dying. I sprayed some Raid on it, which caused it to start wiggling, causing me to itch. I despise roaches. I emptied out a small, white trashcan my mom had and placed it over the roach, giving it privacy while it died and giving me comfort that it wouldn't suddenly spring back to life and chase me. Ha!

I went into my old bedroom, where I last knew the music sheets were, and I started searching. I looked around, moved books and boxes, removed bags, and found nothing. I prayed - Lord, illuminate me, give me an inclination where these things may be - and then I looked up. On the uppermost shelf of the closet where things, only I couldn't tell exactly what those things were. So I moved a chair, climbed up, and moved some more. Sure enough, all the way to the back and right was a stack of folders and a white box. I got them and saw what I'd been looking for and so much more: awards, certificates, letters, music sheets, pictures, my baby book, school years memories, and old stories and poems I'd written! There was also a folder with information, schedule, etc. of when I played the bells for the superintendent of schools back in 1990 representing Everglades Elementary. Cool!

I came home with my treasure, eager to sift through it. I discovered (and somehow, I'd forgotten) that I wrote short stories when I was in high school, the early years. I remember writing poetry (really cliched, love-struck, rhyming poetry) because poems plagued my journals. But in a notebook, there they were: typed short stories with character development on a side sheet, typed in the first computer I owned: a hand-me-down dot-matrix computer! Insane. They were better than the poems I wrote (though that doesn't necessarily say much about my writing back then)!

The best part, by far, has been the letters written to my mom and me by my dad, back in early 1990 when he went through a health crisis. He went to Colombia to get better, believing more in the doctors there than those here. These letters now give me a glimpse into his desperation, frustration and, more importantly, love. His love for us. His affection. I don't remember that, and I wish I did. I wish I remember his telling me he loved me and he was proud of me. I wish I remember that affection. I don't, but I now have these letters as proof they were real.

What prompted the search, though, and which I found, was the song he wrote for me when I turned nine. He played the piano, and he wanted me to learn. He also wrote music and lyrics, mostly religious ones when he was a priest. (I have recently found his collection of sheet music with church songs.) Well, he wrote two songs for me, that I remember: when I turned nine and when I went to Colombia by myself (I was also nine, almost ten.)

Here are the words to my daddy's song (in Spanish, of course):

Mujercita eres ya
nueve son tus añitos. (Repeat)
El señor, que es tu Padre,
no te fallará jamás.
Siempre fiel a su amor.
Conducir te sabrá
por senderos oscuros
y llevarte a la gloria
de la ciencia y la virtud.

So yep, that was it. Short, but sweet and spiritual.

More Wooden Jewelmarks

2010-08-04T21:26:00.003-04:00

More Bookmarks -

2010-08-04T19:35:00.001-04:00

I've done a few more Wooden Jewelmarks, and I have a few more in the process. I'm looking forward to getting this on the road, and I hope to be creating either a website where I can sell them. In the meantime, look for them by word of mouth or at a trunk show coming soon! :)

Seafoam Star

Red Lantern

More Bookmarks

2010-07-16T20:52:00.001-04:00

Here are some more:

Latest Adventure: Bookmarks

2010-07-16T08:02:00.001-04:00

Because I obviously don't have enough to do in my spare time *insert hugely sarcastic tone here* I decided to venture into new territory. I love pretty bookmarks. I love creative jewelmarks that hold the place of the story du jour while being aesthetically pleasing. So I set out on a quest at Michaels to find jewelry, ribbons, quotes, and other materials for my creations. I'm just getting started, so I think they're a little rusty, but still, I'm proud of my newest children.

Here are four that I recently did (I call this "The Wooden Collection):

Like with writing, the start is the spark that lights the ideas. I have all these ideas and themes for cute bookmarks. I started out with just a few paints in basic colors, so my next step is to look at different acrylic paints and stencils. I have other ideas, also, for materials. These are called "Wooden Collection" because they're made from wood. However, I'm have a few other possibilities in mind. Once I master the wood, I'll move on to the next raw material.

Goal, apart from unleashing creativity in yet another medium? I would love to sell these. :) Let's see how that goes!

The Twilight Saga

2010-07-08T15:28:00.000-04:00

I reluctantly embarked in reading the whole series: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn. I don't know why I was reluctant. Something about now being thirty and reading a young adult series discouraged me somehow. It wasn't meant to be proper literature, and after spending a decade studying "real" literature, I felt disconnected. Of course, this attitude was rather hypocritical on my part seeing as to how I'm an avid Harry Potter fan and that way back when I used to devour the Ann Rice Vampire Chronicle books. But that was eons ago, a different time and a different world for me. I think another reason I evaded Twilight, though, was the response my (female) students had to the books and, particularly, to the movies. So much was the teenage frenzy that, quite frankly, I didn't know if I could relate.

Well, I was sucked into this Twilight universe so quickly I didn't have a chance to resist! I read the first book, Twilight, in a few days. I read the second, New Moon, in two days (but really, about 6 hours, 3 each day); I read the third, Eclipse, in about 6 hours of one day. I became a Twifan, or whatever it is they're calling Twilight fans these days. Breaking Dawn, the fourth and final book in the saga, I read in a day. I became obsessed, donning a have-to-find-out-what-happens attitude that I think mimics the frenzy with which addicts take to their drugs. It was wonderful and disconcerting, all in one, and it resurfaced bits of me that had been long dormant, that I had pushed away in order to tend to reality.

It's not hard to get sucked in, though, if you remember anything about being 17 and in love. The intensity of first love, the power of finding out what these emotions do to you mentally and physically, is so vividly described in these books that I literally felt like I was 17 again, all giddy and giggly. I loved it! They're not perfect, but I loved them nonetheless.

So here's my take *warning: may contain spoilers*:

Twilight

I loved the characters from the beginning. There's a lot of criticism about the character Bella Swan, the damsel in distress who always needs to be protected by either Edward or Jacob. She's a hazard to herself because she's clumsy and a magnet for danger and trouble, but the connection between her and Edward is wonderful and Stephanie Meyer did a great job in writing and building the romantic tension between the two. Jacob doesn't have much a role in this first book. He's still a kid who has a crush on Bella. The main story here is Bella and Edward falling in love and figuring out that while they're so different (um, yea, one's human, the other's a vampire!), they still realize how much they love and need each other. It's a selfless, innocent love.

New Moon

I started New Moon eagerly, wanting to know what happened to the Edward and Bella, knowing that somewhere I was going to understand the whole Team Edward and Team Jacob thing. And sure enough, when Edward leaves and Bella is plunged into the rawness of a broken heart, here came Jacob. I was a little annoyed at times in this book because the relationship between Bella/Jacob very much paralleled that of Bella/Edward in the first book. The same song and dance was going on. He (now turning into a werewolf) claims he's no good for her while she neglects reason and safety just to feel loved. The dialogue gave me some deja vu. Still, it was endearing seeing their relationship grow from friendship to something more, even if Bella wasn't admitting it. I do think if she'd never jumped off a cliff, and if Edward hadn't thought she was dead, and if he hadn't gone to the Volturi and she to go save him, Bella would've ended up with Jacob. As a human, Jacob was for her. But the events happened the way they did and, of course, there has to be some action other than just the romantic triangle. I was sad for Jacob in the end.

Eclipse

Of course, once I started with the series, I want - no, I need - to finish all books involved. In between getting the books, I read anything online I could get my hands on. I read the summaries, I read Stephanie Meyer's website. I wanted more. I needed to know more about the characters. It was fun. ;)

So Eclipse I anticipated much more than the other two. The first, well, I didn't know what I was getting myself into. The second, I saw the movie first, so I had more of an idea of what was happening (more on the whole movie/book thing later). But when I started Eclipse, I had only an idea of what was going on because of the movie trailers (the film had come out recently, on June 30) and Stephanie Meyer's website. So I took to it like air for my lungs and I read. This was my favorite of the saga. The raw emotions in this book were fabulous. The romantic triangle came around full force as Bella realized her true feelings for Jacob and, even though that didn't change how she felt about Edward, it brought vulnerability to her character. The despair she feels when she has to tell Jacob good-bye is real and fresh. I was sorely disappointed that Kristen Stewart couldn't give that same emotion in the movie and that those pivotal scenes were left out of the movie. Of course, the whole vampire + werewolf coalition was great and the fight scene was pretty well done. But my favorite parts of this book had to do with the way the characters really came to life while making sense of their feelings.

Breaking Dawn

Ah. Breaking Dawn. I read it because, in my mind, I had to. I could not start the series and not finish it. I liked it, sure. It gave me closure. I didn't hate it the way some of the critics raged about it. I didn't mind that they didn't fight in the end; in fact, I agree that the symbolism behind the cover (the queen in a chess game) and the idea of mind over brawn was pivotal for this book. But I was disappointed. I wanted more. The romantic tension between Edward and Bella was so strong in all three previous novels that I was expecting more in this final installment where they actually get married, go on their honeymoon and *gasp* have sex. While I didn't want to read porn, I did expect a little more build-up to the "sex-scenes" - if they can even be called that. I wanted more romance.

The birthing scene was a little too graphic, but it didn't bother me as much. It's hard not to have a graphic birthing scene with the type of pregnancy/birth that this was: a half-vampire, half-human that developed and grew at an alarmingly accelerated pace. I mean, she was ravenous the day after their first time together! Her pregnancy lasted a couple months, and it broke her, literally. I do like that this was how she became a vampire, though, because it was an act of love in a way.

I have mixed feelings about the whole shift in point-of-view in the second section. I like it because I love hearing inside all character heads. I read the part of Midnight Sun that Meyer has on her website, which is Twilight told from Edward's perspective, and I loved reading The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner for precisely the same reason: I want to know more about all the characters. I have so much invested in this story, in these characters, that I want to know more about them. However, I don't think that the voices are distinct enough. While reading Jacob, I still thought at times I was reading Bella. Still, it was nice getting that other perspective.

The third part of the book is probably my favorite for Breaking Dawn. I loved seeing Bella transform from clumsy human to agile vampire, and I loved that she was able to skip through the whole "newborn" phase. She had control; whether it was her own will or whether that was part of her natural power can be contested, but it was great. I loved the introduction of all the other vampire covens and seeing Bella become the savior for her family. She was no longer the damsel in distress but the knight, ready to defend her family and thinking logically for the best move. I am undecided yet about how I feel about the whole Jacob imprinting on Renesmee, though. I thought that was an awkward resolution to the Edward/Bella/Jacob triangle. I guess the magic of imprinting erases all past strings, and I know that's what was being alluded, but still... I don't know. It didn't work great for me.

But I did get closure, sort of. I want to know what else happens to the new, happy family throughout eternity. ;)

Thinking ahead, I see so much possibility for using these books in my classes. It makes me giddy all over again! From making connections to the "classics" Meyer references in all four books, to philosophical questions about whether we really have free will to choose between right and wrong (or between what we're born into/with and what we want to be), to the history of all the vampire characters and important historical moments they cover. It's a goldmine!

The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

2010-05-29T22:40:00.000-04:00

This is going to be on the short side, and while I should be going straight to sleep, I have to make this transition from end of book to the mundane (have I mentioned I like that word?).

I just finished The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, and I had to take a deep breath. This was a toughie for me. I spent the good first half of the memoir shaking my head and wondering whether I really wanted to keep reading through this dysfunctional family. I kept wanting the Department of Children and Families to go in and swoop the four kids away from those reckless parents. But then again, it wouldn't have left as much of an imprint, I think. By the end of the memoir, I want to know what happens and I'm rooting for Jeannette and her siblings to get out of that oppressive hole.

The Glass Castle is certainly a memoir about acceptance. Where Eat, Pray, Love contained a self-conscious, woe-is-me tone, Walls writes without blame. She is matter-of-fact, here is what happened, and she doesn't succumb to lamenting her childhood. It proves how strong she really is.

It's also a memoir about love, in a dysfunctional, different kind of way. It astounds me that two brilliant people like her parents could be so irresponsible. I have an almost-three-year-old son and I could never imagine doing the things Walls's mom did. I shook my head many times during this past week, while I read her memoir. I shook my head in incredulity.

I brought out my imaginary pom-poms, though, when she finally had enough and told her mom and dad off, and when she and her sisters and brother broke free. The parents became the children and the children the parents. Sometimes it's more obvious than others, and in The Glass Castle it certainly was obvious.

But the end. Oh the end. The part when her dad asks to speak to her and, in the same call, asks for a bottle of Vodka - that part reminded me of my dad. Not because of the alcohol, because my dad didn't drink, but because my dad's addiction to smoking was just as bad as her dad's with alcohol. In the end, I gave up fighting his smoking habits and indulged him. It killed him indirectly, in the end, but I still indulged him.

So I definitely recommend this memoir, but it's not for the faint of mind. Those with children, beware, because it has you clutching on to your own kids more dearly. I'm still amazed that after going through such a childhood, Jeannette Walls came out brilliant and overcame the set backs in which she was born.

Memories

2010-05-27T11:42:00.000-04:00

My mother and I used to play Parques, much like the American Parcheesi, but the Colombian version. Mom and I would sit cross legged on our sofa and begin the game. This is back when I wasn't a teenage yet and my mom still had energy and hadn't been dragged down by my dad's illnesses. We were happy then, and we laughed.

The games would happen sometimes during the week nights, but more often than not, our Parques game night happened on Saturday nights, after dinner, and while we watched Sabado Gigante back when it was still somewhat decent and women were three-quarters clothes (as opposed to the now three-quarters naked women pushing their Latin sexuality on the audiences). Dad never played; this was Mom's and my game. I would go to the closet and bring out the box with the vibrant greens, yellows, reds and blues. Mom would sit on the sofa, trimming her cuticles while she waited. I'd set up the game and chose the color - Mom would always let me choose the color - and then we'd start. I won often, and sometimes I think she'd let me win. We would talk and laugh and enjoy that time.

Then Dad stopped sleeping and started taking some sleeping pills sent from Colombia. Our games stopped around then. We were in the 2-bedroom apartment with the den. My godparents had died in the 1990 plane crash in New York, and we had left Westchester for good. I was a new face, with glasses and braces, in a new school, secluded to my studies. That's when Dad started breaking more glasses, and when the screaming became ordinary. My mom and I would go walking now; no more Parques games because something would set my dad off and the board would fly, the game pieces would get lost, and my mom would cry.

I miss those games.

I remember

2010-05-26T12:20:00.000-04:00

I remember a collage of my father's stories. I don't remember then in complete form, although I wish I did. But I do remember some pieces.

When my father was young, I want to say twelve, although I don't know if this is exact or not, my father started smoking homemade cigarettes. He and his cousin would hide in the sotano of his home and there, by a motorcycle, would roll up some cigarettes. What exactly he used, I'm not sure. I wish I would've asked him before he died, though. There's so much I would ask now.

I remember another story. He was a priest now with a disdaining vice. This vice could get him kicked out of the seminary in a heart beat. He was a smoker. He would hide his cigarettes in his sotana and would sneak in a smoke whenever possible.

I remember him always smoking. He smoked Winston cigarettes or a Colombian brand. No other cigarettes would do. He wouldn't smoke in the house, though; my mom had put a stop to that when I was young in our Westchester home. He would go outside. Of course, back when he drove, he would smoke in his cars: the beat-up old vomit-green Chrysler or the two-door once-white stick shift car. I don't remember the make or model of that one. Los carros viejos, my mom used to call them. The old cars. My dad only like the old stuff. That was good stuff. Give him old cars, old furniture, old appliances, and he was happy. He didn't like new things - new stuff didn't last, wasn't made well. He was an old man even then, clinging on to a past he could never get back. I wonder if being a priest made him that way, or perhaps, he was a priest because he was that way.

What I remember the most, though, was him in his wheel-chair, post amputation. He had gone almost three months without a cigarette. My mom and I whispered behind his back that he was finally cured. He had even stopped asking for them. Then, when he was let out, the first thing he said to my mom was: "Ole, bring me my cigarettes." And he kept on smoking. If the doctors asked him, he'd get angry, saying, "What do they care anyway!" And he stopped wanting to go to the doctors because then he'd have to tell them the truth.

My mom took to restricting his smoking. He now received an allowance of three cigarettes a day, and an extra one for special occasions. After breakfast, lunch and dinner, he would call out to my mom: "Ole, my cigarette!" while he put his shirt on (he was always shirt-less at home). And my mom would sigh, slowly rise from the sofa, go to her closet where she hid them in a place only she knew (she had to change them a few times because my dad would look for them and, occasionally, find them) and grudgingly bring him his prize. He would chuckle, place the cigarette in his front shirt pocket along with the lighter, and roll his way out the front door. He would stay there for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, contemplating every inhale of nicotine, and then he'd slowly roll back inside, the scent of smoke lingering around him. Everything about him smelled like smoke.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

2010-05-22T14:04:00.000-04:00

I just finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love and, in simplest terms, I loved it – but it’s complicated love. I bought the book right before my Disney cruise, hoping to spend time rekindling my romance with the written word. I haven’t read much lately that didn’t have to do with essays, stories, poems, and even a graphic memoir – all for school. For work. Pleasure reading has been nonexistent. I think the last reading I did just because was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and even that book I will be using in my classes. I started reading Isabel Allende’s The Sum of my Days, in Spanish, but that is sitting now in my bookshelf, the Tinkerbell bookmark sitting about one-third of the way, collecting dust. It’s not happening.

So I decided to indoctrinate myself into my summer “vacation” with a memoir (my genre of choice) that could balance between chick-lit and seriousness, romance and truth, dreams and reality, humor and spirituality. I think I’ve hit the mark with Eat, Pray, Love.

I had received numerous, mixed reviews from friends who’ve read it (and a somewhat Sparks Notes report from a student) and I was intrigued. But I hadn’t really read what it was about. Not really. I envisioned a plot similar to that of Under the Tuscan Sun, only transcending three countries.

My reading journey began a few days before we left for Cape Canaveral; I just couldn’t wait to start reading. And I was disappointed – at first. I started reading, expecting a literary fluency akin to Madeleine Blais’s Uphill Walkers, and I was disappointed. The language was okay. The writing was at times clichéd. At one point I felt I was reading my students’ papers. It was a disaster.

But so was Gilbert’s life at that point. I think there was a correlation. During the time she spent in Italy, in pursuit of culinary pleasures, the writing was superficial and basic. But there was humor, and her story surrounded me, transported me, and soon I was forgetting about whether the metaphor was silly or whether her description was basic, and I was immersed in her experience. When I finished the first third of the book, aboard the Disney Wonder in the Bahamas, I was sad to say good-bye to Italy. I love Italy, and my desire to learn Italian intensified.

And then Gilbert took me to an ashram in India, a place I have never thought of visiting – ever. I actually have very limited knowledge of Eastern meditation and religions. And when I say very limited, I literally mean very, very limited. I know of Hinduism and Buddhism, but that’s it and on the surface level. Gilbert’s account in this ashram in a remote village of India, and her explanations of spirituality, captivated me more than the pleasure of eating pasta in the many historic Italian cities and towns. It left me yearning and wanting that spiritual peace. And her way of making sense of the diversity of religion and how it’s all the same – and how in that ashram, people of all religions were there in order to get closer to their Gods (Christian, Jewish, Muslim – it didn’t matter) – it made sense to me. Actually, a lot of what she said during her spiritual journey made sense to me. Not all, but a good amount. We’re all in this search for divinity, for spiritual and religious belonging, whether we want to admit it or not. We need something, and what we call that something varies. We are so focused on our location in the map of society that we become lodged on this canvas, without realizing that it’s not flat, but round, ever existing, ever changing, ever merging into itself. We have the freedom to move – yet we don’t. It’s an interesting concept. This section also made me think of the juxtaposition of those two terms we sometimes use interchangeably: religion and spirituality. They’re not interchangeable. They’re different. One can be uber religious and not find spiritual peace. Crazy concept, I know, but think about it. We all know someone who prays every day, attends religious services all the time, and proclaims to be “holier than thou” but at closer inspection, the spiritual storm that exists in this person’s heart is tumultuous and it’s seen in actions, in words, in subtle hints that alert us to the true spiritual nature of this person. He is not at peace with himself, his life. She is not at one with her creator, whoever that creator is for her. Different words for the same thing – this is what I took from Gilbert’s experience in the Ashram in India. Let go and let God is what I learned at an Emmaus retreat. Let go and let God, in different words, is what Gilbert learned in the second section of the book.

And her writing was changing skins, just as she was changing, rising through meditation from her worldly suffering to the divine.

The concept of “same-same,” as her Balinese Medicine Man, Ketut, says it, is brought to the center in the third and final section of Eat, Pray, Love. In Indonesia, Gilbert attempts to find balance in her life. After four months in Italy searching for pleasure (non-carnal pleasure as she’s on self-imposed celibacy), and after four months in India searching for spirituality, she arrives in Bali equipped with some newfound confidence and ease of being with and by herself. She sets off at figuring out how to combine pleasure and spirituality, and in doing so, stumbles on love.

Her writing style towards the end is different, or maybe I was so engrossed with the story that I forgave. Maybe there was a purpose – write for the masses with humor, especially for women who are hurting – and the style is overlooked. In reading reviews, I saw some call her writing a form of whining, and at times, I agreed. But I think it was needed. When we’re so neck-deep in our own pit of sorrow, it’s hard not to whine. In the beginning of her book, Gilbert was in that place. The wallowing, self-pity, snot-inducing place. By the end of the book, she wasn’t, and her ascension to that place of contentment becomes evident in her writing. It was well done, I think.

In another post, when I have some more quiet time, I'll point out a few passages I absolutely loved - especially one in which Richard from Texas explains his theory about soul mates to Gilbert. It's definitely one of those things that make you pause and ponder.

So now I want to read Committed which, lucky for me, was recently published. It starts where Eat, Pray, Love left off, and I can’t wait. I’m also looking forward to the movie, starring Julia Roberts, that’s due out this summer.

Finding purpose in ramblings

2010-05-13T10:57:00.000-04:00

I finally have the time to write. I've been sitting here at Starbucks, after dropping off L at daycare, sipping my Caramel Macchiato, and listening to the arrangement of 80's and 90's hip hop that's reverberating from the two speakers. I had told myself that today was my day to write; instead, though, I've been arranging my online classes, replying to emails, grading the first few essays: in other words, doing anything but creative work. I feel somewhat useless, actually. I don't know where to start, or how or why. What's the purpose?

Then I remember - the purpose. To write. Just to get this crazy, mixed-up world out in writing so that I can make sense of it, and of myself. So I don't wallow in grief when the news of a child found murdered or molested comes. So I don't succumb to the nasty switch of PMS. So I can speak out, even if my audience is a corner of nowhere, a back-lit screen, or a lined paper. I don't care. I have things to say, even if I'm not sure what those things are.

I think things happen for a reason (cliche, yes, I know). I wasn't meant to get into the MFA program. It's been hard enough combining motherhood with work and writing. I'm not there yet. I don't have the leisure many MFA students have. I can't just pick up and form a part of this secret society where only those who belong can become successful novelists, essayists, poets, etc. I am a mom, wife, daughter, teacher. I have multiple responsibilities, and while I need to write, and I need a good writer's group to help me improve, I am limited right now. This is just a reality I need to come to terms with, and as I do, I will be much healthier.

So in the meantime, I'm reading and, yes, writing, too; only I'm writing without pressure. No deadlines, no stress. I'm just writing. I do want to submit a few things, but we'll see how that goes. I don't know how much I actually want to do. I am also looking at possibilities of online writing courses. UCLA Writer's Extension seems to have a fabulous certificate program and the best part is that it's online! It's help. Another thing I'm considering is forming an online critique group of writers who are facing the same constraints I am. And I'm writing about being a mother to an energetic almost-three-year-old who swears he can do everything himself. I see the same defiance and yearning for independence in him that I have. And I love it.

So for now, I sit here at Starbucks and, in between writing, I watch people and, unwillingly eavesdrop. The three Census workers have left. They were loud, but their conversation interested me. Somewhere in this insane county, some lady snatched the paperwork from a Census worker, slammed the door shut, only to later reopen it and throw it, crumpled, back at them. They were instructed by the boss man -a fifty-something-year-old man, balding save some peaks of white strands- to call the police immediately should something like that happen. This same man was here yesterday with two women, Colombian - I conversed briefly with them when I heard the beloved singing of the Paisa accent. I'm now assuming they were Census workers, too.

But they've left. Starbucks is empty. Only the employees, counting change, and I, half-hidden in my corner below the speaker, are here.

Life's a Box of Disappointments

2010-04-09T17:02:00.000-04:00

But then really, is that something new? C'est la vie. I received today my second rejection letter; this time it was for the MFA program. Realistically, I know that if I would've gotten in, it would've been tough. It's hard enough juggling work with motherhood, but juggling work, motherhood and school - whew! Still, I can't say it doesn't hurt and even chip away even more at my confidence. I know I write well; I've been commended on several occasions. I've even told that I had the hardest part out of the way: finding my own voice. But still, when rejection after rejection come, it's easy to falter and think it's not good enough.

But I will keep writing - even if for a fraction of a second I think to hang my coat up and just put it all away. I can't stop. I really started when my dad died, and I can't stop. I won't. I refuse to give up. These rejections will, someday, turn into acceptance letters!

A Poem: God, why hast thou forsaken us?

2010-03-25T14:12:00.000-04:00

*Note: this is still a work in progress; this is a second draft.

She is silent, a small and still frame by the river’s edge.
She is half-submerged in the obscure waters,
surrounded by desolation, anguish, destruction.
God, why hast thou forsaken us?

She hears whimpers and screams on the water’s surface.
Muddied souls, near death, surround her;
She is their pain; she is their suffering.
God, why hast thou forsaken us?

She sees hooded figures, shadows of dark robes,
wrinkled by the day’s calling. They reach for her
and for those around her.
God, why hast thou forsaken us?

She looks at them, knowing them,
half frightened, part curious,
but she is still, waiting.
God, why hast thou forsaken us?

She tries to fall on her knees,
to cry out towards the heavens
in indignation, anger, and fear.
God, why hast thou forsaken us?

She tries to speak the words she’s
desperate to say: God, why?
but the question evaporates
before it has time to condense into sound.
She pleads, her eyes fixed
on the clouds above her,
sparse cotton painting the azure sky.
She receives silence from above,
but below her, the ground rumbles,
trembles fiercely; the earth moves,
cracks, crumbles, collapses.
The river rises.
Mama, she whispers. Papa.
But the first waters had taken them home.
She’s going to join them soon.
God, why hast thou forsaken me?

She is silent now, her eyes resting.
The wind cools her but she’s not afraid.
She sees Mama and Papa coming for her;
they are smiling.
God, you have not forsaken me.

Success by any other name

2010-03-19T18:30:00.000-04:00

I was reading through some blogs, trying to despejar my mind of the clutter that's accumulated when I came across this post. I felt as if I could've written the exact same thing, only I didn't. And in reading the comments, I came across this magnificent quote:

"At the end of my life, would I rather be someone who's won a Pulitzer and has a string of bestsellers...or would I rather be surrounded by people I love and who love me, and who believe I made their lives just a bit better by being there? Not saying you can't have both, but I know which achievement(s) would matter more to me in the end."

This really puts our goals into perspective. All of our lives we're taught to "be somebody" and that usually means being successful, having a career, making money, and becoming something that society would approve. But by whose standards are we gauging success? As her quote implies, there's an order of importance when it comes to the goals we have. In my life, there are many things I want to accomplish, at various levels, and with this quote, it's easy for me to see what's the most important: my family. Simple as that. Now hopefully I can remember that when I get my stories going and I aspire to be the next bestseller....

(IM)mortality

2010-03-17T16:04:00.000-04:00

Lately it seems as if I've been consumed with thoughts of mortality, and not just my own. I've come to the conclusion that part of being indoctrinated into adulthood comes with experiencing deaths. Sometimes, that indoctrination comes earlier, but regardless of when it happens, it's impacting.

My first experience of loss came by way of my godparents when I was about ten years old, but I don't remember much about what I felt. I remember I cried, and I remember the facts. They died in an airplane crash in 1990, returning from a trip to Colombia. Their plane ran out of fuel over New York and crashed by Long Island. One of them died instantly; the other died in the hospital. I also remember my father sitting me down at our dining table to tell me what happened. But I don't remember feeling the gut-wrenching pain that comes with loss. Or the sleepless nights pondering what happens when you die. Or the feeling helplessness because I, too, would be gone from this earth some day. At ten, death was merely an abstract notion for me. I knew of heaven and hell thanks to the Bible stories and weekly preachings at the Catholic church we went to, and because my father also took it upon himself to educate me on those important facts. I remember hearing a little bit of purgatory, but mostly I remember heaven and hell. I knew I wanted to go to heaven, but even that was an abstraction.

Then, years before my grandmother died (she passed away in 2007), she had a near-death experience. She suffered heart ailments; all her family had. She had been orphaned at a young age, left to the care of her older siblings because her parents had both died of heart attacks. Her siblings also had weak hearts, so it was no surprise that she did, too. It must have been 2002. She had been taken to the hospital because she was suffering a series of heart attacks. My cousins, aunts, and uncle crowded the waiting room of the intensive care unit. We brought sleeping bags and camped out on the cold floor. My aunt, a devout Catholic, and my husband's uncle, a pastor, engaged in friendly discussion about the true meaning behind the Eucharist: does the bread and wine really become the body and blood of Christ, or is it simply metaphorically speaking. It was then that we nearly lost her, twice. Twice, she flat-lined, her limp body lying on the hospital bed, her children, nearly all eleven of them, gathered around her holding hands, chanting a prayer - I don't remember which one. I think it was Psalm 23. Behind the closed door with the small window, we cousins peaked, eyes wide open, tears collecting, ready to react for when we heard the final news. But twice, she came back. The doctors told her children not to touch her, to leave her. She couldn't let go, they said. And she didn't.

Later, she told us, in confidence, what she saw. She said she saw a tunnel, and a light. And alongside of that walkway towards uncertainty was every single person she loved and had loved. Her children were there, but not the adults they were now. They were children. And we were there, her grandchildren. Age didn't matter. We were all children. And then she said she was afraid. She saw beasts come to her. Horrid-looking beasts. I can't remember her exact description, but I remember her stressing they were horrid. They didn't look as angels should, beautiful, angelic, glowing, but when they spoke to her, they did so in a soothing voice and said, "Be not afraid." And she said she wasn't. But she didn't want grandpa to know, so we didn't tell him. Instead, we muttered amongst ourselves trying to figure out what that meant. Did that mean the "light at the end of the tunnel" was real? It made death a little more tangible, but not less fearful.

Then my father died and that threw me into another realm of death. I thought I was ready for his death; I had been so many times. And yet the permanence of this death really struck me. I wondered again what it must have felt the moments before he left. He, who had been a priest and had believed in all the mysticism of the Church, and he who had preferred to never again set foot inside a church or take communion or follow any of the church mandates. He who had loved and hated and pained. He who had caused pain and admiration. He who had told me to always check myself every night to see if I'd been a good person that day. Did he do that when he died? Did he get a chance to repent and to make peace with his life? Did he have regrets? Or was I the one left with regrets? Those that are left behind on this earth, are we the ones that feel regrets and guilt?

I think about this every day. The fact that I am not immortal, something that we tend to forget in our younger years (unless we've been one of those who've had a youth too closely intertwined with death), has become a glowering reality. Maybe it's because I have a son now. Maybe it's because I haven't finished all that I've set out to do. Maybe it's because I still feel like a work in progress. Maybe it's because I'm afraid. Maybe it's because I'm starting to feel decay. I'm young, and yet, at the same time, I'm not.

I'm not in a hurry to find out what happens in those moments right before death. I can wait, really. But still, they fascinate and frighten me all the same.

Celebrating Love

2010-02-21T14:24:00.000-05:00

Valentine's Day just passed. It's been a bittersweet holiday for me for the last two years. My dad passed away on V-day in 2008, but at the same time, J and I started officially dating on V-day in 2001. I know the focus of V-day is romantic love - the love that Hollywood and romance novels portray as knee-shaking, stomach-churning love. The romantic love you see connected intricately to infatuation, happily-ever-after, and fairytales. So those that aren't in said relationships pooh-pooh the holiday. After all, there's no point in celebrating a holiday on love if you don't have "love," right?

Actually, one thing about this holiday that I've come to understand is that the celebration isn't about just romantic love. It's about celebrating life, and those people in our life who we love. I'm talking about mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, great-grandparents (those who are lucky enough to have actually met their greats). I'm talking about friends, best friends, friends who've been there for you. Friends you love and friends who love you. I'm talking about extended family. Family you've married into. I'm talking about anyone and everyone in your life that you love. That's what this holiday is about. It's about reaching out to those people NOW, before it's too late, before they're sick or worse, gone. It's about saying I love you. It's about sharing why you love them and how much you love them. It's about family and friends and loved ones. It's about love in the grandest form of the word.

Romantic love is nice, sure. But it's only a tiny bead in the weaving of relationships.

We were supposed to start V-day with a mass for my dad, but it was too cold, and at my mother's suggestion, we stayed home in the morning making heart-shaped pancakes for L. Then, when it warmed up a little, we went to my mom's and spent the afternoon there. Me and my mom, J and his mom, and L. Little L who sometimes reminds me so much of my dad. We had my mom's famous chicken and meat lasagna, and we had wonderful conversations. We laughed. We walked. We drove around. But most importantly, we spent it together. The five of us. It was nice. We often get lost in all the "have-to's" of day-to-day life that we forget all the "need-to's." There's a difference.

The National Anthem

2010-02-07T18:26:00.000-05:00

I have to admit - I don't like football. I don't really watch it, although I finally began to somewhat understand it. I'm lucky that my hubby is not a die hard fan because, honestly, I don't know what I'd do. However, even I watch the Super Bowl - sometimes. It's pretty cool when it's hosted in my hometown, though, and it's a neat perk being able to open our sliding glass door and hear the residual engines of the F15's that flew over the stadium during the national anthem.

But this post isn't about the Super Bowl. It's about the national anthem. For Super Bowl XLIV, Carrie Underwood sang the national anthem, right after Queen Latifah sang America the Beautiful. Both renditions were spectacular and were sung by two talented women. But I have to say that hearing the anthem that symbolizes our country gives me the goosebumps. I can't help but remain silent, staring at the screen, the hairs on my arms standing, and my heart beating faster. Before I know it, tears are threatening to make their escape from my eyes. It is a powerful song. Add to that a satellite image of our soldiers with their right hands over their hears, the look of exhaustion and pride etched in their faces, I can't help but say God Bless America - I am proud to be an American.

I know it's not a perfect nation - I criticize its flaws rather often. But then again, what is a perfect nation? Karl Marx had his idea of a perfect, equalized utopia, but we all know that doesn't materialize well. Human weaknesses, like greed, get in the way quite often when trying to create utopias. But this is a pretty okay nation. Although romanticized, the ideals that brought us together are those same ideals that keep us kicking and dub us "the land of opportunity" - because here, if your want something hard enough, and you work for it, you have a very good chance of getting it, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion or creed. Sure, there are some across all the aforementioned that have a tougher battle, but life doesn't discriminate.

My father lived in this country for over thirty-five years. He became a US citizen, and yet he still complained about this nation, about the atrocities it committed, and about the modern globalization, conquering other nations by implementing McDonald's and Burger King food chains. I would always tell him, if you don't like it, go back home, home being Colombia. There was some truth in his ramblings; I was astounded at seeing BK in Paris, and Pizza Hut in Medellin, and I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. When I go to these places, I go to experience their cuisine, rich in flavors and spices that are not present here. But that's a topic for another musing.

The crux of the matter is that this is a great country. We have opportunity and although some of the politics doesn't make sense and gets lost in political jargon, I don't think I'd have the same opportunities if I lived elsewhere. Well, maybe I would in Canada, and I'd have free government health care, but that, too, my friend, is another story.

This country was founded on the quest for liberty and as a shelter for persecution. Sometimes we forget that and we persecute our own. But then I listen to the national anthem, and Carrie Underwood's powerful voice as she sings it, and the symbolism behind it roots me.

I hate titles

2010-02-06T20:47:00.001-05:00

I really do. I don't feel confident or comfortable in having to create them. They are my Achilles heel. I have been trying to come up with a title for this project I'm working on, my memoir about my father and me, and bleh. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Nothing good comes to mind. Well, actually, something decent comes in Spanish - Viejo, Mi Querido Viejo after Piero's song which my dad really liked. But it's still not great.

I mean, what could I title a work that is about the relationship between an ex-priest father, who is an older father, and his stubborn, looking-for-love daughter, a relationship that was intellectual at best and explosive at worst, a relationship where I wished him dead many times and then cried in earnest when he died because I realized I really did love him and he really did love me. What could I possibly title that?

Work in progress...

2010-02-06T13:33:00.000-05:00

All she heard was silence,
creeping, clandestine,
behind the running motors
and the beeping.
Her hands wrung together
as she waited, listening.
But there was only silence.
It entered her ears and lungs
suffocating her,
muting her,
until she didn't know if up
was down or down was up.
She heard a muffled moan
and looked towards the
fluorescent white lights,
the neon newness of their
hue hypnotizing her so
she smiled, a reflex.
She wasn’t scared, just tired.
A siren sounded off
fireworks in the background,
those iridescent crimson,
indigo and mother-of-sea pearl
fireworks; they competed with the silence.
But the silence won, victorious over
other sounds that crowded her insides,
elbows poking, knees rubbing, sweaty skin touching.
She was only left with silence.

Boiling Point: Enter at Own Risk

2010-02-06T13:20:00.000-05:00

It never fails. Every month, right around this same time, a switch is flipped on and the nightmare begins. I wake up fine - maybe a little tired but otherwise seemingly content. Then it happens. I slam my foot, the one with the broken pinkie toe from last semester, against my son's high chair. Or, I break a glass while I'm washing dishes. Or, I spill the contents of my red, SOLO cup all over myself, the table, and the floor, only to then slip on the liquid and end up sprawled in an angry heap. From that moment on, I feel the pricks of irritation stabbing me, never ending. I want to scream, to punch my pillow senseless, to break the rest of the glasses, to curse abominations at anyone and anything that crosses my path, incorrectly of course. I don't act out, usually, on these impulses, of course. I do have some self control. But even that is tested during this time.

It only lasts about three days, so there is relief in sight. But before the relief arrives, I am subjected to conflicting attitudes. I tremble, delirious in rage. I get defensive, and then counter-attack, probably before it's even warranted. I go on a cursing rampage, even if the words never actually leave my lips, although a few do sometimes escape.

If the flip is switched while I'm driving, or out and about, watch out world. I actually speak my mind and challenge injustices directly. Although I may do that somewhat every day, the qualities of my sign bind me to political correctness and avoiding conflict. When it's that time, I lose sense of being socially correct and pounce on those injustices with a feline force. I really do have to be careful, though. One of these months, I'll pounce on the wrong person. I don't want to consider consequences now, though. I'll think about those in three days.

Dear God

2010-01-27T16:14:00.000-05:00

Thank you for always humbling me.

When I wake in the morning, bleary-eyed because my son woke up throughout the night - either because he didn't feel well or because he was having nightmares about fireworks and Captain Hook - you remind me there are others who have not been able to sleep all night because of how worried they are about their loved ones, or who have not slept for days because they are living in the midst of a disaster area, wondering if they will make it through another day.

When I grumble underneath my breath because I am running late, again, and the traffic has reached a stand-still for no apparent reason other than too many cars at the same time, same place, you show me how others have to withstand inclement weather many times just to reach their destination, regardless of the time. You gently remind me that not everyone has the luxury to a) have a car or b) have a job. I have both; I will try not to forget that in my moments of weakness.

When I am near tears because everything just seems to be going wrong, from minute mishaps - such as dropping everything my hands try to grasp - to ones with a degree more of seriousness- my son getting sick back-to-back - you clasp my hand, pat it, and then tell me the story of those whose children are dying, who've lost a husband, and who have just escaped, at nine months pregnant, being literally beaten to death.

You place people in my path, God, every day to tell me stories, stories of how things are for others, and stories that help put my own troubles in perspective. Thank you for that, and please keep reminding me. I'll try to remember, but I can't promise I always will.

Your humble servant,
Me.

Hutchinson Island in Pics, Cont'd

2009-11-05T12:49:00.000-05:00

Hutchinson Island in Pics

2009-11-05T12:32:00.000-05:00

Pretending

2009-09-03T11:40:00.000-04:00

Her face was covered by the strands of hay-colored hair that fell over her eyes as she brought her head down. She pushed them back quickly, but they wouldn't stay behind her ears. Her long fingers grasped the purple-inked pen tightly and she scribbled roughly, pressing the tip of the pen as she wrote her name on the medical form. L-A-U-R-A. Her eyes had the fragments of tears peeking through the corners, but she kept them at bay. She was not about to fall apart in a waiting room full of overgrown grown-ups who would probably tell her she had no business being there.

When she was finished with the forms, she stood up quickly and walked past a woman with the protruding belly who sat with her hands on each side, providing comfort to the parasite inside. She avoided looking at the roundness that it had, fearing that if she stared long, her own stomach would morph into that shape.

Back at her seat, she put one headphone on and listened to Shakira and Alejandro Sanz. She liked their song, "Una Tortura," because it made her feel like dancing. Dancing liberated her from the monotonous trash that she had every day and it transported her into a world that she could feel happiness, something she seldom felt. She had briefly felt the happiness when Doug told her she was beautiful and that he could never live without her, but those had proven to be lies and she had chased him out of her life when she told him she had a parasite in her belly.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, she thought to herself, watching the pregnant lady again. That lady was happy; she could smell the happiness and it made her sick.

"I have to throw up," she announced quietly to no one in particular, and just as quietly made her way to the bathroom.

"Laura Alvarez?" A large nurse called her name right when she was walking out of the bathroom.

"Here," Laura mumbled, and she followed the nurse in aquamarine scrubs.

Half-Colombian

2009-08-10T15:36:00.000-04:00

I've always considered myself both Colombian and American. I am a first-generation Colombian-American whose parents migrated to the US as adults. I was born and raised here, although in my younger days I spent a few summers in Colombia. My nostalgic attachments to all that's Colombian come courtesy of my parents and the displaced version of Colombian foods and rituals I grew up with. However, as I enter now into my 30's, the idea that I'm really half-Colombian really hits home. It's almost like an identity crisis. I am not the Colombian girl I thought I was. Sure, I speak Spanish a lo paisa, I enjoy bunuelos for Christmas, and I can dance vallenatos and cumbias, but in Colombia, I'm a gringa, an extranjera, a daughter-of-Colombians. Whenever someone asks, I say I'm Colombian, but then I have to quickly clarify - when asked "de que parte?" - that I was born here to Colombian parents I wasn't born in Colombia, so how could I claim it as a nationality? I'm a half-Colombian.

The same could be said about being half-American, although I guess if you really want to get down to the basics, I'd be three-fourths American and one-fourth Colombian. After all, I don't like natilla or sancochos, and I'm not that fond of sporting the yellow-blue-and-red bracelets and bands to sport my nationality. I was born here, and I am proud to be an American where we have the ability and freedom to work hard and bask in the opportunity of getting ahead. I even enjoy country music. But I'm not really "American" here; I'm a Latina or a Hispanic. American-born but not really American, whatever that means.

I've noticed, though, that the older I get, the more American and less Colombian I seem to become. It makes me sad because I still live in the memories of Colombia and I want my son to grow up with that, only I have to concede that he is second generation American, born to a Colombian-American mother and a Chilean-German-American father. He will know the fragments of Colombian-Chilean-German culture that my husband and I have brought with us. For me, the memories that I hope to pass on include the music, the alegria and the bunuelos and empanadas.

Yesterday, I was almost Colombian again. We got together to celebrate a birthday and most of my mom's family was there - seven of the eight women and three men that make up my mom's siblings (as an only child, I absolutely loved having such a large, extended family). In addition to my mom and aunts, the house was decorated with cousins ranging from the mid-thirties to the pre-teens, our grandfather - the patriarch of the family - and other in-law family members. As in most of our celebrations, the men took out their guitars, passed out miscellaneous musical instruments to those willing participants, and the voyage into a musical past began. The songs were mostly those that they grew up listening to although a few current ones made their way into the repertoire, such as "Camisa Negra" and "Esta Vida." As in my memories, my grandfather danced a cumbia with each of his daughters and one of my aunts video-taped the celebration.

When I was younger, such celebrations were many times met with crafty resistance on my part. When we had the Noche Buenas or New Year celebrations, the locations were filled swiftly with family and friends, and then just as swiftly divided by age groups. The children would run and jump and play around the adults, while the teenagers sulked in corners at having to attend such "boring" events. The adults would sit around in fold-up chairs piled neatly against the walls and the chatter would be nostalgic reminiscences of times past- who married whom, who died, who had left, who was now working for so-and-so, and who had migrated to another country. They would laugh and cry and say, like Alan Jackson's song, "Remember when..." Then, I was one of the teenagers, sipping aguardiente behind my mother's back (because my father never went to these events - he always stayed home) and thinking about the other things I could be doing that did not involve being there. Today, though, I miss those gatherings. The responsibilities of adulthood and the change that comes naturally with time prevent me from being part of those celebrations as much. Now, most of my family lives a good two hours away that, while not that much, prevents family-hopping during holidays since most of my husband's family lives locally. So the times, like yesterday, when everyone comes down here to celebrate, I immerse myself in the memory-made-real.

And it leaves me feeling almost Colombian, at least while I'm there. Once I'm back in my car, going back to my Colombian-Chilean-German-American home, I lose some of the "Colombianness" and become half-Colombian again.

Pics from Day 3

2009-08-08T13:12:00.000-04:00

Day 3 - Castawat Cay

2009-08-08T12:36:00.000-04:00

When we woke up on day 3, we had already arrived at Castaway Cay; we were waiting for the authorities to clear the docking. We got up, got dressed and packed our day bag; then we headed up to deck 9 for breakfast at our usual place: the Beach Blanket. While we were up there, we took the opportunity to take some pictures of the island and of the infamous Flying Dutchman from Pirates of the Caribbean. The ship is docked off Castaway Cay and there are some amazing photo opportunities that capture the ship with the cruise liner on the background.

We disembarked and made our way to the first character greeting: Daisy Duck. We meandered down the road towards the beach destination, stopping for any and every photo opportunity that was available. Have I mentioned that I'm a sucker for photos? A bit further up were Minnie Mouse and Goofy, and of course, we got a picture with them. All the characters were decked out in their summer wear.

The island is beautiful and a curious mixture of Caribbean meets Disney. The buildings, such as the post office, are similar to those you will find at the parks, so it makes you wonder whether the buildings were there before or if Disney set it up with props.

The walking from the ship to the beach takes about 10 minutes. However, half-way there is a tram, and L loves any type of train so we opted to ride it to our destination. If he could have stayed on the tram and ridden it back and forth all day, he would have been content. Once at the beginning of the family area, we were greeted with the last few strollers and wagons that were complimentary on a first-come, first-serve basis. We took hold of a wagon, dumped our stuff, towels, and L in it, and proceeded to work our arms as we pushed and pulled the wagon through the sand. Before we got to the sand, though, we were at a mercantile-like shopping area where little stores boasted Castaway Cay, Disney, and Bahamas souvenirs. In front of that store were the restrooms and outdoor showers appropriately titles "Suns" and "Daughters." Further up the road was an open circle and a small shack where the DJ played music and the characters engaged in some dancing with the guests. I didn't make it past that point. From the map I could see there was a teen area further down, and, at the end of the island, was the secluded, adults-only beach.

But we didn't go forward. We took a left, onto the sand, following the path of tourists who had the same agenda: make it to the beach. By now, it was about 10 AM, and it was cloudy with some rain threatening in the far end of the horizon, behind the buildings. We got the complimentary floats - one large rubber tire, the other a flat, blue mattress. The latter one ended being the most useful. We had received complimentary bike rentals and scuba rentals, but unfortunately, a few hours is just not enough time when you have a toddler in tow that needs to nap.

The beach was full of people. You could barely make out the water on the family beach; instead, you saw a sea of multi-colored dots decorating the little blue that was in between them. Towards the left was the ship, docked and probably hosting very few of its passengers. Between the ship and the beach was the Flying Dutchman first, and then the jet-ski and boat rentals. After that was a small shack with the scuba gear. Next to that shack was the beach, which was separated into the snorkeling area and the family beach area. On the far right hand corner, before the teen beach, was a wooden playground for the older kids right in the water. Kids could swing from one side and jump into the water, or they could monkey around until the were tired and them jump in.

We parked our stuff a few rows back and then went into the water. L was in heaven. Before, when we've gone to a beach, there have been many waves, so he has been afraid. Here, there were no waves, and he felt as if he were in the pool only the water was different (and tasted different, too, as was apparent by his wrinkling of the nose when he took a swig of salty sea water). We were in the water for a while, got some pictures taken by cast members - the only pictures while we were in the water since I was afraid to get my camera wet! - and rested on the blue, mattress float. L even tried "surfing" on it. We spent the next few hours in and out of the water, playing with sand, and making friends with fellow cruisers. Finally, J went to get some lunch and brought it back, but we both quickly realized that sand + food is not a good equation. By now it was about 1:30 PM and it was past L's nap, so we wrapped up and moved towards the hammocks where there was some palm tree shade. Although no hammocks were available, J and L were able to lay down on a lounge chair and soon, both father and son had drifted into a beach-induced slumber. I sat next to them reading Madeleine Blais's Uphill Walkers and avoiding the bird-bombs that were thrown my way. Good luck or not, I'd rather not have to clean up after bird excrement, thank you very much.

At around 3:30 some thunder mixed between the island music, and although L was still sleeping, we decided to pack up. We carefully placed him in the wagon, still asleep, and made our way back to the front. We browsed through the stores, went to the rest rooms, took more pictures and before we knew it were back at the wagon/stroller return place. We took L out, awake but still sleepy and grumpy, and rode the "too-tain" (choo choo tren aka tram) two times before getting in line to board the ship. By the line was Donald Duck posing for pictures, so, you guessed it - we took pictures.

That night was Pirate's night. We dressed L in his pirate costume from last year and then made our way to the usual: lobby for pictures and that night's restaurant, Animator's Palate again. In the lobby was Mickey dressed as a swashbuckling pirate, and the picture of Mickey pirate with L pirate is priceless! At the restaurant, all the servers were dressed as pirates and wenches, and the meal and theme that night revolved around pirates. Even the show was an Argh-inducing show with limbo and dancing in which L and I joined. That night, they brought out a large chocolate cake to celebrate J and L's upcoming birthdays and my what a tasty cake that was! We shared with our neighboring table since it was much too much for us to eat.

Afterwards we walked around and made our way for the Pirate's Deck Party where Mickey and the gang had to save the day from Captain Hook and his pirates. It was awesome! Each character had his/her/its own fave dance moves and music he/she/it shared with the crowd and then Mickey came swinging down from one side of the ship to the stage, marking the beginning of a beautiful fireworks display. Yes, fireworks aboard a ship. Apparently, Disney is the only cruise line that is allowed to do so. I thought L would be afraid but no, he was enthralled (although I think part of that was that he was tired!).

Soon after the Disney channel stars joined the Pirate deck party, we called it a night and went back to the room.

Pics from Days 1 & 2

2009-08-07T21:03:00.000-04:00

Here are a few pictures from Days 1 and 2.

The Splash Area by Mickey Pool:
Mickey's hand is holding up a water slide that desemboca on the pool side; it's also holding up a star-shaped shower head for the baby splash area.

The columns in Triton's restaurant.

Getting ready to sail away.
The sailaway party on Day 1.
Mr. Panda and Mickey enjoying the sights of Nassau.
We found them - and the towel monkey hanging from a clothe's hanger with my sun glasses on - when we went back to the room on Day 2 to get ready for Gala night.

Disney Cruise, Day 2 - Nassau

2009-08-01T14:34:00.000-04:00

Monday morning we woke up around 9 am, much later than the usual 7:30 wake time for L, but who could blame him since it'd been around 10 pm the night before when we finally went to sleep and he'd barely napped the day before.

We got up, opened the curtains, and saw that we were arriving at Nassau. We had decided to stay on board instead of racing through Nassau with a toddler in tow and juggling nap time, snack time, and crankiness. Instead, we booked a relaxing spa treatment for couples, and the corresponding time in Flounder's Nursery, all around L's normal nap time. We threw on our bathing suits and headed to breakfast at Beach Blanket Buffet. This time, after piling all the food we could eat on each of our trays - eggs, bacon, Mickey waffles, Mickey chocolate waffles, biscuits, an array of fruits, and some other breads - we made our way with the help of the friendly staff to the outside seating area. With L in his Mickey high chair, we all delighted in the morning sun and breeze and the view of Nassau's port. Atlantis was visible from our seats, so we snapped away as many pictures as we could.

After breakfast, we discovered the Cove, the intimate, adults only coffee/bar lounge area towards the front of the ship. There, they steamed some milk for L, and made me a Disney version of Starbucks's caramel macchiato. Let me tell you, I'm a Starbucks fanatic, but Disney's version was almost as good, if not better!

We hung out at the kiddie splash area since L is not potty trained yet, but he didn't miss the pool. He had a great time, although at first he was reluctant to go in by himself. He clung to the border, shying away from any stray water that went his way. Within a little time, though, he was running around and laughing merrily while he got wet. He even tried copying the older kids and blocked the nozzles so that water would splash everywhere.

Soon it was time to head to the nursery. Unlike the first night, L was not having it and I had to go in with him. Eventually, he relaxed, and we went on our way to the spa for our couple's massage, facial, and champagne with chocolate-covered strawberries. The massage was relaxing and much-needed, but I could have done without the facial. It was the first facial I'd ever done and honestly, I wasn't impressed. I think I'd rather spend those extra 15 minutes on kneading over balled muscles. After that we headed into the rain room, which was basically a combination of steam rooms, saunas, and hot chairs, where our champagne and strawberries were waiting for us. I guess it's fine for those that enjoy being sedentary in a room overflowing with heat, but being that I just need to step out into my front yard and get hit with the same force of humidity as was in that room, I quickly grew bored and restless and decided to head back out into the heat of the sun - at least that was partially dry heat!

I picked up L, and headed back to the Mickey pool along with one of the nursery care givers who was heading there with a bucket of toys. I made a quick stop at Pinnocio's Pizzeria, grabbed a few slices of cheese pizza, and made ourselves home on one of the tables across from the pool. L went in and had more fun while I waited for J to leave the retreat of the rain room.

Back in the room, we prepared for Gala night. I dressed up in a 50's inspired black and white dress with an empire waist (which I later realized was not very flattering); J dressed in khaki pants, a light blue buttoned shirt, and a navy sports coat; and L was decked in khaki pants and a checkered, blue and brown shirt. I kicked myself for not having taken his little suit, but at least he and his daddy matched outfits. We went to the lobby and had a photo shoot with Mickey and Minnie, both dressed in their gala attires: Mickey in a black and white tuxedo and Minnie in a radiant, white, glittery dress with feathers at her feet.

Dinner that night was at the Animator's Palate. If anyone's watched the Travel Channel (or traveled in a Disney Cruise before), then s/he will know exactly what I'm talking about. Animator's Palate is designed to be the sketch-book of all the Disney classics. Hanging on the walls in black and white are framed "sketches" of scenes from Pocahontas, 101 Dalmatians, Aladdin, Beauty and the Beast, and many other films. The waiters and staff are all dressed in black and white, and even the table cloths are decked in the contrasting shades. As the dinner begins, the lights dim a little and soon, the sketches on the wall begin to gradually transform into their full-color finales; then the paintings change into a completely different scene, again in black and white, and the process from sketch to full-color begins anew. Towards the end of the meal, the waiters disappear, and before you even miss a refill, they are putting on a show for you.

After dinner, we meandered towards the theater to watch Toy Story the Musical. It was cute, but we didn't stay the entire show as L hadn't napped that day and was extremely tired (and moody), and it actually got a little scared towards the end. So back to our room to call it a night it was.

Disney Cruise, Day 1, Cont'd

2009-07-29T13:56:00.000-04:00

The meal at Tritons was pleasant, and our waiters were superb. Zeldy, from the Philippines was our server and Danielle, from England, was our Assistant server. I'm not sure if it's the same in other cruises, but it's great to meet people from all over the world. Taking the line from one of Disney's rides, "It's a small world after all!" They were so nice, and they made us and L feel at home. On the first night at Triton's, there was a small cup with L's name on the lid, drawn alongside some Mickey ears. Once they knew he liked orange juice, L would have two cups waiting for him at dinner-time: one with water, the other with orange juice.

Our table, #57, would remain the same table throughout the cruise and Zeldy and Danielle would rotate with us throughout the restaurants. We did not share a table with anyone, and there were always plenty of alternatives, and crayons, to make dining a wonderful experience. And to end the night at Triton's, they brought me a birthday cake and sang happy birthday. Granted, it's early for my birthday, but this year's a biggie for me - the big 3-0. So we took the opportunity to celebrate the birthdays on board. The cake was a yellow-cake with strawberry cream filling in the middle and whipped, buttercream topping. There was a piece of white chocolate decorated with a picture of the cruise ship and the words "Happy Birthday" written on the bottom. That piece sat on top of the cake. It was scrumptious! Before we received the cake, we had ordered dessert: creme brule with a cappuccino. Yum! And to top it off, the steamed some milk for L!

The night ended with a walk around the ship and a trip to Flounder's Nursery, where L couldn't wait to go in and play. We decided to try it out and left him there for an hour while we walked around some more and headed over to try and see "The Golden Mickeys," the first night's broadway-type show. Unfortunately, we were exhausted from the day's trip, so we rounded L, met Goofy in a sailor's suit along the way, and headed back to our room. We had a towel elephant on our dresser and some chocolates, along with the next day's agenda on the Disney's Navigator (or was it Mickey's Navigator - I can't remember right now). L had his bath time, and the three of us headed to slumber land on their queen bed.

Disney Cruise - Day 1

2009-07-28T22:11:00.000-04:00

We recently came back from our first Disney cruise. It was a 4-day trip to Nassau and Castaway Cay in the Bahamas, and it has been one of the best vacations we have take thus far. We're relatively new to cruising, only cruised once before with Carnival, and we are absolute Disney freaks, so it just made sense to try this out as a way of celebrating our birthdays. Let me tell you that the magic, as cliched as it may sound, of Disney is magnified tenfold in the cruise. The attention to detail, the customer service, the drive to make sure everyone is happy is amazing. The food is delicious, and the activities for the kids, well, priceless. Here's a recap with some pics.

Day 1 - Embarkation day at Cape Canaveral
We had to drive up to Cape Canaveral on the same day the cruise left, so it was a race to the Disney finish line. We left a little later than expected and had to stop to get lunch for a cranky toddler, but amidst all the rush, we made it at the port with time to spare - barely. It was 2 and we needed to be on by 4pm. We arrived and went quickly through the check-in-process, got our pictures taken by smiling "cast members," and held our breaths in as we crossed over the planks that connected us to the hotel on the water. As we approached the entrance, there were rows of men and women in sailor's uniforms greeting us. One young man stopped us, asked us our last name and where we were from, and then proceeded to announce our arrival into the ship via loud speakers: "The A family has arrived all the way from Miami!" All the white and navy uniformed men and women clapped and we were ushered in, flustered and smiling, while the next family received Disney's version of the royal treatment.

Once onboard, we took a few seconds to look around and made our way to change our dining time. We had been allocated the 2nd seating, which was at 8PM, much too late to have dinner with a toddler. Thankfully, the change was no problem, and we were freed of the unwanted time. Our new dining time was 5:45 - much more reasonable.

We headed to the cabin, and again briefly looked around; we had to hurry or we wouldn't make lunch. As soon as we walked in, we noticed the two bathrooms on our right. One contained a sink and toilet, the other a sink and bathtub. Yes, bathtub. From what I hear, very few cruised have bathtubs. This tub was a savior for giving L his bath because it also contained a shower hose that we could bring down and "hose" him down. I'm not sure what the correct term for that is, but I'm sure you get what I mean. After the bathrooms was the bed, a royal-blue-covered queen bed, in which all three of us ended sleeping, limbs nestled between limbs. Beyond the bed was the sofa, which also converted into a bed, a desk with a mini-fridge, TV and vanity mirror, and the window - a large port hole that provided ample light and scenery when we were close to land. The room was a good size compared to other cruise cabins, although like with all cruise cabins, they're not good for those who are claustrophobic.

We dropped off the stroller and our day bag, and made our way up, with welcome papers in hand, to the 9th deck (we were on the 2nd) where the Beach Blanket restaurant was serving lunch for the next 15 minutes. The Beach Blanket was a buffet eatery that became our breakfast place of choice over the next couple days. This day, for lunch, they had a varied selection of sea food, chicken, and beef. I had some fish and chicken, J had some chicken and beef, and L had some chicken and mac-n-cheese with fruits. Oh, and sodas are included in the cruise! That was a pleasant surprise! We ate inside, quickly, but savored the moment of rest. We were finally on board and there was no more need to rush anywhere.

After the meal, we meandered a bit but made our way back to the room to throw on the life jackets for the mandatory drill at 4 pm. It was funny walking around with the neon orange flotation device sitting awkwardly over the shoulders and around the chest, and we weren't sure where exactly we were going, but we saw many orange dots bobbing on the 4th deck and assumed we were in the right place. We were. After the drill, and after leaving the life jackets back in the room, we went back up to deck 9 for the sailaway party. There, some cast members along with the characters danced and sang, while the horn on the ship tooted the "When You Wish Upon A Star" melody. All passangers were watching, dancing and taking pictures or video. Many had their swim suits on because they'd been smart and arrived at noon to take advantage of the pools. Others, like us, were walking around in part-beachy, part-traveling clothes wrinkled by sitting too long. A young boy caught my attention. He was about 7 or 8, with a bald head, holding the hand of a woman. His shirt read "The Make-a-Wish Foundation Made My WIsh Come True." I stopped breathing for a moment and my eyes welled up with tears. I said a prayer for him, and thought how much fun and excitement he must feel knowing that he got to do this before... it really made me stop in my tracks and ponder the meaning and justice of this life.

After the characters and cat members sang, they introduced some of the Disney Channel stars: Michel Musso and Jason Earles from Hannah Montana, and two others. It was pretty cool, although I laughed quietly because here I was, an almost-30-year-old mom getting somewhat excited about Disney Channel stars. I mean, I watch the shows and they remind me of younger days, so I thought it was pretty cool meeting/seeing them.

Once that was over, we made our way back to the cabin to get dressed for dinner. We had dinner at Tritons first. Tritons is a restaurant "under the sea," inspired by none-other than The Littler Mermaid. Several enchanting mosaics depict King Triton's underwater kingdom and family. There are columns throughout the restaurant featuring circular tops, reminding guests of bubbles. The fare is French, with many traditional French dishes, such as escargots and creme brule. I got brave and ordered the escargots baked in a garlic sauce. I've always wanted to try them, and this day, I felt brave. When the appetizer arrived, it looked more like a dessert dish than slimy, crawling critters. To my surprise, there wasn't much distaste. They were rather good! The texture was not bad - think softened gummy candy, but a little less chewy. The taste, well, it was garlicy. That's really all I could taste - the garlic. I gave some to L to try and would you believe my son ate the pieces I gave him and kept opening his mouth for more! This little one won't eat eggs, but he'll eat onions, lemon, and escargot! Go figure.

That's it for now, but tomorrow I'll continue (day 1's not over yet!).

Who you callin' a fool, fool?!

2009-07-18T08:06:00.000-04:00

It is no secret that babies become toddlers whose favorite word is "NO!" For some (lucky one), this new stage comes after they reach two; for others, the stage begins soon after their first birthdays when they realize just how powerful their language is. Not only can they make themselves understood, but lo and behold, they can make mommy and daddy's eyes bulge out, faces contorted in frustration, anger, and possibly hysteria. It is a marvelous age, really. L can be grouped in the latter, with "no" being his absolute favorite word as of late. My cousin told me about this "no" stage when her son would say no to everything, including a million dollars. It's very close to maddening, she told me. I would have to agree (and I'm sure my hubby would, too!).

Of course, I like putting things to the test. I've tested reactions to food before, including raw onion rings on a burger (he liked those, lord knows why), as well as other things here and there. So I tested this one out as well on our car ride back from the beach.

"L, do you want milk?"
"NO!"
"Do you want to go outside?"
"NO!"
"Do you want to eat?"
"NO!"
"Do you want to play with Abui?"
"NO!"
"Do you want a million dollars?"
"Ohhhhh," he replied, raising his chin and looking at mi de reojo. That's his way of saying yes.

I wonder what must go through his head. Does he even know what a million dollars are? Does he know how they can change a person's life, and not always for the better? I really do wonder if the little wheels that move him to speak can really allow him to grasp the concept of that question. Or maybe he just didn't recognize the option in that question and decided, eh, what the heck, let's go with yes here.

Ah, toddlers.

Mi Viejo

2009-07-15T13:23:00.001-04:00

The previous post got me googling and looking up Piero and his songs since I couldn't remember all of them. It had been a long time since I'd heard them and the more I remember my father, the more I remember tidbits of music; his life revolved around his music many times, and these songs usually trigger specific memories.

This one song in particular was beautiful. It is an ode to the aging father. It brings me to tears now, when I listen to it, not only because this was one of my father's favorites, but because of the poignant words.

Here is a youtube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x36zzkUB2tc.

And here are the lyrics:

Es un buen tipo mi viejo
Que anda solo y esperando
Tiene la tristeza larga
De tanto venir andando

Yo lo miro desde lejos
Pero somos tan distintos
Es que crecio con el siglo
Con tranvia y vino tinto

Viejo mi querido viejo
Ahora ya camina lerdo (lento)
Como perdonando el viento
Yo soy tu sangre mi viejo
Soy tu silencio y tu tiempo

El tiene los ojos buenos
Y una figura pesada
La edad se le vino encima
Sin carnaval ni comparsa

Yo tengo los años nuevos
Y el hombre los años viejos
El dolor lo lleva dentro
Y tiene historias sin tiempo

Vejo mi querido viejo
Ahora ya camina lerdo (lento)
Como perdonando el viento
Yo soy tu sangre mi viejo
Soy tu silencio y tu tiempo

Yo soy tu sangre mi viejo
Yo soy tu silencio y tu tiempo

Yo soy tu sangre mi viejo

Sleep

2009-07-15T12:50:00.000-04:00

I hear the quiet murmur of the cool-mist humidifier through the baby monitor and its sound is smooth and trance-like. I can see why it helps you sleep. My eyelids, too, are slowly closing to that hum and I have to shake my head to wake myself. It amazes me how delicious sleep is for you, it's nourishment really, and I yearn to sleep like that again. The eight-interrupted-hours-a-night just don't compare to your ten-plus hours a night and the two-and-a-half nap-time hours. That siesta time is the greatest escape; I especially thought so when you were still developing in my womb and I could partake in a siesta at my then-office. I would close the door and surrender to the lull of pregnancy exhaustion for a good fifteen minutes. That was enough to lift the fog and renew my strength for the next few hours.

My father, your grandfather, used to take a daily siesta once he had to stay home. He was sick, you know. He had many heart, circulation ailments, and they soon impeded his ability to work. So, he was the stay-at-home parent and would always pick me up from school, walking, when I was in elementary school since it was a walkable distance; later, when I started middle and high schools, he would be home when the bus dropped my off since then we lived farther away from my schools. During the summer or holidays, I would stay home with my father, and every day, after lunch, my father took his noon-time siesta. I usually welcomed this because that meant that I had at least an hour of uninterrupted me time. I could watch tv, I could read, I could play and let my imagination soar. When I got older, I sometimes would take advantage and hop on the 71 bus all the way to International Mall where I would spend an afternoon of window shopping and trying on clothes I couldn't afford. I would take a book with me for the bus ride, and in between words I would peek at my fellow bus-mates; I would imagine what lives they held and who they were.

Along with the siestas, my father loved music, as I see you do, too. When I was younger, he listened to Piero mostly, among others like Garzon y Collazos. Many of Piero's songs detailed the type of life my father yearned for, a life of the simple past he called it - when everything was not complicated by technology or laziness, according to him. A few of his favorites were De Vez En Cuando Viene Bien Dormir (Every now and then it's good to sleep), Fumemos un Cigarrillo (Let's smoke a cigarette), and Mi Viejo (My Old Man). These were staples of his life.

Check Out L's 2nd Bday Invites!

2009-06-20T19:40:00.001-04:00

Check out my baby's birthday invites! The party is Go Diego Go themed as this is his latest hero. I think I'm going to reverse the font, though; the curlier one for the name and the straighter one for the rest of the writing. Hmmm. I'll have to keep playing with it.

The Biggest Zap of Creativity

2009-06-18T14:16:00.000-04:00

My creative muse has been at a zero these days. Not that it's any excuse not to write (although, I will hold on to that tightly as to why I haven't been blogging - writing I have been doing, just not on here). Between another change in schedules for my hubby, my son deciding to refuse sleep, and responsibilities of online classes (both as instructor and student) have left me drained of creativity. I am now trying to get back on track, especially since my son has been kind enough to get some of his sleep back on track. Apparently, it had something to do with separation anxiety. How fun.

We did take a small getaway to Disney, one of my favorite places in the world. I ignore all the ba-humbugs about corporate and capitalistic monopolies and simply enjoy going to a place where I can feel like a proverbial child again. So what if I have to pay $20 for a meal that feeds two and a half people. So what if I have to wait in the grueling heat, sweat bathing my skin, to enter the cool 7 seconds of a ride. I don't care. I will have to say, though, that going with a toddler is quite the experience. My son absolutely LOVES Disney, definitely got that from mom and dad. His first trip was when he was 6 months old and we've been there about four or five times - in a year and a half. Not bad. ;) Now, though, he's walking everywhere but he's still sticking everything in his mouth and his mouth on everything. That makes for some hair-standing, teeth-gritting moments when I find myself yelling, L, NOT IN YOUR MOUTH! Of course, if it were paper or some small thing that hasn't been touched by the million and one visitors it wouldn't be so bad. But, no, he likes to go for things that have been handled and manhandled. Tastier, I assume, but of how my heart paused whenever he did that. Thoughts of swine flu, resistent bacteria, measles, mumps and ruebella, and an array of other "bugs" swarmed my mind. Thankfully, though, it seems as if all was digested well and no crazy symptoms have appeared.

He did love the characters and character meals. He knows them by name: ma-mouse (both Mickey and Minnie are priviledged to share this title), Puto (Pluto) - and for a brief while, he was saying Puta and you can imagine what a riot that was - Meemo (Nemo), Eeelo (Lilo), Itch (Stitch). I don't think he was able to say Donald Duck or Goofy, although he tried. He ran up to each character, holding out his Disney Autograph Book and matching pen which Nana had bought him on the previous trip, and gleafully watched as each overstuffed character was able to maneuver the pen and pad and provide the awaited signature. He gave them a hi-five, laughed with them with his quirky, covered mouth laugh, and went on his way to the next character. It was cute.

Here are some pics we took over at the parks:

Cocoa Beach - beachside

2009-05-31T08:20:00.000-04:00

After a stroll through downtown Cocoa Beach, we took L to a nearby park with beach access so he could burn off some energy. It threatened to rain, but thankfully it didn't. Here are some scenes from the beach:

Downtown Cocoa Beach

2009-05-31T07:59:00.000-04:00

Wednesday, we took a short road trip to downtown Cocoa Beach, a quaint beach town that made us reminisce of our single, younger days. A few things that caught my attention were the tatoo parlors on every street corner and the strip clubs that seemed too many for a beach town of that size. And to counteact the strip clubs, churches surrounded the downtown area, both on the outskirts and within the town. The small stores were iconic of a beach town and many walls were decorated with murals of jazzy scenes. Here are a few pics I took:

First Baptist Church - it sits to the south of downtown Cocoa Beach.

Solitude’s Company

2009-05-30T21:38:00.000-04:00

He lounges next to me at breakfast as I stare at
a glass bowl of cinnamon raisin oatmeal.
He’s waiting for the mathematical equation of
hunger plus thirst divided by sleep
equaling congruent fragmentation of the brain
to surge into attack of my arterial passage,
leading the way, quietly, into a revolution of nerves.

At lunch I feel him breathing hard, laughing,
quite erotically, as the sun decides to overlook me
within a crowd of coffee addicted students.
He pokes his fleshy fingers at me, crossing my eyes,
making me see all sides of the parallelogram,
until my vision ripples into three dimensions.

Dinner at eight thirty, Solitude becomes three
irrational and compulsive characters:
my guests of honor. Wise men traveling from
the corners of his imagination, I become
their hostess and entertainer. He thrusts
the threads of creativity into captivity.

I try to leave him, but he follows
attached to the weight of my ankles,
the pressure of my chest, the blur of my eyes.
I ask him why he bothers stalking me,
we both know he’s not wanted here,
but he remains silent, tapping his toes.

When We Were Young in South Beach

2009-05-30T21:31:00.000-04:00

We skimmed through the newspaper
for the Magic City’s night charms,
then renounced sleep
because creases on our skin did not
own us, and tomorrow
was still an abstraction.

Sleepily, we doused ourselves
with Starbucks Sumatra coffee, extra bold,
until the last musing of sleep was gone,
then dressed in our evening’s best
ready for El Grupo Niche and Jay-Z
to move us, like melting wax.

We skipped lunch to make room
for dinner at Joe’s, where
we filled our stomachs with
crab claws and Cole slaw
and our wallets were emptied
of Jackson and Grant.

Arm in arm we flirted
through the discolored sidewalks
of Ocean Drive, passing blurred faces
staring at us from the sanctuary of
their dinner tables. Lobster tails, churrasco
and rice pilaf decorated their plates.

We forgot the meanings of
no, can’t, won’t,
refusing to employ double negatives
and preferring to stick with
si, siempre, of course,
like El Zorro and Superwoman.

En route to Washington Ave,
we passed aspiring musicians
in crazed street corners
crooning off-beat one-hit-horrors
fit for an American Idol stage
and Simon Cowell.

We ignored the groans of our joints,
the headaches of neon and bass,
then threw our heads back and
consumed Nyquil with gin.
We ran through the sand
and laughed at the moon.

Another trip to Satellite Beach

2009-05-27T20:38:00.000-04:00

I am a self-proclaimed mountain-girl, but lately, the beach has brought in a certain allure that I can't help but wonder if maybe there's part of a beach gal hiding in there. With hubby's new days off, and with me being off in the summer for the first time since I was an awkard teenager, we've been able to really enjoy being outdoors - when it's not raining, of course. Thanks to wonderful family, we've been able to visit Satellite Beach twice this month! The weather has been just right: slightly breezy, warm and humid but not overwhelmingly so, and rain that has made it's debut just at the right moments - when we're inside! This pic was on the day we got there. The drive up had been spectacular, and once there, we took a quick walk on the beach, only to scurry on inside because of the storm approaching from the west.

I'll update with some more snipets and pics in upcoming posts. These will include day drips to Cocoa Beach and Historic Downtown Melbourne. Stay tuned! :)

Look who popped in this afternoon

2009-05-22T19:24:00.000-04:00

After the rain cleared up, we took a stroll in our backyard. It was the aftermath of rain: lemon yellow and black spotted butterflies made their rounds through the bushes and trees, ants emerged from crevices on the broken cement, and lizards came out of their respective shelters to see what the options were for dinner. This particular one is Laura the Lizard. She lives alongside Lorenzo the lizard in our small decorative fireplace. There's a lone piece of "wood" under which, at various times of the day, one can find them lounging around. Laura is the smaller of the two, as you can see in the picture below. Lorenzo is a larger lizard, who looks as if he's had one-too-many insects to eat. Lorenzo is usually not keen on human attention, but Laura curiously watched me approach her, camera in hand. She allowed me to approach enough to get some close-ups using the camera's close-up mode, and I only wish I'd taken more advantage of that allowance.

Where I Want to Be

2009-05-22T15:41:00.000-04:00

The day creeps by as I wait for night to get here. The morning has seen torrential rains, with the continuous drumming of the drops on the roof lulling us into a hypnotic sleep. The sky outside so dark that we are confused as to whether it really is morning, although our trusty digital clock screams in neon green: 10:34 am. I'm silently thankful, though, that the rain is now, and not at 10:34 pm because then that would mean I would have to open the gates to our two close-to-a-hundred-pound dogs (who I secretly think sported feathers and a beak in another life) so they can join us upstairs, having the clackity-clack of their nails on our pergo wood floors provide the beat to the air purifier's purring and the rain's drumming. Right now, Baxter sits close to our feet as the rain is joined by thunder and lightening, his hind legs trembling. Buffy doesn't mind as much, although if Baxter gets started enough, she is right there following his example. Great. So, I'm sitting here, going through my pictures, and found the one place I'd love to be right now:

I can just see myself under that umbrella, basking in the sun's warm rays, taking in all that vitamin D (with protection of course) that we usually lack because we're stuck indoors between sterile walls. Next week, I will be there!

It's cleared up somewhat now; the clouds have parted and the soft breeze is making our bougainvillea and backyard trees dance to its rhythm. I see blue again, mingling with the puffs of cotton that decorate the sky. There's also light again, which means I can go back to saving on electricity and using good ol' mother nature.

Impromptu #1 - Dogs

2009-05-19T16:10:00.000-04:00

I grew up with dogs - mutts always. The first one I remember was Pirula. She was a white mutt, with curly, creamy hair that covered her entire body. I had her since she was a puppy, small enough to fit within the empty space between my four-year-old palms. I have pictures of me in my pink Barbie tricycle, carrying Pirula in the back compartment as if she were just another luggage item in my young traveler's mind. Other pictures show a more grown-up Pirula licking my father's feet as he lay on the couch, recovering from his broken fingers that had been caught in a garage door.

After that I remember Princess, my black, shiny coated Labrador mutt. She has short, straight black hair and a skinny tale. She ran with me in the backyard of my Westchester home, and became part of my make-believe games. She was there by my side whenever I had to clean up in the backyard - there's a picture of me at about seven years old, wearing a mustard yellow and black handkerchief on my hair, picking up what I can only imagine to be dog excrements from the recently cut grass. Princess is right there beside me as if guarding me, protecting me, as if she sensed that I needed that extra companion. She accompanied me when I wanted to lay on our cream and brown lawn chairs to catch some rays of sun - she lay curled in a small, black ball, reflecting the sunlight off her coat.

Then there was Lucky. I have never had a dog so hyper, although there are pictures of me in my early years with an exact duplicate of Lucky. I don't remember that one, but I remember Lucky's energy that transferred some of the recklessness to my small child's body. I had a long, colorful Colombian skirt, del traje tipico, that someone had brought for me, but it was much too big - an adult size. I loved to play dress up with it, but soon, I discovered that it could serve as a circus act with Lucky. Playfully, I would slither the rust-colored skirt in front of Lucky who would then gleefully bite at it, clenching his teeth over the soft cotton fabric, until I began swinging the skirt, and the attached Lucky, around and around until the imaginary crowed roared with laughter at the sight of Lucky the Flying Dog! He was the last dog I had while I was still living in that Westchester home.

After that we moved to an apartment, so it was no more dogs for me - until we moved temporarily to a small townhome in another section of town. That's when my two "little" cousins, C + J, decided to give me a little black blur that they named Tomate. I don't think that ended up his real name, but it's the only one I remember. Tomate came to us at a time we were renting, and we never informed the owner of our newest acquisition. He was a feisty puppy, with energy slightly lower than Lucky's, but a lovable one nonetheless. Then, one day, our landlady found out about Tomate, and we had to part ways with him.

All the dogs of my childhood had to be given up. I never had to go through the death of a dog because they were never around long enough. Most of the times, they had to be given up because we moved; but sometimes, they just had to be given up because. I wonder many times what happened to them - comforters of my childhood, friends in my need of time (which, as a child with an over-active imagination and strict parents, they're many!).

Matheson Hammock Park

2009-05-19T12:03:00.001-04:00

Some pics of Matheson Hammock Park taken by hubby and me!

Work in progress - While You Dream

2009-05-19T11:32:00.001-04:00

This is a poem I'm working on. It's a second draft now, but it's still a work in progress.

While You Dream – 05/12/2009

Your slumber is envious
a sleep so deep that you miss the
barking of Buffy and Baxter –
the two Labrador mutts
you’ve named sister, and brother,
and after whom you’ve modeled
many of your dinner table behaviors.
You’ve been in the same position
since we rocked you to sleep –
arms lifted over your head, one
slightly curled above as if
sheltering you from the night’s
unknowns.

You used to startle in your sleep
when you were days and weeks old
not the months and years you are now.
Without preamble you would strike
your coveted pose, lifting your arms
fiercely at a ninety degree angle
from your miniature body, and then
with a quiver, you would slowly lower them,
only to repeat the gesture a few more times –
that salute of life; a reflex, the doctors said,
and sure enough, you outgrew the
dancing poses and army salutes,
and took instead to sleeping twelve hours
while visiting all corners of your crib, in
a serene slumber.

You stir quietly,
a slight movement
of your Thomas the Train pajamas
as you inhale deeply –
a sigh perhaps as you dream
of luscious, creamy whole milk,
or your tete, sweet comfort,
or maybe your Mickey Mouse peluche
of whom you have four replicas,
one for each room of the house.
Or perhaps you’re dreaming of mama
and dada.

We hug when daddy comes home from work,
uniform wrinkled and eyes telling
of misfortunes and atrocities I thank God
you’re still too young to know about.
We hug a group hug –a playful
hug that intertwines our arms so that
we’re no longer solitary natives
within the cement walls of what we call home,
but a family, and we fall laughing
and shedding the skins of disappointments
and corruption, basking instead in the comforts
of innocence.

But now there’s no laughing,
just a slight pull of your lips,
half hidden
behind your tete –
Tough Guy
Mute Button
Ladies Man –
and I pray every night for you,
for your eyes that look so much
like my father’s – dark
serious ovals that portray a wisdom
you’ve yet to live but seem to already know –
his wisdom.
You size everything and everyone
with those eyes –
open them wide as you analyze
what you can’t understand, or
silently watch the scenes unfold
as if you knew what the outcome
would be before the curtain fell.
You remind me of my father,
your grandfather, who you only met
for the first five and a half months
of your life.

Will you be like him –
an intellect whose thirst for water,
knowledge and language
tormented him every night, and at every nap?
A musician who taught himself
the keys of the organ and to write music,
who composed a song for his only daughter
saturated with prayers for her ninth birthday?
A philosopher with a fighter’s temper
and stubbornness
who refused to retreat or speak
even when entreated?
He is more a part of you
than you realize now. Someday you’ll know,
or perhaps, you already do but are
keeping it a secret from me as you
breath to the rhythms of your lullaby CD
that plays
in the background –

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town
Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown.

The humidifier competes for your attention
a continuous humming that sometimes soothes
sometimes infuriates,
a seemingly never-ending waterfall of noise –
white noise.

Give babies white noise to help them sleep.

Yes, white noise. But why not scarlet noise,
something more colorful to bring
dreams of rainbows
and unicorns.
But no, white noise to help you sleep.
It does, but I wonder what you dream.
You sigh again as if you knew
I was watching you, perched
on the rails of your Babi Italia Pinehurst crib
in espresso,
staring at your eyelashes, your ears,
your nose.

When my cousin's daughter was born
his wife counted her
fingers and toes
and tongue.
Your tongue remains slightly
visible behind your tete
that is now escaping your
faintly open mouth, as if
it were playing peek-a-boo
with the moon.

You stretch, and moan, and then turn
to your left, your back now to me,
bidding me good night, and
you keep on dreaming
while I watch you grow into a man.

© 2009 A.P.A.