OMG

I am getting married in mere days.

DAYS!

The 27th to be exact.

I can't even believe it.

Line

They're talking about salsa and merengue, the songs the "old heads" like, the ones that get them out on the dance floor.

"You know she be jammin' to that in her car, when she's cleaning on Saturdays, with the mapo"

"She's from Puerto Rico; she's a hick. So you know she does."

And there it is, the line is drawn, the us-them divide, the island-mainland divide. To these kids - second, third, fourth generation Philly Ricans - I am the island. I was born in Puerto Rico, I eat the food, listen to the music, believe in the language.

But on the island? On the island, I'm so mainland. Shoes too casual, hair too wild, speaking English much too easily.

The familiarity of the push and pull invades. It's all in lighthearted fun, but my heart aches for the homeland I've lost, for the land which will never really be my own. And my heart aches also for the tightrope, for its existence, and for those who live on it - men and women like me who are neither here nor there.

But here's the thing: lately my heart aches most for those who live on either side of that divide, those who are safely island, safely mainland, because they will never know the sweetness of Spanglish - true Spanglish - on the tongue. They will never know the relief of return on both ends of the flight that links the two places. Those on the island will never know the way it feels to wake up in the morning aching for the tropical heat and salty air, la nostalgia aguda que forma el carácter e inspira el corazón. Those on the mainland will never know what it feels like to live in perpetual summer, to live as part of a unit instead of wandering alone; nunca reconocerán el destino y la mano de Dios de la misma manera que la vemos los de la isla.

So I'm a hick - the island Puerto Rican - and at the same time I'm la americana.

And today, looking at my students, pondering the unique situation of the third generation of Brown folks, I felt grateful for my place on the tightrope.

And they're right: I do jam to some salsa in my car.

Quotable

I've been meaning to post something like this for a while, but I haven't gotten around to it until now.

My students are hilarious. Sometimes on purpose, and sometimes unintentionally, and they give me enough fodder to tell stories for days and days, so here are some of my favorite student quotes from this year.

1. L. (after wiping black marker off a white board with her hands): I'm all black.
B. (an African-American student): It's a privilege.

2. E.: Miss, you too serious. Do you have any friends?
Me (sarcastically and dramatically): No. None at all.
E.: Do you have any pets?
Me (Still dramatic and sarcastic): Nope.
E.: Do you have a husband?
Me (Even more dramatically): Nope. I go home and I don't talk at all until I come to work the next day.
Y. (looking concerned): For REAL Miss?!

3. While working on an example of a poem that they would have to write in class -
Me: What's something I might do over the summer?
Student: Swim!
Student: Go outside!
L.: Sell hotdogs!
Whaaaaaaa?!

4. C.: Miss, do you talk about us when you go home? Do you tell stories about us?
Yes, kiddies. I tell the Internet.

5. The day of parent-teacher conferences - J: Miss, my dad is coming; he's going to hit on you. (For the record, he did, but at least I was prepared! I flashed my ring like crazy.)

6. K.: Miss, you look nice today.
Me: I'm always scared when students tell me that. Does that mean that I don't look nice most days?
K.: Naw, Miss. You know how to dress; some teachers don't.
On a related note, I had parent-teacher conferences last night, and parents are funny, too:

1. Me: S. is doing really well; he has an A, but he talks a lot in class, and I had to give him two days of detention because he was disrupting class.
S. Sr.: I thought he had detention; he told me he was cleaning for community service hours.
So busted!

2. Me: C. has brought his grade up from an F to a C. He's been coming in for tutoring and is working really hard. I'm really proud of him.
C.'s mom: Me too. He's getting a milkshake!

The best part, though, was the mom who told me that her daughter hated speaking Spanish before my class and now she goes home and wants them to speak to her in Spanish. "She wants to send texts in Spanish and she watches movies in Spanish with her dad." I will not lie, I teared up.

Songs that make me feel pretty

Forget María's catchy little ditty from West Side Story. These are the songs that make me feel better about myself when I'm feeling less than gorgeous or when I'm just in a funk.

1. "Unpretty" by TLC

About finding that inner strength when you're hit with the idea that you're less than the ideal. The actual video (linked in title) is stellar.

2. "Yo no soy esa mujer" by Paulina Rubio

Have I ever mentioned the fact that I was on the same plane as La Chica Dorada when I flew back from Chile to Miami? Because I walked right past her and thought, "Dang that's an ugly coat! But she looks kinda familiar...." It wasn't until we'd all gotten through customs that I realized who she was. Anyway, this song. "Yo no soy esa mujer que no sale de casa...." A song for the tough girl refusing to be relegated to a life of domesticity - read, me.

3. "Just Fine" by Mary J. Blige

"I like what I see when I'm looking at me when I'm walking past the mirror." Always classy and confident. Love! (Click title for the full song)

4. "Video" by India Arie

It's a classic. &heart

5. "Señora de las cuatro décadas" by Ricardo Arjona

Because no one does sexy imperfections in a song like Arjona. Another classic.

6. "Superwoman" by Alicia Keys

It's a no brainer, really. I remember having this one on repeat while I willed myself to believe it during a particularly rough period, not going to lie.

7. "Who I Am" by Jessica Andrews

Love it!

8. "Piel canela" by La Sonora Matancera and Bobby Capó

Let's hear it for this cinnamon skin! Also, it's hard to feel bad while listening to cha-cha-cha.

9. "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield

Cheesy Europop? Check. Clichés galore? Check. Catchiness? Double check. And I love it unabashedly.

10. "Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley

Don't worry about a thing, cause every little thing is gonna be alright.

NaNoWriMo

I was five when I read my first novel, all by myself. Yes, it was a children's novel, but it was a NOVEL, not a picture book. That was the year that I fell head over heels with reading, and by extension, writing.

And, because I don't have enough to do as it is, I may have just signed up for National Novel Writing Month. Because the idea of writing for fun is appealing, because writing is one of the ways that I can de-stress after a day of dealing with students and wedding plans, because it feels so liberating to think that I can just WRITE about anything without any pressure. So, there. I told the internet. That means I have to do it.

Aaaaand, if you're as much a nerd as I am, go sign up!

On language, Part 2

So this is the promised second part. I guess when I said Saturday, I meant Monday; it's been hectic.

My students in VA called them chents, my students here call them "hicks" for some reason that I still can't understand, but basically, there's a distinction between those Latinos who speak English and those who don't. Worse, there's a distinction between those who speak English and do and those who can and choose Spanish. Choosing Spanish, it seems, is just as bad as not speaking English. It breaks my heart to see how often my kids want to downplay what they know, how they want to cover up the fact that they do actually speak Spanish, for fear of being labeled any of the above terms, which, if you didn't know, are negative.

I expect the resistance from those on the outside, but the rejection by those who look like me is a sharper sting. I've spent a life building up the protective layers for the former, but the latter still surprises me. We might share ethnic or even national ties, but it's that damn LANGUAGE issue that trips us up. Within the community there's a recognition that the Spanish language gives you greater authenticity as a member, but at the same time, it's ENGLISH that gives you the cachet. So we downplay el español and play up that English, and pretend that's not the same form of self-hatred that prompts us to stay out of the sun and straighten our hair and diet our hips away.

That Guillén poem, though, just blows my mind. Here it is again:

PROBLEMAS DEL SUBDESARROLLO

Monsieur Dupont te llama inculto,
porque ignoras cuál era el nieto
preferido de Víctor Hugo.

Herr Müller se ha puesto a gritar,
porque no sabes el día
(exacto) en que murió Bismark.

Tu amigo Mr. Smith,
inglés o yanqui, yo no lo sé,
se subleva cuando escribes shell.
(Parece que ahorras una ele,
y que además pronuncias chel.)

Bueno ¿y qué?
Cuando te toque a ti,
mándales decir cacarajícara,
y que donde está el Aconcagua,
y que quién era Sucre,
y que en qué lugar de este planeta
murió Martí.

Un favor:
Que te hablen siempre en español.

I love this. First off, the title: Problems of "Underdevelopment" - Third World problems. And guess what? The problems are not corruption or lack of clean water or terribly deficient educational systems. The problems are that the French think we're uncivilized because we don't know the minor details of French literary history, that the Germans get angry because we don't know about their historical figures, and that the Brits and US Americans are annoyed with the way we speak and write their language. It's that familiarity of being looked down on for the language we speak.
Ah, but the catch: We can ask them to say tongue twisting words, to point out some geography, to identify a historical figure, and to give us some details on Latin American literary history. And the other catch? Do it in Spanish. We're always playing along, adopting the other's language - it's exhausting and exasperating. We are just as educated, cultured, relevant. And guess what? So is our language.

Whether we've been here for five weeks, five years, or five generations, we have to learn to respect the humanity of those who don't speak English and those who do but choose to love and cherish Spanish as well. There's an element of dehumanization in disrespecting languages, I think. If I can't understand you, then you aren't as much a person as I am. And that's dangerous.

On language, Part 1

I've been thinking a lot about the idea of the perceived superiority of the English language and the implications that has on identity and self-esteem and racial/ethnic tensions. This is not to say that I have my thoughts "together", but that it's been floating around a lot.
I'm teaching Spanish again, my first language, and one that I love now, so I'm always thinking about language, the politics of language, and the connection between language and Latino identity. This past spring during my Cross-Cultural Skills class, I started thinking of how I identify as a speaker of Spanish in public places.
I love to speak Spanish in public for several reasons, though I won't deny that one of them is just that it makes some people uncomfortable. Is that terrible? I'm not trying to be mean, and believe, I'm most certainly NOT talking about you, I'm just pushing the envelope on what's acceptable for a middle-class, well-educated, young woman who's spent most of her life in the United States. I mean, it's understandable when recent arrivals speak their languages in public, but it's somehow less accepted for someone who's been here since the age of four to do the same. If you speak English, why speak Spanish?
For me, the answer is simple: my family speaks Spanish. My aunts, my uncles, my grandparents, my cousins, my parents - they all speak Spanish. With few exceptions, that's all they speak, and I love them and want to communicate with them. Too easy, right? Right. Because that doesn't explain why I speak Spanish at the grocery store and on the street when I'm with bilingual folks. Spanish allows me to express myself in ways that I can't in English. There's a musicality to it, a reassuring structure, an identification of the nuances of gender and class and age built into the very foundations of the language. Not to mention the loveliness of words like "desahogarse" and "humildad" and "bendito". There are ideas that can't be translated, links and connections between states of being that can't be as fully expressed in English because it would require two nouns and a conjunction. There's always something lost in translation.
Spanish is beautiful, so rich and layered and homey. Algo cómodo y a la vez lleno de vida y pasión. I admit that I am smitten with accent marks, arching gracefully over vowels, coaxing my tongue into proper pronunciation.
But this has not always been my attitude towards my first language.
There was a time when I felt that Spanish was the language of lesser intelligence; a time when it marked me as a child who might need extra help. I was ashamed of my heritage and that came out in hatred towards my mother tongue.
It wasn't a conscious shame, but rather a subtly internalized sense of inferiority passed down by well-meaning clueless teachers, folks at the store who looked at me with mixed suspicion and pity, and curious but insensitive classmates. Poor little brown girl, with her inferior skin, inferior language, and (logically) inferior brain. Which is not what they were literally thinking, but in a world where White, English-speaking men are the standard, I do not measure up.
And so English became my defense; it let people know that I was, indeed, smart. See how well I speak your language?

It wasn't until high school, when I started to develop a real sense of ethnic identity, that I brushed off my Spanish and wore it as a badge. It was a sign of how "truly Puerto Rican" I am, which, really, what does that MEAN?! Apparently, in my head, it meant speaking Spanish. And I'm glad it did, because once I got over the greater part of my militancy, I just fell in love with the language, with the way it feels in my mouth, with the incredible diversity of it, and the myriad influences which have shaped it. And have I mentioned the PRACTICALITY of Spanish? It's one the top three most spoken languages in the world, and the United States actually has the second largest Spanish-speaking population in the world. (Which is why I'm not talking about you when I speak Spanish in public. I know better.) It has served me well, allowing me to communicate with people from all walks of life, opening doors for me when it comes to jobs, and giving me the opportunity to read Neruda and García Márquez as they are meant to be read: en español.

But there still seems to be a stigma associated with the language. I notice it all the time in overt and subtle ways, and I'll get into those later, tomorrow or Saturday. But for now, a poem from my favorite poet: Nicolás Guillén:

PROBLEMAS DEL SUBDESARROLLO

Monsieur Dupont te llama inculto,
porque ignoras cuál era el nieto
preferido de Víctor Hugo.

Herr Müller se ha puesto a gritar,
porque no sabes el día
(exacto) en que murió Bismark.

Tu amigo Mr. Smith,
inglés o yanqui, yo no lo sé,
se subleva cuando escribes shell.
(Parece que ahorras una ele,
y que además pronuncias chel.)

Bueno ¿y qué?
Cuando te toque a ti,
mándales decir cacarajícara,
y que donde está el Aconcagua,
y que quién era Sucre,
y que en qué lugar de este planeta
murió Martí.

Un favor:
Que te hablen siempre en español.

I think I just fell in love

With these shoes.

Which I am NOT ALLOWED to buy, just because I need boots more than I need another pair of fabulous pumps.

*sigh* Heartbreak.

Mine

Yesterday I went to the gym and put in a good, long workout. I've recently joined a gym for the first time ever because (a) I'm getting married in December and want my arms to look SICK (b) my current housing situation is not conducive to at home workouts, and (c) I can actually afford it. I've only been going about three times a week, but as I was trying on clothes yesterday after my wonderful workout, I looked in the mirror and thought, my body is mine again. I don't know exactly why that popped in my head the way it did, but it made sense. There was a familiarity in the soreness of muscle, in the reemerging definition, in the increasing flatness of my abs, that I'd missed during the year of sporadic workouts that was grad school. My body feels like it's MINE again, like I OWN it and care for it and love it again. It felt good, feels good. Which is not to say that I am one hundred percent happy with the way I'm shaped and the way I carry my weight and what have you, but I'm closer to that satisfaction again.

On a different note - my car window was smashed today while I was at church. $3 in quarters were taken and they looked around the center console for more goodies (there were none there). I'm glad that the repairs will cost nearly $300 for the $3 theft. *sigh*

And to end this with a happier story:
We sang this song at church this morning. My mom used to sing it to wake us up when my sister and I were kids, and I hated it then because my sister loved it and my mom has the kind of singing voice that I have: a not in public kind of voice. But it's grown on me over the years, and today when we sang it I thought of my mom singing the song that she'd learned at a Christian high school to her daughters back when we were oh-so-Catholic. I thought of the way God's worked in our lives, I thought of the love I have for my mamita and my sister (who's made me an auntie, by the way!) and I missed my family so much. But singing that, it was like I was connected to them for just a moment.

Shameless plug

This is my friend M. She's amazing and she's going to be in my wedding. You should buy her stuff.
Also, she's not charging an arm and a leg for it, which I appreciate.

I mean, look at this cuteness:

Cute green earrings!

Apple apron!

Lap blanket which I covet!

Check her out because you never know what she'll post next. That girl likes to keep you guessing. ;)

Like a tumor

When I moved out to PA, I pretty much hated it. I was living out in the western suburbs of Philadelphia, the single whitest place I've ever lived, and I hated it. I hated the looks I got at the grocery store, the relative lack of any type of authentic ethnic cuisine or ingredients (beyond Italian), the cold, and the way people were so unfriendly. Oh, and have I mentioned the TERRIBLE DRIVERS? And the INABILITY TO MERGE? And the INVASION OF LANES?
But, it's where I was going to school, and I had to be there. And then I graduated, and could have gone back down South to NoVA - Northern Virginia - or DC and worked and lived where my foreignness blends in, where I could find authentic Ethiopian, Salvadoran, Pakistani, Greek, Peruvian, Indian, Afghan, etc. restaurants and/or grocery stores in a five mile radius; where the winters aren't so bad, and where our traffic sucks, but dammit, we can MERGE. (And STAY IN OUR OWN LANES!) But B. was here, and he still had to finish school, and so I came back. To Philly.
So now I'm in the city itself, way out in West Philadelphia (go ahead and sing it, because I know you want to) and I work in North Philly, and I'm starting to like it. Or if not like it, warm up to it. To be fair, I still prefer our Southern hospitality to the cool Northern way of interacting, and I still think Philly drivers are the worst, but, it's growing on me.
I don't want to think about winter, because that might have me cursing the geography again (not so much the city, just its location), but for right now, in this lovely illusion of fall, Philly is growing on me. It's filthy, the drivers suck, and the roads are a disaster, but there's something about it that I'm warming up to.
Maybe it's the fact that I can find little pieces of Puerto Rico here: the bars on porches to create a marquesina, the Puerto Rican bakery that sells quesitos, pan sobao, and pastelillos, the passion fruit popsicle that I got from a man who called it una paleta, because that's what it's called, thank you very much. Maybe it's the fact that I'm finally settling in.
I don't know.
I can't say that I love it like I love NoVA and DC, but I must admit it's growing on me. Even if folks can't drive.

Broken road

I thought about you yesterday. I thought about the way you pushed me from the adolescent wanderings of the quarter-life to full-blown adulthood. Standing here, two years over the threshold, I feel good. Not old, but not so naively young, either. Thanks for that. It wasn't easy, life with you. It wasn't easy and it wasn't always fun, but it didn't suck either. I look back and think that it was good; necessary, even.
I thought of you yesterday and the way things were. Good times, I thought, but times I wouldn't want to relive. They've been lived, been enjoyed, been analyzed, and I've learned and emerged. I thought of you and felt grateful that you were one of the stops on my way to this moment, because I know - I know - that if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be standing in this exact moment. You prepared me for this. You taught me to stop selling myself short, to follow my gut, to take the chance and be happy, to close my eyes and step off the edge and let life take me. You taught me to stop hating myself in those subtle ways: not giving myself credit, building walls, running away. You taught me about the beauty of these curves and this brain and this heart when I saw them through your eyes.
I thank you because you prepared me for this. This is better. It's like my first pair of heels: low and chunky and not particularly stylish, but I learned and then moved on, and now I've got these fabulous electric blue stilettos and I rock them - one foot in front of the other - gracefully. I love those electric blue stilettos, and I love the place where I am now. Really do. Love the way I've moved on to a near-perfect fit - as close to perfection as anything we'll find on earth. You, you were a good fit, but now it's so much better.
And I mean that in the nicest way possible. Because I was not so great for you, either, and I know that. We smoothed each other's rough edges, like sandpaper, preparing for what was to come. I thought of you yesterday and I thought that we'd been happy, but that I hope that today you are happier the way I'm happier. I think of you with affection and gratitude, because I wouldn't take it back. I mean, yeah, there were some sleepless nights and some wasted tears that I will attribute to you, but in the grand scheme of things, it was good.
So thanks, for the lessons, for the challenges, for the healing.
I'm glad it brought me here.


*The song that inspired the title, although my post is more about the road than the destination, the intention is the same:

Back to School

Some memorable moments from my first two weeks of teaching in Philly:

1. At freshmen orientation, students are asked to give three reasons why they need their student IDs. They give two of the answers pretty quickly (to get into the building, to check out library books) and then get creative with the last one: "In case we get kidnapped. Because it says return to...."

2. Michael Vick. Not kidding. He came and spoke. And you thought Obama was controversial.

3. One of my students asked me to call him "Jigga"; he insisted it was his real name. Newsflash, kid: I've got your real name on a roster right here and it's not even CLOSE.

4. While reviewing nationalities, I gave my (mostly Puerto Rican) students the word for Puerto Rican in Spanish - puertorriqueño. They ooh-ed, and said, "I didn't know there was a Q in there."

5. Again, while reviewing nationalities in Spanish. Students were asked to write a sentence saying a person's nationality given some information. The information given said: "Yo soy de San Antonio, Texas." I am from San Antonio, Texas. They said: "Miss, you didn't teach us Texas!" I asked, "Where is Texas? What country is it in?" The reply: "I don't know, Miss. Mexico?" *sigh* That, kids, is a lesson for another day....

Possibilities

So it's been ages.
Here's the deal:
1. I'm engaged.
2. Wedding's in December in PR - we used the trip to get some of the big stuff taken care of. Wedding coordinator has been hired, praise the Lord!
3. We're both looking for jobs. Praying, praying, praying.
4. Yes, there are a gazillion wedding plans in my head.

That said, one of my favorite things ever is to make lists of songs that would be great first dance songs. Some are traditional, others not so much, some I'd never choose, some I'd choose if I could... Anyway, as long as I've got weddings on the brain, I figured I'd make a list of possible songs.

1. "Is This Love?" by Bob Marley

Because it's still the song that I most love for a first dance. I remember listening to it a lot while I was in Costa Rica and thinking, "This is so the song I want to dance to at my wedding."


2. "Forever" by Ben Harper

Ideal for non-dancers with its insanely slow tempo - all you have to do is sway. Plus, how sweet and sexy is it? And the lyrics! Lines like: "I won't let my forever roam" and "Give me your forever...not a day less will do" make me love this one.

3. "The Luckiest" by Ben Folds

Stinkin' adorable. That is all.

4. "Bendita la luz" by Maná

I can't even count how many times I've mentioned this song on this blog, and I still love, love, love it. Such a blessing to find those people at just the right time in just the right place. Bendita la luz, indeed.

5. "Making Memories of Us" by Keith Urban

Much more on the traditional side. Much more mushy than most of the songs I'd have chosen for myself, but still, I love it because I have an unabashed love for cheesy country songs. There. I said it.

6. "Cosa más bella" or "Più Bella Cosa" by Eros Ramazzotti

I remember listening to this song when I was, like, fourteen, on this Spanish channel (as in, from Spain) and falling in love with both Eros Ramazzotti and this song. I remember how I just LOVED the line that says "Gracias por existir"; it kinda blew my mind then and still does.

7. "Hard to Concentrate" by The Red Hot Chili Peppers

Because they're one of the few musical acts that I've loved since I was ten and because, hello, the love! Different, but still totally appropriate.

7. "Come Close" by Common

Because Common is a smart rapper, because it's romantic, because I love the idea of pulling out a little hip hop for a first dance.

8. "Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You" by Lauryn Hill

Classic with a twist.

10. "Amor de conuco" by Juan Luis Guerra

*Sigh* Honestly, what I most want is to walk down the aisle to this lovely little song. "Na' me tienes que ofrecer, tu mirada es lo único que quiero...." Off the charts, this one.

11. "Almas gemelas" by Gilberto Santa Rosa

How fun would it be to do a little salsa number as the first dance? And I love how it captures the idea of sharing and growing together that marriage is all about.

12. "Turn Your Lights Down Low" by Lauryn Hill and Bob Marley
Love, love, love! The sweetness! The sexy!

13. "En tus púpilas" by Shakira

I'm so glad she's been writing more songs about love that survives, because, at least in Spanish, I think she's got a great way of saying things.

14. "Refuge (When It's Cold Outside)" by John Legend

Because I can't have a list without Mr. Legend. This is, without a doubt, one of my favorite of his songs. The love!

15. "Solamente" by Fiel a la Vega

"Encontrarte es una historia que hoy deberían publicar" is just a bit too intimate, but this one - this one is lovely and abstract and perfect. It's hard to pick a favorite Fiel song or to rank them in any way, but this is one of the first ones that I fell absolutely in love with. It's those last two verses that really get me: "Rellenas mi espacio sin corazón y resurges mi idea de redención." *Sigh* Those Fiel boys get me every time!

Any other creative suggestions out there?

She emerges...

This girl is thisclose to being a MASTER. No more sitting in classes for me.

That, of course, is why I've been pretty much absent since early June - Summer I will do that to a girl.

But I've emerged with one more project to do just in time to spend three glorious weeks in Puerto Rico. Love!

I'm trying not to worry too much about anything - about the job situation (or lack thereof), about the housing situation (or lack thereof), about saying goodbye to people with whom I've spent so much time for the past year. Bittersweet.

In the meantime, I'm packing, heading to the Shore, celebrating the fourth just to be with people, and remembering.

This year has gone by so fast. So, so fast. All those days and nights of reading and writing and preparing presentations have slipped away. The days I thought I wouldn't make it - well, I've made it.

And soon there will be time to write, to think about what comes next, to worry about the way my life will play out after all that I've learned and experienced this year. Good times, hard times, challenges.... For now, though, Puerto Rico awaits.
I'll be back the 27th - catch ya on the flip side.

Después de la tormenta siempre sale el sol

This made my day and totally makes up for yesterday's craptacular-ness.

Today I...

1. Hit a cute little bird while driving on I-76E on my way to the school where I volunteer and felt really, really sad about it.

2. Passed out in the hallway at aforementioned school, tumbling over a recycling bin, losing a flip-flop, scratching my neck, and bruising my knee (and my ego) in the process.

3. Put my hands over my eyes in class and felt my contact fall out of my right eye, forcing me to leave the room to put that sucker back in.

*Sigh*

What. A. Day.

At least I got in a good workout this morning before chaos ensued.

Sound of Summer

There are some songs that I associate with summer. I hear them and think of riding in the car with the windows down heading to the park, to the beach, to a BBQ.... Oh, yeah!

So, the sounds of summer, for me:

1. "Summertime" by Will Smith and DJ Jazzy Jeff

'Nuff said.

2. "Canción en la arena" by Fiel a la Vega

This is THE beach song, in my head. The title translates to "Song on the sand" - it's a little slice of life, a day on a Puerto Rican beach. Love, love, love it. This is such a summer song for me. PLUS, it's FIEL! Can't go wrong with those boys.

3. "Cowboy Take Me Away" by The Dixie Chicks

I don't know why I associate this song with summer, but I do. I guess it might be the idea of sleeping on a pillow of bluebonnets with a blanket made of stars. That and the fact that I think that this song is one of the most beautiful songs ever written. So perfect I can barely even stand it.

4. "I Wish" by Skee Lo
Y'all know you remember this one. Fun, fun, fun stuff - and hilarious.

5. "Vamos de nuevo" by Víctor Manuelle

Or anything by him, you know, because I love him. He is my favorite salsero, and there is nothing like driving around with some good salsa playing on the stereo. A few more good ones: "He tratado", "Cómo se lo explico al corazón", and "Así es la mujer".

6. "Guayaquil" by Don Omar

I know, I know. Don Omar doing cumbia? Oh, but it's catchy! And I don't know how it works, but Latinos can make an accordion sound HOT! Believe it. Oh, and as a 6 1/2: "Salió el sol" by Don Omar. I'm not huge into reggaetón, but this song makes me want to dance EVERY TIME!

7. "Quickly" by John Legend

Because y'all KNOW I can't make a soundtrack without Mr. Legend.

8. "Is This Love?" by Bob Marley and the Wailers

This song reminds me of walking down Costa Rican streets on my way to the beach from some little café where I might have just enjoyed a fresco de guanábana. Delicious. Also, the lyrics? "I wanna love you and treat you right....We'll be together with a roof right over our heads, we'll share the shelter of my single bed." LOVE!

9. "Oye mi amor" by Maná

And a couple more by Maná: "Cómo te deseo", "Tú me salvaste" and "Bendita la luz"

10. "Touch the Sky" by Kanye West feat. Lupe Fiasco
Two of my three favorite Chi-town rappers, Common being the third. Actually, I'll take pretty much anything by Kanye. He's good summer music.

Let the summer begin!

Mamita linda

With my beautiful mom on Mothers' Day

So I'm late on this one. I've been thinking about it since well before Mothers' Day and have been meaning to write it for a loooong time and then the end of the semester came and knocked me upside the head, and I'm only now beginning to emerge...just in time for the beginning of my summer classes. So anyway, I have cover letters to write and a gazillion pages to read, so I figured this was the perfect time to get this post out of the way.

I'm one of those women who thinks of her mother as her best friend, which is funny, because things weren't always this way. Growing up, my mom had no interest in being my friend. I had enough friends, she said, what I needed was a mother. Looking back, I'm glad for that. I had friends, good ones, but my mom needed to be something more, and she was.
She got here to the States when she was about twenty-four, following her husband, with two kids in tow: a four-year-old me and my one-year-old sister. She came without speaking the language, without knowing a soul, without knowing how many years of bitter cold she'd have to endure in this strange land. My mother is a brave woman, braver, I think, than I. I don't know that I could have handled it the way she did.
My mom learned English by watching Oprah and the news. She's the kind of woman who knows how to fake confidence, how to make herself look more secure than she is inside. She never apologized for her accent, and she wasn't afraid to speak up when she knew someone was trying to take advantage of her, of us, of anyone else.
My mother showed me strength, told me that women could do anything, let me know that I had choices. She stayed home with my sister and me, a stay-at-home-mom until we were old enough to fend for ourselves, and then home again when we moved to Germany. Once in a fit of anger, I lashed out at her, told her I'd be more than a housewife. I can't remember what the punishment was for that, but I do know that I deserved it. She stayed home, yes, but that did not make her weak, did not make her one of those silent, subservient women. There was a strength to choosing to stay home, choosing to forgo her own dreams to see her daughter's dreams fulfilled. There's a strength in sacrifice that I see now.
My mother is the type of person who will give and give and give without reservation, like her mother before her; I like to think I've inherited some of that. I remember her volunteering at my school, with a community of migrant field workers in our area, at our church. She gave her time, gave her skills, and never asked for anything in return. To this day, she works for a pittance because she loves what she does, and she translates and interprets for free because she knows someone needs to do it. She's an advocate, my mother. She's the woman people call when they don't have the words to fight for themselves, because she'll march into a bank or a store or a doctor's office with you and give someone what-for. Believe, she's a woman you'll want in your corner.
My mother flings open the doors of her home to bring people in. If you need a place to stay and you're in town, come on over. If you just want to hang out, come on over. If you need someone to listen, come on over. She'll let you in, feed you till you can barely move, and kill you with hospitality. The woman knows how to throw a get-together. And don't even get me started on her fashion! We used to tease her, my sister and I, for covering up and layering, but my gosh, she always looks polished and elegant. We have different styles - my look is a little funkier, a little more in the scoop neck/deep V territory - but we can both rock some basic pieces and have a passion for a beautiful, well-crafted shoe that is both stylish and comfortable. And best of all, she taught me how to walk in heels without lurching or looking like I'm tripping all over myself. Thank you, mom, for teaching me how to work a stiletto in comfort and with grace.
I love my mamita. Love her for being a parent, perfectly imperfect, the kind of woman who made me who I am: a well-adjusted, intelligent, passionate woman who can only hope to be half as stylish and generous as she. Even more, I love her because on this side of childhood and the self-righteous anger of my adolescence, we can be friends, women who can share victories and struggles, hopes and fears. I love that she's still in my corner, but I'm also glad to be in her's now.

The kiddies

I volunteer twice a week in a fourth grade class and tutor two girls on Tuesday evenings and lately I've been wishing I had a tape recorder with me to document all the craziness they say. A few gems from this week:
1. D: Miss, you got a daughter?
Me: No.
D: You got a son?
Me: Nope.
D: You don't got anything?!
Me: Nope.
D: (Looks at me like I have grown a second head and says with some degree of disappointment) Miss, I heard you were twenty-five!
Me: I'm actually twenty-six.
At this point, she just looked at me again and shook her head. In other words: What is wrong with you, woman? Go pop out some babies!

2. The teacher explains how to use "I" and "me" correctly, and then mentions that there is a character on Sesame Street who always uses "I" and "me" incorrectly. She asks the students to guess who it is.
The students correctly guess that it's Cookie Monster, and then proceed to talk about some of the different characters. One of the boys looks around at his classmates and says: "Are we really discussing Sesame Street?"
I mean, really. Fourth grade is so far from the days of discussing Sesame Street.

3. With the girls I tutor:
M: Do you ever talk to imaginary friends when you're bored?
Me: (Pick my jaw up from the floor) Um, no. Maybe when I was little, but not in a long, long time. Do you?
M: Yep.
For the record, I don't remember ever having an imaginary friend, and I don't think my mom has ever said anything about me having one, I just had a feeling she needed to know it was okay if she did. Also, her sister, J. asked what her imaginary friend's name was and M. said she didn't know.
Mad props to J. for being a supportive older sister; I would've teased C. mercilessly.

Today

To do:
1. Laundry
2. Urban Econ paper, O.M.G!
3. Study guide for Urban Econ exam
4. Clean my room
5. Pick up books from the library
6. Deposit check
7. Walk in the beautiful sunshine

I've done two of the above, numbers five and six, of course. I've started on number one, and am thinking about number seven, but two and three really, really, REALLY need to get done. Today.

Why is it that when I really have to write a paper I fall asleep at my computer, feel an overwhelming need to clean, suddenly remember that I'll need a job in two months and I should start searching, or think of all the people I haven't talked to in a long time that I really want to catch up with?

I'm currently fighting the urge to nap or reorganize my closet and put away winter clothes. Because, seriously? Not as pressing as FAILING OUT OF GRAD SCHOOL BECAUSE I COULDN'T GET MY ACT TOGETHER LONG ENOUGH TO WRITE MY STINKIN' PAPER!

Back to work... I hope.

She's got a point.....

Today I went into the school where I usually volunteer with the fourth graders. They were testing, so I helped out with second grade. I walked around the room as the kids worked on their penmanship and overheard this little bit of genius:

Boy 1: I wish I had a time machine. I'd go back in time.
Boy 2: Back in time?
Boy 1: Yeah, to like a hundred years ago!
Girl: That's dumb. How would you get back? They didn't have electricity a hundred years ago. What would you do with your machine?

I have to admit that I have never ONCE in my life thought about that as I've dreamed of hopping in a time-machine and hanging out in 1920s Chicago speakesies or 1600s Puerto Rico. Girl had a point - it'd be mighty hard to power up a time machine in 1600s Puerto Rico.
The thing that struck me about their conversation, though, besides the obvious hilarity of the exchange, is that they cannot conceive of a world without electricity. Frankly, neither can I. Don't get me wrong, I've spent some time in developing nations where blackouts are a way of life, but that's just part of the experience, it is NOT my day-in-day-out. These kids have never lived in a world without internet and cell phones. I still remember being one of the only kids in school with a computer at home. I remember listening to RECORDS on a Big Bird record player! I remember when cordless phones came out.
Oh, technology. I can't even dream about going back in time anymore because of my complete and utter dependence on you....

Dang, I'm old.

havin' church

I know your deeds and your toil and perseverance, and that you cannot tolerate evil men, and you put to the test those who call themselves apostles, and they are not, and you found them to be false; and you have perseverance and have endured for My name's sake, and have not grown weary. But I have this against you, that you have left your first love.
Revelation 2:2-4 (NASB)

This is what they preached on this morning at church. I went to the second service, but I glanced at the notes from the first service's sermon and was struck by this:

Passionate about truth but not passionate for God.
Passionate for justice but not for God.
Passionate for purity but not for God.
Passionate for marriage but not for God.
You can hate what God hates and love what God loves and yet fail to love God.

My immediate reaction: "Gulp. Daaaaaaang...." Such a common thing for Christians. We're characterized by so many, many things. On one end of the spectrum, there's a quest for social justice and serving the poor; on the other end, there's railing against all the evils (and "evils") around us. Both are sin when it's done apart from a quest to love God fully. When we love God - really love Him - it's hard to hate the people around us, to feel that we are somehow superior to them. And, yes, I do believe that there are feelings of superiority on both ends of the aforementioned spectrum. This girl from the left can attest to that.
Anyway, it really helped me to gain some perspective.

Also, there was this song that we sang, a song which I've long loved. I was reminded of its power today when we sang it, partly because we sang it in a church where most of the members would rather speak English than Spanish, and you could still feel the emotion that swept us up. There was something beyond language that descended. I hate saying it like that, because it makes me sound all mystical, but it's the only way I can explain it. A hush fell over the room, and wow....

Renuévame, Señor Jesús, ya no quiero ser igual.
Renuévame, Señor Jesús, pon en mí tu corazón.
Porque todo lo que hay dentro de mí
necesita ser cambiado Señor.
Porque todo lo que hay dentro de mi corazón
necesita más de ti.

Stinkin' cheesy YouTube videos...

perreo

This morning I was awakened by someone blasting reggaetón from their car as they parked at the greenhouse-type-place next door. My first thought: ¿Reggaetón? In Wayne? If it hadn't been that it happened just minutes before my alarm sounded, I might have run outside to meet my fellow displaced Latinos. You know, before I realized that women who are technically soltera but not sin compromisos should NOT run out to meet landscapers just because we share a language.

As it was, I was a little unhappy that I lost precious moments of sleep.

Wordle

Have y'all heard of Wordle? Hours of entertainment, folks. HOURS.
That translates to "hours of procrastination".

Image courtesy of www.wordle.net

Five

Days until I find out from Teach for America.
The nerves....

Reflection on my complete and utter exhaustion

Suspiro.
Respiro.
El corazón me pesa.
Duele respirar.
Lo que más quiero es dormir
para apaciguar este cansancio interminable.
Pero el sueño no lo calma
y esa pesadez persiste.
Suspiro.
Respiro.
Siento que el aire no pasa,
que en vez de sostenerme, me
atraganta.
Otro día más del jueguito,
del -sí señor,
de comprometer mi esencia de ser.
Suspiro.
Respiro.
Un aire contaminado
por los pecados del pueblo:
mi pueblo, el pueblo que me
ha rechazado, de los pueblos
que existen en proximidad
pero no en unidad.
Suspiro.
Respiro.
Esperando el día que esto se aclare,
que ya no me duela,
que no me canse
el respirar.
Respiro.
Suspiro.
El día aún no ha llegado.

Related to the previous post

There's something angry and sad and beautiful about this poem, which was also featured in the documentary, and I found it online here. I also realized it's in one of the books that I'm reading for class: Being Latino in Christ. It's one of those poems that I'm sure I'll be figuring out for awhile.

Puerto Rican Obituary

by Pedro Pietri

They worked
They were always on time
They were never late
They never spoke back
when they were insulted
They worked
They never took days off
that were not on the calendar
They never went on strike
without permission
They worked
ten days a week
and were only paid for five
They worked
They worked
They worked
and they died
They died broke
They died owing
They died never knowing
what the front entrance
of the first national city bank looks like

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
passing their bill collectors
on to the next of kin
All died
waiting for the garden of eden
to open up again
under a new management
All died
dreaming about america
waking them up in the middle of the night
screaming: Mira Mira
your name is on the winning lottery ticket
for one hundred thousand dollars
All died
hating the grocery stores
that sold them make-believe steak
and bullet-proof rice and beans
All died waiting dreaming and hating

Dead Puerto Ricans
Who never knew they were Puerto Ricans
Who never took a coffee break
from the ten commandments
to KILL KILL KILL
the landlords of their cracked skulls
and communicate with their latino souls

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
From the nervous breakdown streets
where the mice live like millionaires
and the people do not live at all
are dead and were never alive

Juan
died waiting for his number to hit
Miguel
died waiting for the welfare check
to come and go and come again
Milagros
died waiting for her ten children
to grow up and work
so she could quit working
Olga
died waiting for a five dollar raise
Manuel
died waiting for his supervisor to drop dead
so he could get a promotion

Is a long ride
from Spanish Harlem
to long island cemetery
where they were buried
First the train
and then the bus
and the cold cuts for lunch
and the flowers
that will be stolen
when visiting hours are over
Is very expensive
Is very expensive
But they understand
Their parents understood
Is a long non-profit ride
from Spanish Harlem
to long island cemetery

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
Dreaming
Dreaming about queens
Clean-cut lily-white neighborhood
Puerto Ricanless scene
Thirty-thousand-dollar home
The first spics on the block
Proud to belong to a community
of gringos who want them lynched
Proud to be a long distance away
from the sacred phrase: Que Pasa

These dreams
These empty dreams
from the make-believe bedrooms
their parents left them
are the after-effects
of television programs
about the ideal
white american family
with black maids
and latino janitors
who are well train
to make everyone
and their bill collectors
laugh at them
and the people they represent

Juan
died dreaming about a new car
Miguel
died dreaming about new anti-poverty programs
Milagros
died dreaming about a trip to Puerto Rico
Olga
died dreaming about real jewelry
Manuel
died dreaming about the irish sweepstakes

They all died
like a hero sandwich dies
in the garment district
at twelve o’clock in the afternoon
social security number to ashes
union dues to dust

They knew
they were born to weep
and keep the morticians employed
as long as they pledge allegiance
to the flag that wants them destroyed
They saw their names listed
in the telephone directory of destruction
They were train to turn
the other cheek by newspapers
that mispelled mispronounced
and misunderstood their names
and celebrated when death came
and stole their final laundry ticket

They were born dead
and they died dead

Is time
to visit sister lopez again
the number one healer
and fortune card dealer
in Spanish Harlem
She can communicate
with your late relatives
for a reasonable fee
Good news is guaranteed

Rise Table Rise Table
death is not dumb and disable
Those who love you want to know
the correct number to play
Let them know this right away
Rise Table Rise Table
death is not dumb and disable
Now that your problems are over
and the world is off your shoulders
help those who you left behind
find financial peace of mind

Rise Table Rise Table
death is not dumb and disable
If the right number we hit
all our problems will split
and we will visit your grave
on every legal holiday

Those who love you want to know
the correct number to play
let them know this right away
We know your spirit is able
Death is not dumb and disable
RISE TABLE RISE TABLE

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
Hating fighting and stealing
broken windows from each other
Practicing a religion without a roof
The old testament
The new testament
according to the gospel
of the internal revenue
the judge and jury and executioner
protector and eternal bill collector

Secondhand shit for sale
learn how to say Como Esta Usted
and you will make a fortune
They are dead
They are dead
and will not return from the dead
until they stop neglecting
the art of their dialogue
for broken english lessons
to impress the mister goldsteins
who keep them employed
as lavaplatos porters messenger boys
factory workers maids stock clerks
shipping clerks assistant mailroom
assistant, assistant assistant
to the assistant’s assistant
assistant lavaplatos and automatic
artificial smiling doormen
for the lowest wages of the ages
and rages when you demand a raise
because is against the company policy
to promote SPICS SPICS SPICS

Juan
died hating Miguel because Miguel’s
used car was in better running condition
than his used car
Miguel
died hating Milagros because Milagros
had a color television set
and he could not afford one yet
Milagros
died hating Olga because Olga
made five dollars more on the same job
Olga
died hating Manuel because Manuel
had hit the numbers more times
than she had hit the numbers
Manuel
died hating all of them
Juan
Miguel
Milagros
and Olga
because they all spoke broken english
more fluently than he did

And now they are together
in the main lobby of the void
Addicted to silence
Off limits to the wind
Confine to worm supremacy
in long island cemetery
This is the groovy hereafter
the protestant collection box
was talking so loud and proud about

Here lies Juan
Here lies Miguel
Here lies Milagros
Here lies Olga
Here lies Manuel
who died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
Always broke
Always owing
Never knowing
that they are beautiful people

Never knowing
the geography of their complexion

PUERTO RICO IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE
PUERTORRIQUENOS ARE A BEAUTIFUL RACE

If only they
had turned off the television
and tune into their own imaginations
If only they
had used the white supremacy bibles
for toilet paper purpose
and make their latino souls
the only religion of their race
If only they
had return to the definition of the sun
after the first mental snowstorm
on the summer of their senses
If only they
had kept their eyes open
at the funeral of their fellow employees
who came to this country to make a fortune
and were buried without underwears

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
will right now be doing their own thing
where beautiful people sing
and dance and work together
where the wind is a stranger
to miserable weather conditions
where you do not need a dictionary
to communicate with your people
Aqui Se Habla Espanol all the time
Aqui you salute your flag first
Aqui there are no dial soap commercials
Aqui everybody smells good
Aqui tv dinners do not have a future
Aqui the men and women admire desire
and never get tired of each other
Aqui Que Paso Power is what’s happening
Aqui to be called negrito
means to be called LOVE

It's those last few stanzas that just make me break down in sobs.

And though it's perhaps a bit less eloquent, it makes me think of that Kanye line: "They made us hate ourselves and love their wealth" (from "All Falls Down").

Assimilation

I just heard this quote on a documentary about Puerto Ricans: "Assimilation is a curse because it forces you to give up your identity".

I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about this documentary, probably because it was done by Rosie Pérez and her Spanish is a more than a little rusty. (I have seriously got to get over my discrimination against Latinos who can't speak Spanish well.) The quote, however, got my attention because I've been thinking about how much I've given up simply because I live here in the US. I'm a speaker of Spanish in public places; I like resisting expectation, if that makes any sense. But my question is, is assimilation even a choice? I mean, we're here, we live here. How much can you avoid becoming something else? You retain what you can, but you give up a lot anyway. You give up and you adopt and adapt.
I've been thinking about this assimilation thing a lot. I know I've assimilated, but I know I haven't completely lost myself - that piece of my people that I carry around. I don't know if that makes sense to anyone else, if anyone else feels that they carry their people inside, but I do.
I don't know, I don't know.... I wonder what happens next, you know? With the next generation? What do they lose? What do they gain? I don't know.
I
Don't
Know

Aniversario

I don't call my family in PR this week, at least, not anymore. Is that awful? I think sometimes it might be.
My cousin died four years ago tomorrow, and the thought of it still hurts. It hurts me and I know it hurts my aunts and cousins and grandmother. It still sucks. It's still not okay.

It was a beautiful day, a Friday, and I was sitting in the backseat of someone's car on my way to work. Leroy was supposed to be coming into town that day to speak at my church, and I'd be getting off work early to pick him up.
We were pulling into DC, I was on 14th street, just before my stop at Independence, when my mom called. There had been an accident. Yamil had been hurt, and he might be dead. "They're still not sure," she said, but I knew. I knew he was gone already. I told her I'd be waiting for her call, that I'd leave my phone on so that she could call me once it was certain.
I walked down Independence trembling, up to my office, still trembling. And when that phone finally rang with the news I already knew, I fell apart. I went to the bathroom and cried. I stood in the stairwell and cried some more. Gone. He was gone, gone, gone.
I have no idea how I got through that day at work. I had to stay till two so I could head to the airport to meet Leroy; I don't think it was the arrival he'd expected.
We were all a mess at my parents' house. My dad was arriving from Romania that day and he arrived and broke down, still standing on the driveway, holding my mother. I remembered that he'd loved Yamil like a son.
At church, we sang "In Your Hands" in English and Spanish and I let go, for real let go, and sobbed and sobbed because I didn't feel like God was close at all, because if He were, He wouldn't have taken my sweet, beautiful cousin.
My mom, sister, and I went to Puerto Rico the next day, leaving Leroy with my daddy in VA. We had a layover in Boston, and I remember feeling raw and just on the verge of tears the whole time. The guy on the plane next to me wanted to talk and I just wasn't having it; I didn't have the strength to speak and control the tears, I just wanted to be left alone.
We went from the airport to the funeral home. When we walked through the door, the knot in my throat loosened itself into a flood of tears. I screamed, "No, no, no," and looked at the body that was no longer my cousin and thought, "It's not him, it's not him." I felt like my soul were being ripped apart. Gone. Here today, and tomorrow a truck drags you down the road and you're gone. Gone.
My gosh. He was so young - twenty-one - and he was gone.
After that moment at the funeral home when I collapsed - literally - on my aunt's lap in a mess of tears and unintelligible sounds, I got it together because I had to. I had to be strong for my aunt, for my uncle, for my cousin J, for my grandmother. I had to be strong.
It rained the day we buried him. A torrential downpour as we walked down the paths to the plot where my uncle's parents were buried, where my cousin was joining them: coffin in the stone and cement of a Latin American cemetery, none of the lush, green fields of the States. We walked in the rain, soaked to the skin, water filling our black dress shoes. I remember thinking it was appropriate weather for the occasion.
When we got back home, I would randomly cry at the thought of all we'd lost as a family.
Yamil.
So full of life. So funny. He was the one who would take us out, who taught me about good music, who would visit us everywhere we lived. Every time I go back home to PR, he's missing. His absence is still painfully obvious. Our family has never been the same since he was taken away.

¿Dónde estás? Te busco, sólo encuentro un lugar
de piedra y silencio.
Tu cuerpo acecha tras la sombra,
tu cuerpo laberinto eterno,
encubre peligro y misterio,
peligro y misterio.
-- Robi Draco Rosa "Cruzando puertas"

While pretending to write a paper

Just some random stuff I've been thinking about lately:

1. I'm probably one of very, very few women who actually prefers wearing heels. I hate wearing socks, and I don't like closed shoes very much. If I've got to wear closed shoes, I enjoy a little toe cleavage and some height, courtesy of a skinny heel - no clunkers for me. And here's the thing: I'm not one of those women who's all about suffering for beauty. My heels aren't terribly high (usually an inch and a half to two inches), and I refuse to wear uncomfortable shoes all day long, I just want them to look GOOD.

2. On a related note: I hate tights. I love how the look on other people, but my gosh! I feel like I'm in some type of torture device when I'm wearing tights.

3. I'm obsessed with Nivea cream. Oh. My. Gosh. I bought a tiny little tin of it a few months ago and I've been using it daily as I'm running around. I have such stinkin' dry skin, and I need to reapply lotion every few hours. This stuff is fabulous and a little goes a long way. Best of all, it's not smelly; it smells clean, not like flowers or perfume. Love it!

4. I've rediscovered the joy of cooking, proper cooking, not just making a sandwich. I can imagine how the ingredients will work together, and I really like experimenting with different flavors and textures. My favorite part is seeing people's reactions to what I've created. It makes me happy.

5. Spring. It's spring here, finally and I feel like I've come back to life. Have I mentioned I hate winter? That it depresses me like crazy? Yeah, man, spring feels GOOD!

Walk

I took a long way today - about three and a half miles long - during which I listened to the birds, searched the trees for signs of life, and pondered the importance of a good sports bra. On my walk I noticed a few things:

1. A cute, cute, cute Golden Retriever puppy. Awww!
2. A gazillion young moms in yoga pants pushing those special strollers for working out with your baby.
3. A tall, gray-haired man pushing a two-year-old boy in aforementioned stroller.
4. A woman with a labradoodle who was very proud of her dog and talking on her blue-tooth about being laid-off
5. Only one person smiled in passing, and only one said hello. Man, do I miss the South!
6. One Asian family.
7. Little old ladies.
8. People wearing gloves. Whaaaat?

Today is one of those fantastic days that makes you eager for spring and the coming summer. There's sun, there's green, there's a clear, blue sky; there's hope. Mmm, after the long, freezing winter, that's a good thing.

Sweet procrastination

I'm supposed to be working on a draft grant proposal for my class tomorrow. The thing is that I just can't seem to make myself work on that sucker. This class has taught me that while I'm glad to have a little experience in the whole process of grant writing, this is probably NOT my forte. I'm an ideas person, but not so much a planner.
Big surprise there. (The sarcasm....)

Anyway, I've found that writing for myself tends to help me focus on writing for others. Fun writing helps me do the boring writing as well. Let's be honest: grants are boring writing.

I'm also taking a class on cross-cultural skills which has been making me think (even more) about my own ethnic/cultural identity. I think today's class was the first one in which I've sat without an overwhelming sense of heaviness, of otherness. There have been a lot of notes scrawled in the margins of my notebooks that have less to do with the lecture/discussion and much more to do with the sorting of identity issues.
I didn't grow up in predominantly Latino area. In fact, I was the darkest kid in school until my sister went to Kindergarten; then I was the second darkest kid. For the record, I'm stinkin' light-skinned. Too light for my own tastes. Even so, we were always surrounded by fellow Puerto Ricans and a handful of Mexican friends. I was, even from a very young age, acutely aware that I lived in two worlds. One world existed inside my house and at friends' houses. It was a world of Spanish, arroz, chuletas, and habichuelas; and Latin music. It was a place where we got together for Pay-per-View boxing matches, games of dominoes, and women's raucous stories. The other world existed at school and in public spaces. In this world, we spoke English, waited our turn, and spoke quietly and politely. And then after elementary school, I was shipped off to Catholic school, which was in a much rougher area. And there I was: one more brown face. I wasn't the oddity, the "immigrant" kid (we're technically NOT immigrants), the token Latina. It was a place where those two worlds were in such close proximity that I wasn't as certain of their separation.
The thing is that feels like centuries ago. I left Illinois when I was thirteen - just days before my fourteenth birthday - and ended up on a military base in Heidelberg, Germany. Yeah, yeah, all of us Heidelberg kids know just how white HD was (is?), but it was light years from my childhood in the Chicago suburbs. And I was in high school now, at that age when you're suddenly forging this identity, and for a brown kid in the US, that identity will invariably be wrapped up in your non-whiteness. It's funny to me that I have never been unaware of the fact that I'm not part of the in-group; I have never been unaware of the fact that I am not fully "American", even though I am, more fully than anyone can imagine.
I've been thinking a lot about those years of wrestling with my identity. I was embarrassed by my awkward Spanish, afraid of being teased the way my sister was when she tried to speak, tongue clumsy around sharp "t"s and trilled "r"s. I didn't want to be teased, so I kept my mouth shut, saying the phrases in my mind until I was certain my tongue wouldn't betray me as la prima americana.
I was even more embarrassed by my light skin. My sister and my dad are both gloriously dark - skin that's so obviously Latin, but my skin is obviously nothing. It's both too light and too dark to fit easily in anyone's preconceived notions. I had to make up for my physical deficiency with a real knowledge of the language and history and culture of my people. I consumed every book I could find on Puerto Rico or on Hispanic and Latino issues. I perused the library stacks for Latino names and read their works. I listened to my dad's music: El Gran Combo, Silvio Rodríguez, Juan Luis Guerra. I became addicted to the media form that Latinos have perfected: the telenovela. I dusted off my Spanish and worked it into every sentence; even better, I mastered the art of Spanglish. Spanglish, I'd read, was the language of the future, a tidbit I shared with anyone who would listen.
I think back and I wonder about what led me down that path. It must've been more than all the shame associated with my skin, you know? That can't have been the only reason. The thing is, I don't remember feeling lost or like it was too much work or even thinking that there was anything unusual about living in two worlds. I mean, I didn't think about that until I got back to the States.
Within two months of our return, I'd experienced three distinct racially fraught incidents that had me wondering if the racial harmony I'd experienced in Germany was an illusion. Once, my family was shuttled to the back of a restaurant, past many empty tables to an area occupied exclusively by people of color. I might've been young, but I was neither blind nor stupid. The second time, I was at my church youth group, and we were outside our youth leader's apartment doing a trust building activity. Someone called the cops on us; they'd reported a "gang initiation" going on. Too many Latino kids outside, I guess. The third was my AP English Lit. teacher's reaction to the Latina in her class. She didn't have to say a word. I was the darkest kid in the room, and the shock and confusion on her face were enough; I never felt safe in that class.
That was where I learned that not everyone lives in two worlds. In fact, most people will never have to deal with anything or anyone from outside their world in anything but the most cursory manner. That's a luxury I never had.
I guess the thing that saved me that year - I was only seventeen - was my creative writing class where I was given this outlet to write out these things. My teacher loved it. She made me believe that this story I'd been weaving - the fragments of language, the collage of experiences, the hybridization of culture - were beautiful. My struggle was a source of pride.
I still think about that teacher because that year, I felt like only two of my teachers actually cared about me. She fostered my passion for writing and for creating my cultural and ethnic identity. Someday I'll have to track her down and thank her....

Blonde

Later on I hope to write about how I felt in LA, how good it was for B. and I, how good it was to see my sister and brother-in-law, and how much I love the beach. For right now, however, there's this article: Fade to Blonde, which I loved. It's about a Latina like me: Brown and proud, hoping everyone can see her pride in her ethnicity, light-skinned, and political. And then she dyes her hair blonde for the piece.
Now, to me - and to her - this is a big no-no. Going blonde is selling out, it's trying to pass for white, it's giving up on your ethnicity, it's wanting to be white. And she does it. And she writes about the experience with amazing clarity, open-mindedness, and intelligence. Loved it.

Why I'm glad I learned to drive in NoVA

I had to drive in to Philly three times this week, which resulted in me spending a hecka lot of time on 476, 76, and 95. Also, I was in VA over the weekend - more time on 95.
All that to say: Philadelphians can't drive. If there's one thing we know in the DMV (that's DC, Maryland, and Virginia, for those of you who don't know), it's traffic. We, of the three hour commute (20 miles, people, 20 miles!), know how to handle traffic. We know how to keep things interesting - a little weaving in and out, a little movement. Also, we know that on the rare occasion that traffic may be moving, you must take advantage of that and MOVE. If the speed limit says 55, but things are moving, go ahead and do 65 - but stay in the slow lane. The fast lane is reserved for people who are actually moving fast - like 80 fast.

People here don't know how good they have it.... It's only a forty minute commute in rush hour! That said, if we had those conditions down in DC, it'd be a twenty minute commute. Philadelphians cannot seem to figure out how to keep things moving! You'll have two lanes of traffic, and there will be two cars, each going 65. O. M. G. People! Stop blocking me in! If you're only going ten miles over the speed limit, move it over to the slow lane.
Stinkin' Philly drivers....

;)

In gear

So I just realized that I plan to be in LA in a week wearing this little number:


Yikes!

I'm planning accordingly.

On the to-do list:

1. stop eating so many stinkin' carbs (oh, those delicious, delicious carbs)
2. focus on my core like craaaazy
3. invest in a little self tanner (yes, I am ridiculous)

Cali, here I come!

In the meantime, can I get a sound check?

I've been thinking about a lot of things lately, some pretty heavy, and I do want to write about them, but I'm pretty frustrated after my class today. I feel like it'd be good for me to cool down a bit before I write about those issues; my perspective is a bit clouded right now.
Anyway, it's not like I haven't been thinking about my current soundtrack for a hot minute.

1. "Take Me Away" by John Legend

Oh, Mr. Legend.... There's a melancholy to it but also an optimism, and I like that. It reminds me of the way I feel in winter and how this winter has been so much better than last, partly because of the people I've had around me. And it's John Legend. How can I NOT love it?

2. "This Time" by John Legend

"This time I want it all, this time I want it all. Showing you all the cards, giving you all my heart. This time I'll take the chance, this time I'll be your man. I can be all you need, this time it's all of me." I love this song, mostly for the preceding lines. It just reminds me that I'm glad that I've taken the chances I've taken this year instead of holding back.

3. "Talkin' About A Revolution" by Tracy Chapman

So, I was in the car the other day, and this song came on my ipod, and it felt like I was listening to this song for the first time. Man, it is such good stuff!
"Don't you know you're talking about a revolution It sounds like a whisper While they're standing in the welfare lines Crying at the doorsteps of those armies of salvation Wasting time in unemployment lines Sitting around waiting for a promotion...." Go 'head and sing it, Tracy.

4. "You Got Me" by The Roots
The video is copyrighted like crazy, so click the link, because it's worth it. I remember listening to this when it first came out in the late 90s and loving it, and I kind of recently rediscovered it. The sign of good music: you hear it again ten years later, and it STILL sounds fresh and beautiful.

5. "The Nature" by Talib Kweli feat. Justin Timberlake

Such a smart song; such a clear, sharp analysis of where we are as a society. "Don't nobody talk no more they all text message Driving and typing, not paying attention, missing the next exit Depending on navigation they never know where they're goin'They stay stuck in one spot; they're not growin'"

6. "Octavo día" by Shakira

Classic Shakira, before the blonde hair and the crossover, when she was still dying her hair burgundy (has any Latina NOT gone through that stage?!). Also, the lyrics. It's funny how so often it's the non-Christians who really get our need for God, because that's what I get from this. It's also about how easy it is for us to forget Him and our need for Him, because we're so busy letting the media give us folks to worship. "Es más difícil ser rey sin corona que una persona más normal..."

7. "Hold You in My Arms" by Ray LaMontagne

His voice, the folk influences in the music, the lyrics.... Oh, the love.

8. "Sólo quiero darte amor" by La Secta

Big shout out to my Puerto Rican rock en español bands. This is just fun - love this PR rock.

9. "Boquerón" by Fiel a la Vega

Speaking of my Puerto Rican rockers.... These guys are absolute geniuses. This is a little instrumental piece that is both so classic and so Puerto Rican.

10. "Cheer Up" by Ten Shekel Shirt

Except that what I was really going for was "House of Memories". That said, "Cheer Up" is a fine substitute, especially those last lines: "Wake up, it's time to dream bigger." Challenging. I'll take it.

Also, when will this be back on tv?