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.

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.

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"

sister

So I switched my email yesterday and sent out one of those obligatory "I have a new email address" mass emails that ended with "Change is good, right?"
To which my sister, that priceless little gem, replied:

"Change is wonderful! like getting married, joining the gym, and eating morningstar sausage patties..."

Whaaaaaaat?! Man, I miss that crazy kid....

Self censorship

I'm really struggling these days. Wednesday I totally fell apart. Class left me feeling emotionally exhausted, even though it was pretty stinkin' wonderful, and I pretty much dissolved into tears right after it. Combine that with a lot of thinking on Tuesday about my grandparents getting older and the loss of my grandfather over ten years ago, some family related stress, and the fact that I had to share my testimony in ProSem on Thursday. It was all too much and I fell apart Wednesday.
To be honest, I feel better since Thursday, but at the same time I kind of feel guilty for feeling better because of the family related stress mentioned above.
So I'm struggling. I had to really think about everything that has happened in my life to bring me here to Eastern as I was preparing for giving my testimony. There were a lot of good things and a lot of bad. As I look back, I see how God really worked all the terrible things for good, and I'm glad for them. I wouldn't go back and change a single thing. There's that verse in John where Jesus says something like "This illness won't kill him, it's so that God can be glorified through it." Obviously, I'm paraphrasing it, but the point is, I can see that in so many of the crappy situations that have come my way. They didn't kill me, they have been opportunities for God to be glorified. Which is not to say that they didn't suck at the time - having my wallet stolen in Costa Rica was pretty awful - but I can see now how God moved through those situations. (That particular situation forced me to realize that I couldn't keep "playing church".) God grows us through the good and the bad. He reveals Himself to us as individuals and as a body in those moments.
The thing is, when these situations involve others, what I see as a time of growth and of the greatness of God can be perceived quite differently by the others involved. And here is my dilemma. There has been great freedom and healing in me because I have been able to own my crap - I've talked about my sins and (some) of my struggles and have also talked about the grace and mercy of God in these areas, His salvific powers.... It's a good thing to share some of that, to know that you're not alone, to be a testimony of God's fullness and healing, and to let others around you know that they aren't alone either.
There have been some issues that I've never really talked about, though. Things that I'm too afraid to mention because I don't want others to think negatively about people I love and care for. The point is, I might have mentioned one of those things here recently. It was mentioned in passing, and was really not the point of the entry, but I feel like it brought up a lot of hurt for someone else. That was not my intention. I know that God has really healed the pain I carried around for a long, long time. I know that I have forgiven. Forgiving doesn't erase the past, but it does shape the future; it means that I've decided it's not my place to judge or retaliate; there's no need for judgment or retaliation. I am the chief of sinners, and I have been forgiven; that's the example I wish to follow.
All of this to say: I took down the last entry. Because, while it was therapeutic for me to write, I don't want it to hurt anyone I sincerely love. And since it did, I apologize.

We survived!

There are no pictures to show for it, since I forgot my camera, but the weekend with the parents went well. They loved B. just like I knew they would. We ate lots of good Hispanic food, did some shopping (I got my dress for M. and J.'s wedding), and just hung out with the family and some of our good family friends. Good times, good times.....

Another one and a list

I'll blame it on the hormones. Hormones and stress.... Anyway, this:

Mountains Out of Molehills

Catch a bit of this and that;
Add two of mine
to two of your own.
Draw your assumptions.
Those words:
"I KNOW".
Really?
Really, really?
From whose lips, because you don't
"KNOW"
it from these.
Feed the rumor mill,
play the games,
spread that talk.
I tighten my lips
clench my jaw.
Believe what you will.
I know -
first hand -
and that's enough.

A look at my to-do list below.

End of the school year:
Senior exams begin FRIDAY.
Graduation next weekend.
Exams.
Somewhere in there, I should grade placement exams from the middle schools.
Spring Concert - I promised I'd help....
Clean classroom.
My birthday.
Cristina's wedding.
Job search.
Scream.
Breathe.

home

Confession: I don't always love weekends.

I feel the need to leave more and more lately. There are two things I miss about living alone: freedom and privacy. I feel like I have neither lately. How long till August? *sigh* My parents are good people, really, they are. It's just that sometimes there's a bit too much drama from one end and the only way to appease her is for him to play along. And then no one is happy.

I have to report my whereabouts, I get calls when it's late, I get the 'You're going out with HIM?!' followed by a speech about said person's lack of husbandly qualities. Talk about jumping to conclusions! I've come to the point where I preface things with "Just to let you know," so that they're aware that I'm not asking for permission.

I just want a little breathing room sometimes. I hate having to justify where I'll be and what I'm doing. I mean, I'll be working out and it's: "You know, you should do some laundry." Right now? Really? This is when you have to bring it up?

Last night I went out to dinner and the G-F faculty vs. seniors basketball game with B. It was a fun time followed by a little wandering at Target. After that, I drove home and just wanted to collapse into bed with a movie and some quiet.

There was a student on my porch. Seriously. The house full of people eating everywhere, talking. I was up forever. Not to mention the weirdness of having X and his mom at my house seeing me in a completely different element: English, my space, my interests, no language lessons.

Today I've got a lot to do. I'm going to try to convince E. he wants to spend Monday with me, registering voters in Alexandria.... I really do want to find a more tangible way to support the Democratic campaign in general and Barack Obama in particular. Registering voters would be a cool thing, I think....

The Colonel

We had my Stinky's retirement ceremony today. C, my sister, arrived as a surprise to my parents. They both cried when they saw her in the General's office before the ceremony.

My dad is amazing. Amazing. He's got this thick Puerto Rican accent, but that man gave a speech that was so brill. He talked about the importance of teamwork, about the stability of institutions that allow us to move in and out of them without losing the vision or efficiency. He talked about God, about Jesus putting everything in order for him. He talked about his small town in Puerto Rico and all the opportunities the Army has given him....



The truth is that my dad came out of nothing. He came from a poor family in a poor town, chasing Army convoys as they rattled past on PR's Ruta 1. I can imagine him running in that dust, under that sun.... And here he is, 29 years later. Nineteen stamps in his passport, medals on his chest, and the knowledge that he was both a good soldier and a good leader.

Everyone told me I had an awesome dad as if I didn't already know that. He's a good man, my Stinky. Hard-working, humble, human....

Anyway, the point is, I'm proud of him.

Spring

Yamil's been gone for a little over three years.
Juan's been gone for two.

And, silly as it sounds, I lost my Cinnamon just last month.

This time of year I think too much.

This song gets to me everytime. I don't know why....

Goodbye, Love.

Cinnamon Karibe
6 June 1993 - 23 April 2008

We put my Cinnamon-Love down today. She'd been with us nearly fifteen years. That was my baby - the one I helped train and have helped with since I was eleven.


When we took her to the vet last month, we thought we'd have to put her down then, but the vet told us to wait until she stopped eating. She said she'd never seen such and old Golden, but that she could tell she was well cared for.

Sunday, when I got home, she didn't even acknowledge me; and when I went to take her out. I picked up her back legs to help her stand up, and her front legs gave out under her. She fell, and didn't even try to get up. It was heart-breaking. I knew then that it wouldn't be long before we had to let her go.

That was the day she stopped eating, she stopped walking, and she looked so dazed.... My poor baby....

So we let her go.

She was such a good dog.

I didn't want to come home today because I knew she wouldn't be here. Knew I wouldn't have to take her out, wouldn't have anyone to sneak some bread to, wouldn't hear her barking....

I miss my Love.

Throwing stones

So I was sitting in church last night and I leaned forward to pray. My mom was sitting next to me, and she about flipped out. "Pull your shirt up in the back!" she snapped. I looked at her puzzled, and she repeated it. "What are you talking about?" I whispered back.
Mind you, this is while people are trying to pray silently.
"Oh, I'm so embarrassed. You can see your tattoo; what will people say? I'm so embarrassed."
I'm not even making this up.

Here's where I'm going with this: people pass judgment. Period. It's what happens; everyone does it. Now here's where we make a differentiation: we can judge people and act on those judgments, or we can judge and wait to be surprised. You know, we can go in anyway.

I won't say that I'm always surprised, but I do give it a chance.

And here's what I've decided about my own life: people talk smack, regardless. I work hard, keep to myself, and do the things that I'm passionate about. But that's not to say that everyone will see that. It doesn't matter. The thing that matters is that God and I know that I'm doing what He needs me to do.

When I went to Mission Year, a lot of people talked; people doubted the reality of what I lived there. That doesn't make my experience any less powerful or life-changing.

My aunt once told my mom that she'd expected more from me; that she'd thought I'd be more thän "just a teacher". It doesn't make me any less satisfied or passionate about my job.

I was walking with my mom the other day and I thanked her for everything that she's done since I moved back home. I told her that it's been much better than I expected. She sniffed and said, "Well, maybe it's been better for you. I don't feel like you help out at home." Thanks, mom, but it doesn't make me less grateful for the sacrifices that you've made.

The thing is that she's not the only one to make sacrifices. I've made some, too. People never see that, you know? No one else will ever know what it's like to live in your skin. I remember as a kid, I used to think, "Wow, C's life is just as real to her as mine is to me." (I was a bright kid.) Think about that a minute: everyone lives in their own personal reality. Sometimes our realities overlap, but there's so much that we cannot possibly comprehend about one another.

And that's kind of what I wanted to get to. I'm not perfect: I have a hard time giving complete trust, I am what we refer to in Spanish as antipática, and I'm a bit of a cynic. That said, I am painfully aware of my shortcomings and I work at them. I consciously try to give people the benefit of the doubt, I work extra hard to curb the sarcasm and be a little friendly, I ask God everyday to help me look at things the way He does.

I fail.

I fail often.

But that doesn't make my attempts any less real or valid. People may think that I don't give enough, but it's because they don't know how much I'm giving, because they don't know the sheer effort that goes into the steps that I'm making towards progress.

I have students who've taken three years - three YEARS - to remember to put an accent mark on the "O" in words that end in "-ión". It's one of the easiest tricks to remember, in my opinion, but it's hard for them. I can't discount the effort that they're making in trying to remember this "foreign" concept of accentuation. But here's the thing, when I see that occasional accent mark on "opinión" or "acción" or "canción" - it fills my heart. I know that all their efforts have paid off, that all those days of reminding myself of their potential have paid off.

So the point is this: We are all flawed, all imperfect, but all working at becoming better.

Maybe you don't see the progress, maybe change doesn't come quickly enough for you, and maybe you don't think that person will ever get to where you think they should be.

But guess what?

You can't be sure. You don't know their inner struggles, don't know how hard they're working.

People will surprise you, but sometimes it takes years.

Moving....

I'm exhausted. Thursday rocked, Friday sucked, and I'm moving this weekend.

Not moving everything, mind you, just all the essentials. I'll be back for the furniture later.

This is all part of my plan to save money for grad school, which will begin in August. Geez, there is something absolutely terrifying about moving back in with the parents. I've been gone since I was 18 and I'm now 25, nearly 26. It's been a loooong time of no supervision, coming and going as I please, and listening to cds with parental advisories.

My parents are SO Puerto Rican. Sometimes I worry that I'll have to answer to them about every dime I spend and everything I do. Did I say sometimes? I worry about that A LOT. Don't get me wrong, my parents are wonderful people - my mother is one of my best friends - but they are still parents. They don't always remember that they've already done their job, and done it well.

So yeah, basically, I'll be around less often as I transition.

Wish me luck!

On vacaaaaaaaaaation!

We had a pep rally at work today. It was pretty good, although I may have been mistaken for a student not once but twice.

One of my students got me a chihuahua ornament which I thought was a clever gift.

My sister's in town, so I'm OUT!