Remembering Ayer

I feel like I've been a different person since we moved to Costa Rica. I feel like I don't really know myself, like I can't trust myself. That's a hard thing. Part of it - most of it - is my self-diagnosed seasonal affective disorder; the cold and rain are really getting to me.
Another part is just missing. Missing family and friends, missing hot water, missing the little things....
The rest?
Well, let's just say that I keep a lot of things inside. I keep going. Al mal tiempo, buena cara. Lift your chin, throw your shoulders back, and walk with a confidence you don't feel. It's hard; it's supposed to be hard. Get over it and get on with it.
So this is what I do, day after day, month after month.
This isn't about me. The work isn't for me. So I push this aside and keep going. And today talking to B about this, he makes me wonder if this is the right way to go about it or not. I don't know.
I don't know.

I stumbled across this post - nearly four years old - and remembered how hard that time was. This time is also hard. Really hard. And the poem? It still speaks to me. So here it is again:

Ayer - historia de un vuelo 

Ayer lo vi.
Ayer, domingo, aunque él no lo sabía.
Lo vi con las alas estrechadas
flotando sobre las corrientes de aire que yo
jamás conoceré.
Lo vi y en ese momento,
con el viento fresco de otoño molestándome los ojos,
sentí una nostalgía tan profunda.
Nostalgía casi inapropiada
porque nunca he conocido lo que se siente
allá.
Arriba.
Lejos de todo, de todos, de la gravedad que me mantiene aquí
estancada.
Pero en ese momento, viéndolo flotando
sin mover esas alas enormes,
qué celos me han entrado.
Es lo único que anhelo.
Lo único que anhelé ayer, lo único que sigo anhelando:
flotar
sobre esas mismas corrientes de aire
sentir ese vientecito molestándome los ojos y llorar sin pena sabiendo
que allá nadie me verá.
Nadie me dirá que
sobreviviré.
Que saldré de ésta.
Que puedo encontrar algo - alguien - mejor.
A él nadie le dice eso.
Cuando viene ese viento
a agitarle las lágrimas, él las puede soltar
sin pena alguna.
Qué libertad plena.
Ayer lo vi
y mi alma se encogió, adolorida por el anhelo,
la nostalgía,
los celos.
Lo quise seguir hasta allá
hasta el cielo inmenso, azul y frío
en esta época (noviembre, el mes más solitario de todos),
y volar.
Volar, volar, volar hasta escaparme de su recuerdo,
hasta escaparme de mi debilidad tan obvia y vergonzosa,
hasta escaparme del dolor que me ahoga.
Y mientras volara, lloraría.
¿Lloraría?
¿Al frente de tal libertad?
¿Lloraría?
Quizás no.
No, no.
Solamente me quedaría volar para
poder aprender a respirar
nuevamente,
para aprender a querer nuevamente,
para aprender a ser
igualita a él.
Ayer lo vi.
Y hoy me sostiene ese recuerdo.
Estoy estrechando alas metafóricas,
flotando sobre corrientes que me suben y me bajan.
Sobreviviré.
Eso lo supe desde un principio.
Pero lo que quiero no es sobrevivir, sino
vivir.
Vivir en una libertad plena.
Respirando profundamente del aire que me sostiene
sin importarme lo que me digan.
Si me toma meses de supervivencia para
que llegue la vida, que así sea.
Días, meses, años
- ay, Diosito mío, que no sean años -
de supervivencia, esperaré.
Porque estas alas algún día me
llevarán lejos de aquí.
Flotaré.
Escaparé.
Viviré.
Como lo anhelé ayer.

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.

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"

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....

Formative

I had to write a case study about a "cross-cultural interaction" from my personal experience for my Cross-Cultural Skills and Understanding class. I struggled a lot with it because I didn't want to get too personal; I think I did end up going in that direction, but it wasn't my intention. I wrote a few bits before the final draft, a little snippet about an experience I wrote about here before, which I kind of liked, so I'm including that here:

Last August: I was running an errand for my mother. The car windows were down to take advantage of the August heat, and Alejandra Guzmán blasted on the radio; Mexican rock spilled out the open windows. I pulled up to the stop sign, ready to turn right, and waited for the coming car to pass. I saw two teenage boys in the car, windows down; there was nothing unusual about it, just a couple high school kids taking advantage of their last weeks of summer vacation. And then they drove by; one leaned out the window: white face, black mouth. “GET OUT!”
My heart stopped and my mind raced. Was he talking to me? Did he just yell that at me? Was it my flag hanging from the rearview mirror? Was it the Alejandra Guzmán on the radio? Was it just the sight of this brown face? My hands trembled on the steering wheel because I knew they were driving in the same direction that I myself was heading toward, and the thought of running into them at the grocery store terrified me. Here I was, twenty-five years old and afraid to run into a couple of high school kids at the grocery store.
The car behind me honked, snapping me out of my paralysis. I drove, still shaking, knowing that this would never end. No matter how long I spend here, I will never fully understand; I will never fully belong. The feeling that this is home will always be tenuous and fragile. I am not welcome.

That's not what I ended up writing about, though. I wrote about an incident that happened when I was eleven that I have never been able to shake off. It's the one that has pushed me to be more and better my whole life. I think about Edward James Olmos in Selena, saying how Mexican-Americans have to be more Mexican than the Mexicans and more American than the Americans and I think of that day in 1993 when that first became clear to me. So here's a bit of what I wrote for class:

I’m eleven. At eleven, I could not possibly be more all-American, having lived most of my conscious life in the Midwest. I straighten my hair and worry about the fullness of my hips and listen to rock; I’m busy trying to fit in, trying to hide the ethnic parts of myself and my upbringing. There’s no way to hide it right now, though, because my grandmother and two of my cousins are visiting and I have to speak Spanish, not just inside the house, but outside of it as well. We have come to the mall with them, and I am walking with Marilyn, my cool oldest cousin, the older sister I always wished I had. We are in 579, my favorite store, lingering over a rack of stirrup leggings with matching sweatshirts; it was 1993. I remember my fingers trailing over a pair of plaid leggings – jade green, maroon, and ivory – and wondering if my mom would say yes to this purchase. Marilyn and I talk excitedly about the outfits, already carefully selected by the company and hung on interlocking hangers. We speak Spanish.
One of the saleswomen leans over the counter to talk to the cashier. I can still remember her: the shoulder-length blonde perm, the bubble bangs, and the winter white sweater she wore; it’s all seared in my memory, just as clear sixteen years later. She opens her mouth and says, “You know, we’re going to have to start offering a credit card for these Hispanics like Sears does. These Hispanics. They come to this country and they don’t learn English.” The cashier nods her head knowingly as if she’s thought of this before – as if she understands.
I’m standing not three feet away, at a rack right next to the register, but they have not bothered to lower their voices. I look at them nervously from the corners of my eyes. Marilyn, of course, is oblivious and it occurs to me that they think I don’t understand. I feel a heat in the pit of my stomach, a ball of shame and fear and confusion. I can’t make my tongue form words in either language, and all I know to do is to move away as quickly as possible.
I’m still clutching the plaid leggings and the matching jade green sweatshirt when I meet my mother and grandmother in the back of the store. The words are still ringing in my head, and I can feel my hands trembling despite my tight grip on the plastic hanger. Somehow, I convince my mother that Mari and I are ready to leave 579. She pays for the clothes in our hands, and I escape the stifling air of the store with my family, all of them still speaking loudly in the language that has caused my personal crisis.
I was afraid to mention it for months, afraid to put words to the event that had transpired. I did not know how to respond to it, and so I kept silent. One day, nearly three months later, I sat in the backseat of the car and told my mother about it. The confession felt like release at the time, a sharing of hidden pain that made it possible for me to be defended. My mother marched down to 579 one day and spoke to the manager. She told her everything that had happened, and made it clear that we would no longer support their establishment and that she would share our story with all our friends. There must have been apologies, offers of better service, something to keep her quiet; but it did not change her mind. We never set foot in that store again.
This is always in the back of my mind. Deep down inside, I’m still that eleven-year-old girl in 579 overhearing the staff say that my people did not learn English. I know that it was not my first uncomfortable cross-cultural experience, and it was not even the worst of those experiences, but it is the one that I carry with me, the one that haunts me....

As I was writing, I was amazed by the clarity of the memory. I can remember the cashier's long, brown hair - wavy in the way hair was wavy back in 1993 (was it called a body wave?). I can remember the guilt and shame I felt every time I wore those daggone stirrup leggings - shame that was not associated with the fact that they were stirrup leggings, but that they'd been purchased on the day I knew I needed to flee that place. (Don't worry, I'm now QUITE ashamed of the fact that I wore plaid stirrup leggings, period.) I don't think I'd realized quite how much that shaped me, how I realized that if I spoke we could organize a little economic resistance, how I felt wonderfully principled and proud every time I walked by my old favorite store without so much as looking in, how it's taught me to be the kind of woman who will speak Spanish in public places and challenge a stranger's stare with my own....
For better or worse, this, and all those other incidents, have made me who I am. They've made me embrace my culture with so much pride, while walking that careful tightrope of being "ethnic" in the US: la prima americana, the Puerto Rican friend. Ésa soy yo.

Lookin' forward, lookin' back

First blog of the new year, and yeah, it's been awhile. I've got a few things that have been tumblin' in my head, and I've finally got the time and patience to sit down and write it out.

So first, a look at 2008 in numbers.
One: Amazing tattoo I got in March. Yeah it hurt; yeah it was worth it. I still love it every time I see it.
Two: The number of weddings in which I was the maid of honor and the number of times I went to Puerto Rico. Two of my favorite women were happy and beautiful brides and I'm glad to have been a part of it. And while the second time in PR was MUCH better than the first, it was so, so, so good to see my family twice in one year under happy circumstances.
Three: The number of times I moved in 2008 and the number of years I taught at Gar-Field. I cried the day I left because it was a good experience. I loved my students, loved my coworkers, felt mostly supported by the administration team.... I can't complain about my experience at G-F, and there will always be a special place in my heart for that place. Also, three is the number of extracurricular activities which I (co)sponsored in 2008. Oh, and the number of months B and I dated in 2008. :)
Four: The number of courses I took my first semester of grad school - and the number of "A"s on my report card. Alright, full-disclosure: two "A"s and two "A-"s. It still counts. Also, the number of preps I had at G-F: Spanish for Native Speakers 1, 2, and 3, as well as IB Spanish A2 - a Spanish lit and culture class. Finally, it's the number of Twilight books I lost sleep over. What an addiction!
Five: The number of days per week I spent working during my "summer vacation". It was the first time since college that I worked over the summer, and I enjoyed my time running that little camp in DC, despite the issues with the site itself. Also, it's the number of regulars I had in my Sunday School class. Love those kids....
Six: The number of classes I taught at Gar-Field (what a year!), and the number of major US cities I visited in 2008: New York, DC, Boston, Philly, Pittsburgh, and LA.
Seven: The number of major US cities I visited in 2008 if I count the hour I spent at BWI - maybe I should add Baltimore to the list? ;)
Innumerable: The number of hours "wasted" on YouTube and/or Facebook, the number of articles and books I read for class, the number of gallons of gas I burned through sitting in traffic, the number of all nighters I pulled, the adventures, the laughs, the tears, the lessons, and the smiles.

And not so much in numbers - I'm so grateful for all the amazing people I met, for the people with whom I reconnected (thank God for facebook!), for my amazing family, for B, for my classmates, for my church here and my church back in VA.... In short, I'm glad for the good things this year. I'm glad I learned some hard lessons and that God has been beyond faithful in all things. Even if I did spend the New Year at Dulles' baggage claim #10, and I lost my Cinna-Love in April (gosh, I still miss that dog so much it hurts sometimes), it was a good year.

And looking ahead to 2009 - who knows?
First there's this thing I like to call "The Rest of My Life" that will be staring me in the face around mid-June. I'll be finished with grad school, si Dios quiere, and ready to work in a big girl job that may not give me summers off to go traipsing around the world (not that I'd have money for that). And for the first time ever (?) I feel like I'm not making decisions just for me - if I decided to move clear across the country, there is someone else who might have something to say about that. It's not a bad place to be, but it is a little daunting to think about The Rest of My Life looming before me like this. Teaching, while I loved it, felt temporary to me. I went into it thinking I'd do it for three years and then reevaluate. Now there's school and after this, who knows?
Second, I'll be twenty-seven in June. Twenty-seven. It feels more momentous than twenty-five and twenty-six did. It puts me officially into the late-twenties camp. It struck me a couple days ago that I would only be this young once, and I was running out of youth. One of these days I'm going to wake up and be middle-aged. Yeah, yeah, I know I've got ten to fifteen years before that, but I'm definitely leaving my young, carefree days behind. Maybe it was Twilight that got me thinking about this- Twilight and my time with my grandparents, but I'm suddenly very conscious of the inevitability of those things, of time passing, of my own aging.... I mean, I am a grown woman all of a sudden - when did that happen? And in that vein, I offer this song by Carrie Underwood, which struck a chord with me when I heard it on the radio today: "Don't Forget to Remember Me".
Sample lyrics:

This downtown apartment sure makes me miss home
and those bills there on the counter
Are telling me I'm on my own
And just like every Sunday I called momma up last night
And even when it's not, I tell her everything's all right
Before we hung up I said
"Hey momma, don't forget:

to tell my baby sister I'll see her in the fall
And tell me-maw that I miss her
Yeah, I should give her a call
And make sure you tell Daddy that I'm still his little girl
Yeah I still feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be
Don't forget to remember me"

Kickin' it old school

A few bits of brilliance that feel like a blast from the past.

1. "Unpretty" by TLC

The 90s were so the time for "girl power", cheesy as that might be. The result? Sharon singing "Revolución femenina" in the early days of reggaetón, the Spice Girls, and this song by TLC, among others. Who didn't love TLC back in the day? This song is just so good. Every woman can identify with it at some point in her life, but it's the the kind of thing that gives you hope. It reminds you that your worth as a woman is in something so much deeper than your looks. Even pretty girls need to hear that.

2. "When Can I See You Again" by Babyface

Oh, the crush I had on Babyface growing up.... I remember singing my little heart out to this one. Now, with more experience and more reasons to connect with the lyrics, it's taken on a new meaning. "What if I'm not truly over" and "When does 'you'll get over it' begin?" - mmmm. I feel ya. Besides, there's something about a stripped down r&b song that's refreshing.

3. At risk of totally embarrassing myself on the world wide web: "Missing You" by Amy Grant"

Obviously, it's not Amy Grant, but the one version of her actually singing it on youtube is in six parts or so. If you can get past the rambling at the beginning, the girl sings it pretty well. That song was on repeat when I was in high school and on-again-off-again with good ol' F. Haha. I still think that in spite of, or maybe because of, the cheese factor, it's a good song. That part about the "hopeful thrill" of the phone ringing is just so right, you know?

4. "Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover" by Sophie B. Hawkins

I used to belt this one out when it came on the radio when I was about, oh, ten. I remember that I felt oh-so-bad-@$$ singing it because she said both "damn" and "lover" in the chorus. What I didn't realize then is how incredibly bold she is in the song.

5. "Under the Bridge" by The Red Hot Chili Peppers

This song.... This song was the beginning of my love affair with music. I was in fifth grade and it was the first song that I loved that my parents hadn't already preapproved for me. Does that make sense? It was my first completely independent musical selection, not, of course, that I was allowed to buy the cd (Blood Sugar Sex Magik? I wasn't stupid!) but I fell in love with the Chili Peppers then. The thing is: they're still flippin' brilliant. Even then, I knew this song was hauntingly beautiful; now that I know what it's about, it's even more amazing. Plus, I was able to appreciate the sexiness of Anthony Kiedis then. ;)

6. "Peaches" by The Presidents of the United States of America

Yeah, it's crazy random. Crazy, crazy, crazy random. And hilarious! I got a can of peaches for my fourteenth birthday, that's how much this song influenced my life. But come on now: "Peaches come from a can, they were put there by a man in a factory downtown"?! Brilliant! And ninjas in the video before ninjas were even that cool. Bonus.

7. "Fight For Your Right (To Party)" by the Beastie Boys
What's not to love about The Beastie Boys?! They mixed up every kind of music I loved, wrote clever lyrics, and were so awkward that it was perfect. Everything they did was pure genius. This song pretty much sums up the teen experience, plus they give themselves a shout out in their own song. That always struck me as pretty stinkin' funny.

8. "This is How We Do It" by Montell Jordan

Just so stinkin' CATCHY! It's still the kind of song that makes me wanna get up and dance, just like it did back in the day.

9. "Crossroads" by Bone Thugs N Harmony

This song is just so beautiful. It was one of the first of the more - let's say urban - songs that I could really appreciate. When songs are true, there's a connection that transcends barriers of age and generation and socioeconomics. When this song came out, I'd only lost my great-grandmother. Ten, eleven years later, I've lost so many more people and I feel this song more deeply. It's such a good one - as are "Days of Our Lives" and "First of the Month".

10. "Jane Says" Jane's Addiction

I remember listening to this on Q101 back in IL - which I was totally NOT allowed to listen to, by the way. It was on several of the mix tapes that I was obsessed with making at the time. I didn't really understand that it was a song about a drug addiction - I was obviously a naive kid in that area (see number 5), but the lyrics and that plaintive quality really got to me. The lines that I most loved then are the ones I most love now: "I've never been in love, I don't know what it is. She only knows if someone wants her. I want 'em if they want me." I can't even put words to how good those lines are.

11. "Mr. Jones" by Counting Crows

I was going to leave it at ten, but then I remembered this gem. I've always been a sucker for a story song - hence my love for country music - and for songs about wanting to be more than what you are. I guess that's the running theme in all of the above (with the exception of "Peaches" perhaps). This song is just so GOOD.

In the meantime

Once finals are over, my classroom is cleaned, and grades are turned in, I promise a substantial update. One that includes Obama pics and pics of the kids that made my life either so sweet or bloody hell for the past three years and possibly a C. wedding update.
Until then, there's this from my boy E. from fourth block - all grammatical and orthographic errors are copied from the original with an occasional note for clarity:

Los días, los meses, los años han pasado con gozo

Las memorias vívidas de los años
han volado en mi mente como las cenizas del
fuego de ayer.
las sonrisas, y el gozo que pasé nunca
los voy a olvidar amiga mía. Todas estas
memorias de gracia las voy a marrar [a amarrar] en el profundo
de mi corazón, como un niño amarra el globo
a la mano para que el globo nunca vuela
de su alcance. asi marraré [amarraré] las memorias amiga
querida.

Si por razón vuelas fuera del alcance, del niño
mandaré una paloma de mis recuerdos.
Si la palamo no llega a lo destinado,
mandaré un pez de mis recuerdos,
si el pez no llega a lo destinado
mandaré a .... Victor Manuelle con
los recuerdos. :)

FYI: Víctor Manuelle is my favorite salsero. E. went on to call me "Mrs. Manuelle" (they don't realize it's his middle name and not his last name, but that's okay) and to say that I am the "BEST TEACHER I'VE EVER HAD".

It makes my heart swell.

Okay, I have placement exams and final exams to grade. PEACE!

Back to hiding....

Mic check - takin' it back

1. "I Can Still Feel You" by Collin Raye

Loved it when I first heard it, back in the late 90s and it's been in my head for the last few weeks. "I can still feel you just as close as skin/ Every now and then/ All by myself, in a crowded room, or my empty bed..../I thought I'd forget you/ But I guess I forgot to."

2. "Dreaming of You" by Selena

Brings back so many memories. Weren't all of us Latinos in the US Selena fans when this came out? So sad....

3. "I Could Fall in Love" by Selena

Yeah, that's two by Selena. But seriously, I love this one: "I could lose my heart tonight if you don't turn and walk away...."

4. "I Can't Stop Loving You" by Ella Fitzgerald

You know, or anything else by her. Because she's amazing. No one sings like this these days.

5. "El breve espacio en que no estás" by Silvio Rodríguez

I'm a bit of a Silvio junkie - something I inherited from my (conservative, apolitical) father (go figure). It took me forever to narrow down my Silvio picks, but this has always been one of my favorites: "No es perfecta, mas se acerca a lo que yo simplemente soñé."

6. "Con diez años de menos" by Silvio Rodríguez and Pablo Milanés

He really is that brilliant: "Esta mujer me propone que salte y me estrelle, sólo para verle, sólo para amarle, sólo para serle, solo y no olvidarle." My dad and I were always fascinated by those lines. What poets, those two!


7. "Always Be My Baby" by Mariah Carey
The video is important because everyone told me that I looked like the girl in it when it came out. Mariah was so GOOD back then! I'll also admit that I'm a huge fan of the David Cook version, so I'll include that video here. But, seriously, check out the original, because that totally could've been a twelve year old me. ;)


8. "Tal vez es amor" by Chayanne

I remember being in the car with Titi Myrna when this one came on. I must've been about twelve, the cheesiness together with Chayanne's sexiness made it an instant favorite. "No sé decir lo que me gusta de ti, algo me mata pero me hace vivir: tal vez es amor."

9. "Moscas en la casa" by Shakira

This one, or anything else from the "¿Dónde están los ladrones?" album. This was probably the first Shakira song that I fell in love with, though, so I chose it, though I was seriously debating "Ciega Sordomuda" and "Ojos Así".... This was the album that shot her to international stardom, before the crazy curls and the blonde hair. She's so beautiful and young here....

10. "My Boo" by Ghost Town DJs

My sister and I had this one on repeat. It still makes me want to dance.

11. "Always" by Bon Jovi

Stinkin' copyrights.... Check out the original video. I couldn't get enough of it: so much hotness!

12. "Hotstepper" by Ini Kamoze

Even back then I could recognize a hot beat. ;)

13. "More than Words" by Extreme

My favorite of the one-hit wonders. I always remember my cousins singing along to this and saying something like: "zen ju gwouldn't have to say that ju love me, because I'd alreary know..." The "alreary" was my favorite. Aww, but the four of us girls would sit in Liliana's room and play this tape OUT!

14. "Súbete a mi moto" by Menudo

Waaaaaay back. You can't be Puerto Rican and born in the seventies or eighties and not remember Menudo. I had pencils, t-shirts, and all the records (yes, records) which I played non-stop on my Big Bird record player (it was yellow). There's video of me dancing to this classic. Someone should've fired their choreographer, though....

15. "Rush Rush" by Paula Abdul

My favorite Paula Abdul song EVER - this one and "Blowing Kisses in the Wind". Ha, ha. We were huge fans. The reason this video won is for the young Keanu Reeves (those EYES!) and the "Rebel Without a Cause" theme. Major points for any James Dean reference.

Bonus Pick:
"I'll Never Get Over You Getting Over Me" by Expose

I used to cry listening to this one. How I identified with it at ten, I'll never know, but I loved it....

jueves

Long but good day.
First block seems like ages ago. My kids had some presentations, some entertaining, others were still okay. We'll have to keep working on the subjunctive, just because it's difficult, but they seem to be grasping the concept as best they can right now.

Second and fourth blocks my kids presented their final projects for Crónica de una muerte anunciada. They had to come up with a creative representation of one of the book's main themes. I got a lot of collages - some better than others, a hand-drawn timeline; a skit involving I. from News 4, Ángela Vicario, and the resurrected Santiago Nasar (fabulous!); a sword made of cardboard and aluminum foil with Víctor Manuelle as Santiago Nasar, Britney Spears as Ángela Vicario, and Kanye West's head on a duck as Bayardo San Román..... My kids are amazing sometimes. Just when I think they're not going to get their acts together, they pull it out and surprise me. This is what I'll miss when I'm gone.... Awww... I can't believe I'm leaving!

Sixth block, we started on the imperfect subjuntive - difficult concept, and I can already tell it's going to be killer for these kids, but I want to make sure they're prepared for next year. They'll make it through, I'm sure. It'll just be a mini unit anyway, since we're creeping up on the end of that school year....

Graduation is 15 days away and my birthday will be here in 13, not that I counted or anything, but I did. Haha.... Twenty-six isn't even a cool age, so I'm not making a really big deal out of it, but I wouldn't mind a soccer game and some dancing.

EDGE Club was pretty amazing today, too, at least the part I was there for. Mr. D. came by and talked to me about leaving. Seems like he'll miss me; I won't miss the frustration of GC with him, but I will miss him as a person. He's just a really nice guy.

Everyday I add items to my mental list of all I'll miss. So much, man.... So, so much....

For example:

* My 150+ kids
* Department lunches
* Food days
* The sound of students working in groups
* "¿B grande o v chica?"
* The satisfaction of writing a lesson plan and seeing it come to life
* The "Aha!" face
* "That starts with h?"
* "That needs an accent on the o, right?"
* The crush of humanity in the hallways during passing periods: wall-to-wall in every shade of skin
* The challenge of making grammar interesting
* Telling kids they've done an amazing job
* The easy banter in the classroom
* Being with people who believe in the importance of language
* Sharing my love for a subject

Run

I am not a runner. I hate running, actually. It's punishment, gym class, asthma attacks....

Even so, back in October or November, I just up and started running. I did it to get away from my own thoughts. There's something about that punishment of you and the road and an i-pod playing songs that sting your eyes to clear your head of everything but the breath in your lungs. Running is for high stress. I've been doing it lately with E. I don't think he knows why I'm running and not at home kick boxing - imagining myself landing perfect jabs and crosses on whomever. I don't think he knows how good the distraction is for me.
When we run there's only this:
Feet on the track in steady rhythm
Sweat
Music in one ear
Conversation in snippets of gasped air
Sun
Air in my lungs
Clarity.

In other news, we had S.'s retirement party today. We just had some cake and punch in the library - low key - though there were plenty in attendance. She'll be missed. I can't believe how quickly this year is coming to an end, and while I'm ready, it hasn't quite hit me that I won't be back....

There will be a flood of bittersweet emotion on the 6th for graduation.... I watched a lot of those kids grow up - 15 to 18 - and love them, honestly do. It's the end of this stage for all of us.

Trying to convince BK she REALLY wants to come here for my birthday, we'll see how it goes.

Off to the track.

PS This is hilarious.

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....

Snow...

It's snowing. The first big blizzard of the year. It's supposed to get worse, and so far, we've got at least two inches. After the snow, they're calling for sleet, after that, icy roads. Who's hoping they cancel school tomorrow? Ha, ha.

I hate snow - hate winter in general - but I love snow days. I'm already anticipating a day of packing and cleaning and grading papers while enjoying some fine Netflix selections. Let me not jinx myself though....

The past week and a half has been rough. I think (crossing fingers) that I'm coming to the top of that hill, though, and that it'll be smoother from here on out. I've got a few things to look forward to: MLK Jr. Day on Monday, M's visit that Friday, and the beginning of the semester. That brings me that much closer to Philly. I've set a deadline for myself: I must apply by Valentine's day. Why V Day? Why the heck not?

I've been a serious insomniac - I'm too stressed to sleep, but also too stressed to work. Go figure. That alone can make you feel like you're fighting your way through a permanent fog. Throw in the stress of exam review, friendship crises, a friend's death, and the need to move, and you've got a highly volatile situation. I am feeling like I need a vacation, and urgently. Of course, there's no time or money for that right now. Boo.

I haven't felt this frazzled since my first year of teaching when I felt like I couldn't get my head above water. Before that, it was exam time in college just before I went off to Costa Rica. The thing is, I hate this feeling. I don't know what to let go of: GC, Spanish Club, EDGE, two churches (could I just settle on one?), family, friends, working out, personal time.... The personal time is taking the biggest cut. I'm no fun these days. Ha, ha.

In more exciting news, M's coming to town for his birthday. I haven't seen him in about four years. I was in Atlanta the last time we hung out. Goodness, I do miss that man.... It'll be good to see him, even if it brings back a boatload of memories - both good and bad. I'm looking forward to it - sometimes it's the only thing that gets me through the days. I just have to get through one more week, and then I'll see him - and it's a short work week, so it's even better. He'll be my reward after semester exams.

I found this video that I used to love - one of those songs I still don't totally understand, but that I can feel - and it seems appropriate for M's upcoming visit. Like I said, I still don't totally get the lyrics (¿delfines en tu voz? Whaaat?), but there are some parts that I connect with, almost instinctively. They sing about not knowing whether to feel or to think, because even now, they love eachother. Hmm....