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.

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.

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").

Hard to

Finally: The aforementioned poem comes out of hiding.

They tell me I'm hard to forget
that I can't be shaken off,
that I'm the one they fall in love with,
the question mark,
the "What if?".
But what I'd like
is not only to be remembered,
but to stick around awhile.
I'd like to climb out of this
fear of forever
take love for what it is
and what it's not
and just live it.
A little surrender might be good
for me.
A little surrender and a little abandon.
I'd like to throw this
fear to the wind
and know that this could break me,
could cripple and kill me,
but that it is worth
that risk.

They tell me I'm hard to forget.
I'd like to be a little easier to keep.

"Too" raw

Perhaps it's too vulnerable, too honest, and too raw, but I'm a hot mess right now, and I don't know that I really need to keep holding up the front. Sometimes things fall apart. Sometimes it's your own damn fault, because you put too much stock in what everyone else is going to say. Because you've built yourself up to be all muscle and grit and walls. Because you are just too picky but apparently selling yourself short.... Basically, when you win, you lose. And everyone else has a better understanding of what I want and need than I do. So before this gets even more convoluted - know that the poem is straight up as it came out. It probably needs a lot of editing, a lot of work, but here it is for now.

Too

I am the dreaded
independent woman.
The one who's perpetually single,
too smart, too pretty, too fat, too skinny -
too-TOO
for most men.
That strong woman
who bought into the feminist ideal:
You, too, can have it all.
Except that here, in the quarterlife,
I'm struggling to find that.
Throw in this brown skin,
la mancha de plátano,
the crisis of the second generation.
I am too-TOO.
Too Latina, too American, too young, too old -
too picky.
I am that complete package:
beauty, brains, heart.
That's what they tell me.
They say "you could have anyone",
and they all fall.
But when I fall,
they say I sell myself short.
There's this:
sometimes that independent woman,
that strong woman,
that too-TOO woman,
needs a moment,
a series of moments,
to be like the rest:
to be a girl.
To fall carelessly and wrecklessly,
to doodle hearts in the margins,
to dream of weddings on a beach,
and to forget for a moment
everything that she's had
to build up and fight for
alone.
But when you're that woman
too tough, too strong, too hard -
everyone's watching.

*edited slightly already....

Long one

Thursday, but it feels like Friday, which is oh-so-nice. We took the kids on a field trip today. They went to Chipotle and then to the National Portrait Gallery to check out the Recognize and Champions exhibits. I'm always annoyed that no one likes to go to the museums as much as I do, because we have such a wealth of interesting things to see here in the DC area - AND it's all FREE. I don't take advantage of it often enough, so I was glad to go today. My kids were well-behaved, Mr. D's group was, as I like to say, "off the chain". So much so, that security had to come and tell them to keep it down.

I promised my kids a reward on Monday for their good behavior. Even my boy J. and my girl P., who are a little wild and a little ADHD, respectively, were good. It was a good time, although the kids worry me because they weren't too excited about the fake Mexican food, which means they are going to freak out when we take them out for pho' next week.... I, however, will be one happy, happy girl with my delicious Vietnamese. YUMMM!

Other than that, I met one of the guys who hangs out on the corner all day. They call him Frenchie (he's actually French) according to J who knows EVERYONE. He's got this little accent which is quite charming, but I just thought it was amusing that he was the first of the corner guys to actually ask me out - he suggested we go play pool sometime at Buffalo Bill's on Dupont. I gave him my classic, "Oh, I don't know, I live all the way down in VA, and it's so far...."

Oh! And I jumproped with the girls today. Who knew I still had it in me?! Haha... They did this little rhyme to count how many "husbands" I had as I jumped, and I made it to ten, which P. proceeded to shout out across the playground: "Oooh! Miss Frances gonna have ten husbands!" M., one of the boys in my group for the fieldtrip yelled back, "Yeah, I'm one of them."

They start so young....


Besides the work stuff, I spent a lot of time thinking about A., about last night, about our conversation and the forgotten discs of dough for empanadillas in the freezer. I think I listened to "Travelin' Soldier" twice on my way to work this morning.... I don't know what it is, but he's under my skin - in a good way. He's a good man in ways that few men are. I wrote something a few months ago, a little piece scrawled on a post-it note after work one day. It was about being swept up sometimes by love or attraction or whatever it might be. Sometimes it comes slowly, quietly, paulatinamente, and sometimes you just fall. The last line was "química instantánea". Instant chemistry. That was it with A. It was just this catching of the eyes across the room, a moment's wait, an invitation to dance, and there it went. The rest just flowed. *sigh* It is what it is, and there is purpose for everything. Even if someone is only in your life for a brief moment, there can still be a greater impact. I think of Peter on the Plane, Ni-Ni, my girl S. in CR, among others. All these people who made me a better person despite being in my life for as little as an hour.... Maybe that'll be A. Or maybe he'll be someone I run into again later in life. We'll see.


Last two points: I'm reading Che Guevara's Bolivian Diary, and it's kind of heart breaking. I don't agree with all his ideology, but there is so much beauty in what he writes, and I love his passion for justice, for politics and mobilization. I love that he wanted something and gave himself to that. I hope I can be so passionate and dedicated. I'm reading through July right now, and his asthma has been bad, he's running out of medication, and the cave where they'd stored their reserves was found and raided. I'm so worried that he's going to die because of the asthma even though I KNOW the CIA and the Bolivian army are going to capture and execute him in October.... Anyway, that, and the situation in Colombia with the freed hostages just have me thinking, a bit about revolution, a bit about justice, a bit about passion and the pursuit of a the greater good.... Which is probably with this piece by Nikki Giovanni at the Recognize! exhibit hit me so hard today. Am I allowed to say that I really like her? Me? A suburban Puerto Rican girl? I do.

Anyway, this is the last point:

It’s Not a Just Situation:
Though We Just Can’t Keep Crying About It
(For the Hip Hop Nation
That Brings Us Such Exciting Art)

By Nikki Giovanni



You don’t
Just wake up and brush your teeth and make up your bed
and put on your favorite pair of blue jeans

You don’t
on other evenings
Just sneak away from your sleeping lover
Just to grab a bite of Quik Stop
Just to hop a train

You don’t
Just visit the 24 hour superstore
Just to get a few cans
of spray paint
And
Just happen to have a case to put them in

You are not
Just out of yellow
So you’ll
Just shadow with grey this time
And
Just shy of metallic blue you will
Just fill in with electric orange

You are not
Just bored
Or hungry or silly or
Just crying for attention

You are
Just, if there is a
Just
Trying to be an artist

You are
Just
If there is any
Justice
Trying to find a way of not
Just surviving but living

You are just
trying to show the beautiful soul of your people
You are just
trying to say “I’m alive”
You are just
determined to be more
than what the powers who
Just hate the idea of you want you to be

You are just
trying to discover the route
of the neo underground railroad
so that your kids can
Just be free

You are just
being a man
You are just realizing
your womanhood
You are just singing and smiling
because you
Just don’t want to cry anymore

You are just
falling in love
because hatred is too hard to bear

You are just
determined
to be the very best you and
You just guess
you better not let anyone take that away

You are just
a person
with a big heart and wonderful talent
That you just
think should be shared

Put a button on it
people

‘cause suspenders
Just
won’t
do

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....

late

It's amazing, but after blogging yesterday, I felt the tightness in my chest dissipate, my mind cleared, and I was okay.

I just got home from Spring Concert and cleaning of the apartment. *sigh* Concert was good, from what I saw. I was so proud of A., R., V., S., and D. Three of them had solos, and I made it a point to run from the band rooms that were serving as a holding tank to the auditorium to catch their performances. One girl got sick, so Ms. W. and I had to take turns watching out for her. It was pretty busy back there....

Other than that, it's the same old, same old - for better or worse.

J. reminded me of this gem today, and it seems to fit with everything right now.

Mother to Son


Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

--Langston Hughes

I do love me some Langston Hughes....

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.

Yes, I am

A little crazy.
Letting go.
Slacking.
Smiling.
Breathing deeply.
Taking it in.
Brushin' my shoulders off.
Moving forward.
Closing my eyes.
Listening.
Enjoying.
Waiting.
Living...
my way, and right now.

Content.

"A Promise"

This came to me in bits and pieces last night and throughout the course of the day. It's so easy to say something to someone and then let them down. We're all guilty of this, yes? I don't like making promises, don't like offering guarantees, don't like accepting to do a favor before I hear it. It's all so likely to fall. Words, for all their power, all their beauty, all their ugliness, aren't actuality - actions are.
And this was all so clear to me today in the wake of last night. You know, lo que pasó, pasó. And the poem came anyway.


A Promise

Air.
Vital, life-giving, refreshing.
Insubstantial, weightless.
Whisper it again,
because it'll mean everything and
nothing.
Light as the air
I displace.
Heavy as the ache in this heart.
Say it again.

Air.

Nothing to back it up
besides my trust.
Nothing to give it substance
besides your action.

Say it again.

It's nothing but
Air.

Last day of SOL schedules tomorrow, thank God! These two hour blocks are killer, but it seems like I've just about made it.

In other news, my legs feel like jelly today. I'm crazy sore from my run. Even my abs hurt. Signs of a good workout and an engaged core, I'm sure, but that doesn't keep me from avoiding heels higher than an inch and complaining a bit. Haha.

"Words that Make my Stomach Plummet"

Words That Make My Stomach Plummet

by Mira McEwan

Committee Meeting. Burden of Proof.
The Simple Truth. Trying To Be Nice.
Honestly. I Could Have Died. I Almost Cried.
It’s Only a Cold Sore.
It’s My Night. Trust Me. Dead Serious.
I Have Everything All Under Control.
I’m Famous For My Honesty.
I’m Simply Beside Myself. We’re On The Same Page.
Let’s Not Reinvent The Wheel.
For The Time Being. There Is That.
I’m Not Just Saying That.
I Just Couldn’t Help Myself. I Mean It.

from Ecstatic. © Allbook Books, 2007



Heard it a few weeks ago on NPR and have been thinking about it ever since. So glad I found it.

This one's for you....

Because I process by writing:

First, effin' A! It took over $28 to fill my tank. Mind you, I own a Toyota Corolla. That's ridiculous.

Second, there's this:

Apágalo.
Apaga ese chorro de emoción que te dijeron
que querían de ti.
Era mentira,
una de esas mentiritas piedosas que nos contamos
a nosotros mismos,
nadie quiere tu verdad.
Guárdate esos momentos de debilidad.
Escóndelos.
Escóndelos come te habían enseñado
desde un principio.
Aunque te digan que quieren
que seas una mujer de veras, una mujer de estrógeno, sentimiento y lágrimas,
eso sólo lo quieren cuando les conviene.
Guárdatelo.
Guarda ese dolor que se presenta
de vez en cuando
guarda esa estupidez femenina
que se cuela
guarda ese sentimiento
débil.
Manten esa fachada fuerte.
Aunque te digan que quieren verte de verdad,
alma desnuda,
corazón abierto,
son mentiras piadosas, de aquellas que nos contamos a nosotros mismos,
para lucir bien.
Ahora:
Arrepiéntete.
Haz tu penitencia.
Perdóname.
Por no ser la mujer que quiero ser,
perdóname.
Por no poder olvidar,
perdóname.
Por no tener control de mis sentimientos,
perdóname.
Por ser de carne y hueso,
perdóname.
Y si no puedes perdonar,
pues, hasta aquí nos trajo el río.

Quizás algún día seas tú la causa del dolor que se
interpone
cuando uno menos se lo espera.

Quizás ese día querrás mis sentimientos
pero ya los habré enterrado.

untitled

This kinda came to me in pieces as I drove around today. Don't know exactly what prompted it, but when things come, I need to write them to get my mind around them, so here it is (be warned, it's in español):

Contigo agarré el vicio del chicle,
cosa que había dejado hace años.
Aprendí a dormir pecho a pecho en un sofá
sin sofocarme.
Tomé cerveza,
caminé a tu lado,
me sentí - por primera vez en años -
como una mujer plena.
Me trajiste pasión y dolor
en medidas exactas.
Me llevaste a correr,
a darle puños al aire,
a querer silenciar mi pensar.
Me hiciste adicta a tus labios,
al sonido de tu voz por teléfono,
y el olor de tu piel.
Me quitaste la habilidad de confiar.
Me enseñaste que puedo ser dura.
Fuerte.
Pero que todo es una fachada.
Y aunque cada día aparente estar un
poco mejor,
la verdad es que sigo reconstruyendo mi vida.
Que de vez en cuando pienso en ti,
en esos labios,
en dormir en el sofá,
y en el olor de tu piel.
Ya no me lleva la maroma de dolor,
pero aún corro, tiro puños al aire,
y trato de olvidar.

Update and some Julia de Burgos

Took the boys from GC to Sam's Club today to shop for their appreciation dinner on Thursday. They split up into two teams of three and Mr. D. took one group while I took the other. They are preparing a dinner for their favorite teachers, administrators, counselors, etc. and planned quite a menu last week.
Thursday I will be enjoying:

• Mini quiches
• Shrimp cocktail
• Garden salad
• Spaghetti and meatballs
• Garlic bread
• Cheesecake
• Smoothies

They were so enthusiastic and excited about the planning and the shopping. Honestly, these boys have been growing so much. I'm excited to see how they are at the end of the year. I really feel like we've bonded.

I spoke to Mr. B. today about IB and where I'll be next year. He said he was happy for me and my plans for the future, but that he hated to see me go. He has this idea that the A2 class has exploded because of me. I don't know that that is necessarily the case, but it was flattering. He told me that whatever I decide to do after grad school - if I want to come back to Gar-Field - that I should let him know and he will do everything he can to help me out. And if I don't want to go back to Gar-Field, but want to work in another IB school abroad, he'd help me out. It feels good to have people who back me like that.

Finally, a poem that some of my students have been analyzing for their internal assessments that has really gotten to me. So deep this one...

A JULIA DE BURGOS

Ya las gentes murmuran que yo soy tu enemiga
porque dicen que en verso doy al mundo mi yo.
Mienten, Julia de Burgos. Mienten, Julia de burgos.
La que se alza en mis versos no es tu voz: es mi voz
porque tú eres ropaje y la esencia soy yo; y el más
profundo abismo se tiende entre las dos.
Tú eres fria muñeca de mentira social,
y yo, viril destello de la humana verdad.
Tú, miel de cortesana hipocresías; yo no;
que en todos mis poemas desnudo el corazón.
Tú eres como tu mundo, egoísta;
yo no; que en todo me lo juego a ser lo que soy yo.
Tú eres sólo la grave señora señorona; yo no,
yo soy la vida, la fuerza, la mujer.
Tú eres de tu marido, de tu amo; yo no;
yo de nadie, o de todos, porque a todos, a
todos en mi limpio sentir y en mi pensar me doy.
Tú te rizas el pelo y te pintas; yo no;
a mí me riza el viento, a mí me pinta el sol.
Tú eres dama casera, resignada, sumisa,
atada a los prejuicios de los hombres; yo no;
que yo soy Rocinante corriendo desbocado
olfateando horizontes de justicia de Dios.
Tú en ti misma no mandas;
a ti todos te mandan; en ti mandan tu esposo, tus
padres, tus parientes, el cura, el modista,
el teatro, el casino, el auto,
las alhajas, el banquete, el champán, el cielo
y el infierno, y el que dirán social.
En mí no, que en mí manda mi solo corazón,
mi solo pensamiento; quien manda en mí soy yo.
Tú, flor de aristocracia; y yo, la flor del pueblo.
Tú en ti lo tienes todo y a todos se
lo debes, mientras que yo, mi nada a nadie se la debo.
Tú, clavada al estático dividendo ancestral,
y yo, un uno en la cifra del divisor
social somos el duelo a muerte que se acerca fatal.
Cuando las multitudes corran alborotadas
dejando atrás cenizas de injusticias
quemadas, y cuando con la tea de las siete virtudes,
tras los siete pecados, corran las multitudes,
contra ti, y contra todo lo injusto
y lo inhumano, yo iré en medio de
ellas con la tea en la mano.

In English:

To Julia de Burgos



Already the people murmur that I am your enemy
because they say that in verse I give the world your me.
They lie, Julia de Burgos. They lie, Julia de Burgos.
The one who rises in my verses is not your voice. It is my voice.
because you are the dressing and the essence is me;
and the most profound abyss is spread between us.
You are the cold doll of social lies,
and me, the virile starburst of the human truth.
You, honey of courtesan hypocrisies; not me;
in all my poems I undress my heart.
You are like your world, selfish; not me
Who gambles everything betting on what I am.
You are only the ponderous lady - such a lady;
not me; I am life, strength, woman.
You belong to your husband, your master; not me;
I belong to nobody, or all, because to all
I give myself in my clean feeling and in my thought.
You curl your hair and paint yourself; not me;
the wind curls my hair, the sun paints me.
You are a housewife, resigned, submissive,
tied to the prejudices of men; not me;
unbridled, I am a runaway Rocinante
sniffing out the horizons of God’s justice.
You in yourself have no say; everyone governs you;
your husband, your parents, your family,
the priest, the dressmaker, the theatre, the dance hall,
the auto, the fine furnishings, the feast, champagne,
heaven and hell, and the fear of what they will say
Not in me, in me only my heart governs,
only my thought; the one who governs in me is me.
You, flower of aristocracy; and me, flower of the people.
You in you have everything and you owe it to everyone,
while me, my nothing I owe to no one.
You nailed to the static ancestral dividend,
and me, a one in the numerical social divisor,
we are the duel to death that fatally approaches.
When the multitude run rioting
leaving behind ashes of burned injustices,
and with the torch of the seven virtues,
the multitudes run after the seven sins,
against you and against everything unjust and inhumane,
I will be in their midst with the torch in my hand.

Ayer

Took a long walk with Rae-Rae yesterday. Saw a white tailed deer cross the path we were walking through the woods - this crashing through brush, a flash of tan, a leap across the gravel, a white tail, and gone. It was pretty surreal.

We walked a little over four miles, all the way down my street and back with a detour through the woods until the path meets the road on the other side of Lake Ridge Park. Down at the end of the street, I looked up and saw a hawk. I'm not usually a nature girl, really I'm not, but there was something in that moment that clicked. And the following started coming to me then.

Today, I went for a shorter walk with Rae-Rae, saw a feather on the path in the woods, remembered my hawk, and thought that I had to come home and finish this one. It started out differently in my head, kind of took off in a different direction once I started writing. That happens sometimes. Must've been what I actually needed to tell myself.... Ah, and to the non-Spanish speakers, my apologies - this came to me in Spanish. What can I say? I can't keep languages straight in my head....

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.