I'm as glad that I met you as I am glad that I don't know you anymore.

Flipping the Script

I survived this horrible break up (and often horrible relationship) almost two years ago. I endured and came out stronger than before with lessons learned and ready to date and mingle. After spending time at bars, museums, coffee shops and other big city hot spots for finding men and a few dates here and there, a good friend recommended dipping my toe in the pool of online dating. He had met his boyfriend of five years through a site and gave me several examples of friends that had done the same. I gathered the courage and that night created my first online profile with the aim of dating and hopefully much more.

After I posted some pictures and crafted a brief and witty biography of who I am and what I was looking for I began to get responses and inquiries. It was fun- emailing, phone conversations and real life dates with real life men of an assorted ilk. Some were socially awkward and wanted second dates while others were what I thought were genuine starts to something-- anything-- resulting in absolutely nothing. It was the first time that I ever took the time to aggressively date and I enjoyed it all. Even the bad dates were chalked up to a new story to share or write about.

I knew I was a catch and had some fun times to offer these gents. I went out on a number of what would turn out to be the first and last date. I started to get a little paranoid because I was still at the stage where dating seemed much more personal than it really is. In reality, dating is finding what works for you and has little to nothing to do with the genuine qualities of the person you are sincerely not interested in. Someone out there will want to date the germ-a-phobe virgin I went to the movies with. And I am quite sure that the handsome investment banker who would return my calls but wouldn't go out with me again will eventually find a woman that will break down his walls. It is a guarantee that the lanky Brazilian-German man who looked like snoopy with short locks growing from his head will eventually meet the woman who is cool with smoking weed outside a movie theater on a first date and who wants to kiss his clammy-fish textured lips for more than a peck. And the universe only knows how these and many other men might describe me. I have no desire to know their opinions nor does it keep me up at night conjuring up possible reasons why I couldn't get that second date even with the men that seemed to click with me. I got to a point in the dating adventures where I assumed a date would be a generally good time and result in not much more.

Eventually I found a taker for a second, third and a few dates beyond. After an incredibly awkward first date we actually clicked and ultimately simultaneously decided that we weren't going to be a match even after some fun times and little bit of passion. It was an easy end to a romantic false start. I continued to communicate with and date as frequently as possible men from both the online world and those I would occasionally meet in the 'real life' forums.

These exploits and escapades led me into the arms of a dating partner for a couple of months. He was a bit older and had a good sense of humor. Things started with some steam- a couple of dates and some make out sessions. We had a good time talking on the phone and going out once or twice a week- dinner, movies, brunch. It was fun but nothing spectacular. Looking back, I know I should have just cut off the nice guy who was sweet but boring after only a couple of weeks. But I was lonely and he was someone to pass some time with. I contemplated moving on after he explained for the third time that he was excited that because of the current home finance crisis and the money he had saved away he could look at buying a home in the next few months. I mean, good for you, but do I have to hear about it three times? But I didn't end it. I continued to date other men and assumed he was dating other women. We never got to a serious point after two months of very casual interactions but it was nice to know I had someone thinking about me.

One of these dates with other men led to major sparks immediately. After my second date with the man who would become my boyfriend and love of my life I knew that this new connection trumped anything I currently had brewing and took me off the market for what looks like for good. After my third date with the new gent I knew I had to end things with Mr. Snooze. I knew that any date or phone conversation with him would only include my mind wandering to the new stirring feelings for the man I met when I finally thought I would never meet anyone. I became very hard to get a hold of for a few days as I recovered from sleep deprivation brought on by my dates and took some time to think. In the mean time he left me several voice mails and text messages:

Text: "Sorry to bug! But I want to ask you about something this weekend."

Voice mail: "Hey, It's me. What are you up to this weekend? Give me a call. I got two tickets to Coachella and a friend is letting us stay there. Do you want to go?"

Text: "Give me a call! Want to talk about this weekend!"

This was so odd as we had never talked about spending a weekend together and hadn't even been very physical since the second week or so. I must admit that if I wasn't already experiencing thrilling passion, I might have been tempted to join the guy on this little adventure. As it stood, I had become clear after my first day with my current boyfriend that I was removing myself from the dating world at least to see what would happen next. I made up an excuse that I had to work that weekend and it was not going to be possible to change anything. In reality, I spent an amazing weekend with my new man exploring the city not giving even a moments thought to what could have been a so-so time at a music festival with a so-so guy.

After that weekend I knew that I had to take care of business as soon as possible. In what would be one of my most awkward phone conversations, I ended our relationship. But it was no normal breakup.

Me: "Hey... I hope you had fun at the festival. So, I think that you are a really nice and I've had a good time getting to know you the past few weeks but I think that this has gone as far as it's going to go..." I mumbled and stumbled the whole way through.

Him: "Oh, uh, I see... Well, how long have you been feeling this way?"

Me (internal thought): "Um, since you were boring me to near tears..."
Me (external conversation): "Just over the last week or so... That's part of the reason I was hard to get ahold of the last week or so."

Him: "I understand. Yeah. It was kind of hard to figure out our connection. I just want you to know that no matter what, you are a really great girl and I had a lot of fun with you. No matter what. I hope you are okay with this."

WHAT?! You hope I'm okay with this? Are you serious? I called this guy to end things and I'm the one who had to work up to this horrible phone call and now he is flipping things so that his ego is in tact as the guy-who-dumped-the -chick? I was shocked and tongue tied.

Quickly, I processed what had just happened and decided I didn't care if he was the dumper or dumpee in his mind and was just excited to move on to dating an excellent match.

Me: "Oh, thank you. I'm glad you still think I'm a great girl. I totally understand the situation."

Him: "I'm so glad to hear that. I hope there are no hard feelings. In fact, I'd like to still be friends. You are great company. Why don't you give me a call in a couple of weeks if you want to have dinner. You will be okay," he said to calm what he had decided where my shaken nerves.

Me: "That sounds great. Thanks..."

We hung up and I let out a huge laugh as I thought about how odd it was to go from the woman who had assesed the situation and determined that this was a no-go to the victim who seemed to have been left with a percieved broken heart and wounded self esteem. At least I learned that I was right to get out of this situation in search of greener fields. I wish him well and I still think I'm a great girl- no matter what.

Apparently, we ruin neighborhoods...

I am in an interracial relationship. Now, to be fair, pretty much any relationship I am in will be a guarantee mixed one given that I am a proud combo-kid. However, my boyfriend and I are clearly of different races just by looking at us. Having grown up with parents of different ethnic backgrounds and having dated men of different racial backgrounds, I am accustomed to side long glances or even out right piercing glares from the public. No matter the year, small town, big city or state, there remain individuals who think you 'shouldn't mix' or 'date outside your race.'

Once, while in a semi-large city (by Eastern Washington standards, that is) my mother endured a ferociously scary stare-down from a skin head who was clearly associated with the local white supremacy groups in the area. My brother noticed and went to stand next to her just to ensure her safety. This is the life of being a person of color... especially if you are married to someone of a different background.

Recently, my boyfriend and I learned about a sector of the population that has clearly defined their racial politics and have united despite any other differences they might have: the homeless in West Hollywood and the surrounding areas. Just a few short weeks ago, my boyfriend and I were strolling arm in arm down Santa Monica after a delicious sushi dinner. We were laughing about something or other and walked towards a white man who was clearly without home and in possible need of medication. As we passed we heard the low voiced mumblings of this individual: grumble, grumble, nigger, grumble grumble, shouldn't be with grumble pure white woman grumble.

After the initial shock passed, we paused and assessed the situation: Did that man just get racial on us? As my gracious boyfriend said, "He gets a one time pass because he's crazy. Otherwise, I would punch him in the mouth." It was weird and awkward to be pulled into this man's inner thoughts. It was clear we entered into a realm of his consciousness that he never would have shared on his own were it not for a deteriorated state of mind. And what would he have done if he knew that I am nowhere near being a 'pure White woman' in any regard?

A mere week or so later after a hearty Thai lunch that was to be followed by a beautiful walk and a much needed nap we passed a man who appeared to live in the corner bus stop. He stared and his gaze followed us as we crossed the street toward him and rounded the corner. In a boisterous voice he informed my boyfriend that, "You better not take that White woman down south with you!" Now, to be fair, it is quite possible that this was just a blanket warning that he provides and not a reflection of his personal opinion. At any rate, I turned and yelled, "I'M MEXICAN." I know this does nothing to impact his perception or words of warning. Nevertheless, I wanted to get things squared away with this stranger.

These events make me wonder how many other people would love to yell at the top of lungs the distaste for our relationship with only a touch of sanity keeping them in line. And I wonder even more if I actually wouldn't prefer to hear the thoughts of the supposedly sane just to be clear about where people are coming from. I mean at least I know what the crazy homeless are thinking and I am not so naive as to believe they are the only ones. My boyfriend and I both know that there are members of our own families that don't like the idea of 'mixing'. And while none of this ultimately bears any weight in our lives, it is an interesting experience especially when so many people want to declare that racism is dead and that no one looks at race, really.

We've decided that regardless of the pressure from the crazy homeless population, we will stay together and endure the fear (and possible ridiculous excitement) of being verbally assaulted over such an absurd matter.

a woman

so i have this mom who likes girls. now, she's never admitted to liking girls but she did once pursue my brother's semi-ex girlfriend who was obsessed with him and was a psychotic compulsive liar. it was the "jerry springer" time in my life that hasn't quite petered out yet....

so, i have this mom who likes girls. it came as no surprise to well, anyone. i think it was this thing we all had thought. sadly, she kind of fits some of those stereotypes that us conscious people often want to think aren't real. but, i mean, they can be.

alma was a tomboy from jump. sports, sweat and all things un-girly ruled her world. in college she hoped to be a p.e. teacher. she played softball for the better portion of my childhood. makeup was this foreign concept except for some occasional lipstick. clothes or that fashion stuff held her attention just long enough to be rejected.

but the biggest signal was this weird obsessive relationship with her college roommate who also gives off the 'i like girls' vibe even while meandering through various relationships and marriages to the opposite sex. it was this weird thing since back in the day, according to my pops. but they lost touch then reconnected when i was in jr. high and then began the push and pull of their 'i love you. i hate you. i need you.' relationship that continues to this day. everyone down to my relatives who live in a rural town that i think has banished gay people suspect that there has always been more to this particular relationship than an innocuous friendship.

alma's sexuality is this weird thing that only exists in a parallel universe as far as i'm concerned. it isn't because it is a thing i don't want to deal with or because it makes me uncomfortable. my girl-liking-mom is the one who has relegated this vital part of anyone's life to the land of the untouchable. she has never confirmed that she is gay. she has never confirmed that she had a thing for the obsessed semi-ex of my brother. she had never confirmed that her relationship with the college roomie has ever reached beyond the platonic. but she lets all these facts simmer. it's like she thinks we don't notice. must be difficult to be a middle aged woman attempting to come to terms with her sexuality. maybe this is why she acts out in such inappropriate ways with inappropriate people.

so i have this mom who likes girls and i think she wanted to have a daughter that liked girls so that she could live vicariously through her. when i was a young, impressionable teen she took me to this movie about lesbians. i think my dad was opposed. not because of the theme but because it was pretty sexual and he wasn't clear on the purpose or intent of taking his daughter to such a flick. at any rate, we went. it was this awkward thing to say the least. and she and the college roomie spent a good deal of time instilling the 'fact' that men are these mean controlling people. all this while my mom was still married to my dad and the roomie was dating/ fucking any dude that would give her a second glance. and my girl-liking-mom would put all this pressure on me to not have sex with my high school boyfriend. it wasn't like my parents were conservative or that we were religious. i genuinely think it was a bit of a psychological tactic to keep me away from boys in case i liked sex with men. after all, how could she live her desires to be gay through me if it turned out i wasn't gay? alma would make my suiters feel uncomfortable if they were over for dinner but welcomed with open arms my brother's girlfriends. maybe she had crushes on these young lasses too. hard to say.

so i have this mom who likes girls and is too afraid to admit it to anyone or, in my opinion, herself even. instead she cowers in fear of living life for herself and has become a rather bitter old woman before reaching the age of old. it serves as a brilliant reminder to take risks and give a damn about what anyone thinks. but still, i find my self feeling rather sad and melancholy on behalf of my girl-liking-mom who is so out of touch with herself that she doesn't even know herself. alma exists in fear and pursues the unattainable. it is one of those realizations we have that demonstrates that our parents are, after all, just people too complete with bad behavior and poor decision making process. but my greatest hope for alma is that she connect with herself and grow to be a woman worth knowing, a woman worth loving, a woman in her own right.

love actually

we met, we fell in like, we fell in love. and now every morning i wake up with a smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach wrapped in his arms. we move steadily forward at a quick and furious pace all the time watching our steps and investigating more so as not to end up in the painful ditch of dashed hopes pinned upon each other.

each day i learn a bit more about this man that i have loved from too early on. this grounded love has come to serve as a marker for every relationship i have ever had and joyfully, it is the pinnacle of happiness in my life. time with him demonstrates regularly the absence of love in what should have been the definition with others.

ponderings

i think sometimes i overlook problems in order to maintain happiness. at times it is because i can be so naive and just not realize that there is tension or something amiss. other times it is because i really am just a little kid at heart and i don't always know how to deal with an issue. i'm not afraid of conflict but over the years i have become paranoid that i will be construed as 'emotional' or 'irrational'. this paranoia stems from a horrendous period where i doubted my instincts and became an emotional wreck stuck in a tumultuous relationship and severing connections with many friends and family members. it is also rooted in a childhood where everything was wrong but i was taught that this was the norm and perfectly happy and healthy. what else can you do in that situation but grin and bear it and just move on in life? this has made me a very resilient woman but also one that can overlook potential catastrophic issues with ease.

i seek the balance between addressing the bad and accepting the good. not always an easy act when you've been screwed over time and again and you get a little nervous that the next 'fuck me' moment is around the bend. frankly, life itself is the best it has been for me-- ever. and there are a lot of sucky things going on. but what makes it the best is that i feel my most present and aware of all that sucks and can keep myself centered and calm even in the midst of hating my job, realizing that i truly have no family structure to speak of that i haven't created on my own, and wandering a bit aimlessly at times. but i have these amazing friends who listen and support. and i have this amazing man that makes me feel more comfortable and vibrant than i think i realized was possible.

so i continue to learn to trust my instinct, ask the questions that are in my heart, and not to follow as blindly and naively as i have done, perhaps, in the past. growing up is hard and living life is a bit scary if you are doing it right. i'm scared, so i must be fully living at least a little.

Random Spottings, II

Los Angeles has a population of nearly ten million inhabitants sprawling across more than four thousand square miles. We mainly seem to drive which keeps us isolated in our pods, tucked away safely from any unwanted human interaction besides being cut off by the jerk in front of us or panhandlers at stop lights. Angelinos have perfected the art of seclusion. It is rare to see a familiar face in the grocery store aisles or to run into a friend or acquaintance by chance rather than by plan. We live in a big city and we like it like that.

Well, welcome to my world of the regular run ins in random locals with those that I never thought I would see again and others for whom I had prayed this would be the case. If you will, allow me to provide a few examples to demonstrate the randomness of my life

• Last fall after being dumped via a MySpace email by a guy I was dating for about two months because a) his work was getting really busy and he wouldn’t have time to hang out anymore and b) he really liked me and he didn’t want to have feelings like that for a girl right now, we had what turned out to be an awkward run in. On Thanksgiving weekend I decided to head over to my local museum to view an exhibit of phenomenal art. I showed up prepared to battle a bit of crowdedness and began to meander through the displays. About halfway through, I see from the corner of my eye the dude who dumped me via a MySpace email. (And yes, this is how he must be referenced. It was that lame). I was kind of shocked simply because it was so odd to be at the exact spot at the same time. My eyes followed him around the sculpture where I saw him notice me, put his head down and walk through to the next section. Because I like to do things ‘for the story’, I decided to follow him daintily through the art and we eventually made accidental eye contact. We approached each other, met half way and shared the most uncomfortable mumbled conversation coupled with a half-hearted back pat hug. We left and I later sent him a text that read “Take care of yourself” because he looked like he had been living in the basement as a vampire while consuming all the potato chips he could in a single sitting. I was looking cute, so that was a perfect post break up spotting.

• I once ran into a woman who was the mom of a boy who had a crush on me in the 3rd grade. He obviously had a crush on me because he used to tease me until I cried and kicked me in my stomach. She didn’t remember me but I told her lots of weird details about her sons and I even remembered her vanity license plate. I then had to persuade her that I was not, in fact, a stalker of some sort. We were both tickled to be taken back in time by about 20 years and she caught me up on the lives of her three sons even though I had only known one of them.

• On my way to a clown job, I stopped at a CVS in Studio City. I pulled out of the parking spot, stopped at the red light and watched in the cross walk as a man I had dated a few months before walked with his mother. He lived nowhere near Studio City (nor do I) and we actually live in neighboring hoods yet I have never ran into him at a coffee shop or a restaurant. I kind of hoped he would notice me because when we had broken up I was in the process of dumping him when he attempted to flip the script and dump me by stating, ‘No matter what, I want you to know you are a really great girl!’ What he didn’t know was that I was dumping him because I had met the most spectacular man of my life and would go on to fall head over heels in love with this new gentleman while I had slowly suffered a painfully dull 2 month relationship with him.

• At various around town activities I have seen my college Spanish teacher, a girl from college, the dude who dumped me via MySpace email AGAIN, some other guy who kept sending me emails after a first date stating that he would call me as soon as work settled down, old friends from Juior High School whom I haven’t seen in more than 15 years.

I somehow manage to make Los Angeles into a small town, and I like it...

Beautiful Madness

I realized today that I have raised myself with occasional guidance from my mentally ill parents with severe addictions- one to drugs and the other to perpetual turmoil. Two highly functional, brilliant people with a pension for pain created a family of genius, secrets, art, creativity and borderline insanity. A mother who remains a little girl herself filled with self-doubt and the inability to love without countless undecipherable rules and conditions. A father who never realized his potential and seeks self-sabotage in place of joy. A son who teeters between the refined mind of a genuine artist and a schizophrenic child dependent on whatever substance makes him feel more alive.

And I was born the old soul put in place to provide a model for stability, loyalty and sanity. Without a word I became the pillar standing strong in shifting earth, building walls to keep myself safe and to gather the strength to care for them. I would sink into myself and turn a bit numb, shutting down emotions in order to survive. I learned that love is temporary and is intertwined with codependency, chaos and a general tug of war of emotions. Stability is simply an adjective and not a reality while those around me seek my council, applaud my strength and have little to no understanding of how I was born a caretaker who cared little for herself. I have not only raised myself but my parents and my sibling. No chance for a real childhood until I broke free of their presence and learned to put myself at the forefront.

just reflecting

our relationship was a long, bitter winter with glimpses of springtime buds

Free Falling

He told me just after about a week of knowing me that he was going to make me fall in love with him. This I had to see. I told him that I would let him try.

After spending a year recuperating from a damaged relationship and then spending an exorbitant amount of time dating over 5 months with a number of false starts and several narrow escapes I had had my doubts about any new guy I was dating. We met over cocktails to see what would happen. We were both in it more for the story than for the date. After our initial phone conversation, I thought he was going to be a bit too gregarious and that two big personalities would never find a way to mesh. He seemed humorous enough but maybe too funny. When would I get to tell my stories and share my quick wit? Whatever. At least the drinks would be free. He had agreed to the date because I work part-time as a clown and he just knew I had to be a little off. He had, as he says often, kissed a lot of frogs and upon seeing me initially thought I might actually be the queen of the toads. Apparently the lighting and first glance had turned me into the perfect vision of a not so attractive fat girl.

Three house specialty drinks later we had found ourselves immersed in four hours of loud, spontaneous laughter and lots of story telling. He reached for my hand and we talked a bit more. It was a Sunday night and the bar had only a few patrons. He told me a story about some transsexuals on his block hooting and hollering at him. I laughed and he told me I had a beautiful smile and leaned in for kiss. One more toad for the list. But this toad could kiss and this toad laughed at all his stories- the quirkier the better.

That date that was meant to be a non-event ended about a week later. It was a week that made us both hopeful for the future, made us believe that two people could actually date with the objective of landing in a relationship devoid of games, hiding and emotional unavailability. Four weeks later, after spending nearly every day together, we had shared stories of past lovers, past horrors, and crazy families. Food, drink, long walks, and hours of conversation and laughs led us down this path we both call trouble. And last night he asked, “Did I make you fall in love with me yet?”

“Do you really want an honest answer to that question?” I asked timidly.

“Yes. The honest answer”

“Yeah, you made me fall in love with you.”

“Isn’t that a little fast? It’s only been a month.”

“I know. That’s why you weren’t supposed to ask me that. It was my little secret,” I responded.

“Well, I’m glad you love me because I love you too.”

“Isn’t that a little fast? It’s only been a month,” I teased.

“Sometimes you just have to take a chance in life. Thank god you said you loved me. I would have been left looking crazy.”

I laughed. “No. You knew I loved you.”

“Yeah, I did.”

random spottings

so, i was walking into the bank and a woman with an arm of tattoos and an 80's rocker/ mullet is walking out. i was a bit a ways from her, but i knew even though it had been years. so i yelled 'emily'. she looked up, i waved, she looked confused. i said 'it's rachel'

we chatted for about 5 minutes. she seems very calm and good. she lives in the area with her girlfriend. she was on her way to court to fight a thing with not having tags. i told her i did jury duty the day brit brit was at the court house because she has always loved her. she told me a story about being on a jury about a homeless man that was trying to shank people on the bus. we didn't really catch up. but it was cool to see her and we greeted and parted with hugs.

The In Between

“So,” he asked to provoke, “how often do you use your White privilege?”

I laughed and squeezed his arm that was interlinked with my own as we walked through the streets of Downtown Los Angeles enjoying the swap meet like atmosphere of the wholesale stores. He always knew that referring to my part-White heritage would get me riled up. And as frustrating as it can be when people determine my race on my behalf as if doing me a favor, I understood his question, even if it was asked in jest.

My life has been spent in the ‘in-between’ of a multi-racial identity. Born to a mother of Mexican heritage and a father of mixed European ancestry, I have always been distinctly aware of race, especially my own. This level of awareness has often inundated my thoughts and daily existence: “What race does so and so think I am?” “Am I Mexican enough?” “Am I ‘acting’ too White?”

As a child, my mother took the time to explain to me that it was quite possible that as we walked down the street many people might think that she was my nanny or that I was adopted because our skin color was different. My heart sunk as the idea of not being completely connected to my mother in the eyes of strangers permeated my mind. After that day, I looked for the similarities: hands with long thin fingers complete with even the same lines across the knuckles; the nearly indistinguishable oval face with distinct high cheekbones and pointed chin; muscular calves; wide, warm smile that crinkled our eyes at identical angles. I must have spent hours unconsciously staring, unsure of what I hoped to find. Now, decades later I realize I was in search of my cultural identity. This is my first memory of my race actively defined by those around me.

I understand what my mother hoped to communicate with her statement: we were different and were going to experience different racial identities. She hoped to prepare me for a mixed-race experience. Not long after that, I remember coming to a realization while watching ‘Punky Brewster’ a sitcom from the ‘80’s about an adopted girl. The lead character, Punky, reminisced on how similar she looked to her biological mother who had died.

Tentatively, I asked, “Mom, people know I’m your daughter because we look so much alike, right? They know I’m not adopted, right?”

She was taken aback. I wonder if she connected my question to her statements.

She said softly, “Yes, m’ija, people know you are my daughter.”

This was the beginning of a life long experience of racial confusion, blur, creation and destruction. Race and identity have been through lines of my life; both woven in my stories or reflections and intermingling in my moment-to-moment existence. Not a breath is taken without a conscious understanding of my racial (rather, bi-racial) identity.

At the age of 12, I decided that I would one day learn Spanish so that I could more fully communicate with my abuelita. My younger brother and I had been raised in a predetermined ‘English Only’ household even though my father was fluent in Spanish and yearned to share this connection to our roots. My mother had decided before I was even a fully developed thought in her womb that her children would not endure the humiliation that she encountered as a Spanish speaking student in schools that were nothing short of hostile to the sounds of non-English. And with this decision, I lost my voice before I uttered my first word.

To this day I speak Spanish hesitantly even after 8 years of formal study, living in Mexico and extensive travel through Latin America. I never did speak to my grandmother in Spanish as I never felt I could speak well enough to impress her. She passed away without ever knowing that she was my inspiration for learning the language I have come to love so much for its poetic rhythm and harmonies.

At 14, I changed my name to better suit me. Until my first day as a freshman in high school, I had lived my life with a name that never quite fit and I decided to take on my mother’s maiden name in conjunction with my father’s Scotch-Irish surname. I became, what I like to call, ‘a hyphenated’. And in so many ways the little dash that I added between names spoke to more than just the addition of another word. It defines my experience in the in-between. I am not one or the other; I am both. It is recognition of my mixed experience rather than a singular one- a combination, not a separation.

I have found myself more than slightly amused at the confusion I cause for others. Upon a first encounter with some, a person will wrinkle their forehead and scrunch their brow, pause and then ask, “What are you?” It is as if they have seen for the first time a creature from another land. I don’t play coy or act as if I do not understand what they want to know. After this many years, I understand they want clarification on what ethnicity box to check on my behalf and instead of making the process any more difficult, I give them what they are looking for: my answer is always, “I’m mixed; Mexican and White.” It is the part of my life where I fill in the blank for others as concisely as possible. This is a frequent event even with those I assume are familiar with my background. Recently, a friend whose family I have known for several years asked him, “Que es Raquel? What is Rachel?” We both laughed as he said he responded with an indignant “Mexican, duh!”

I am often shocked and surprised when someone who doesn’t know me identifies me as White. But I feel this same way when I am identified as Mexican without first declaring my heritage. When I am at a supermarket and am spoken to in Spanish, my shoulders pull back with pride and I become a little more alert to what is going on as a smile will cross my face even if just being asked the time of day. And because I am acutely aware of my ability to ‘pass’ as White or as Mexican, I often feel obligated to tell people my racial mixture and identity so as to ensure that they do not feel lied to or misled. This obligation asks for no information in return yet sits with me constantly.

My walk in the cracks of my racial existence has made me privy to many comments or moments that continue to outline my identity. These are sketches of my memories…

…. a White classmate and acquaintance once leaned in to whisper to me, “Why do they always talk Spanish?” seemingly unaware that I was one of ‘they’… when I receive a moving violation ticket from an officer, I am anxious for the end of the exchange so I can see what is written for ethnicity—score card: 2 White, 2 Hispanic—tied, how appropriate… at a medical appointment, the doctor fills out my paper work and wonders aloud, “Now, how do you spell Caucasian again? I just can never remember”. I interject with, “Actually, I identify as Latina. I’m mixed race. That’s why the last name.”… An aunt (from my father’s side) once noted with a blend of discomfort and delight “You do that hugging and kiss on the cheek thing. That’s because you’re Mexican”…

I live a mish-mashed mix of a multi-racial reality where, most often, others have painted the strokes of my identity. I have learned much from those around me about how I walk in the world of the ‘in-between’: simultaneously a woman of color and woman of White privilege. My skin color has at once allowed me access to the basic rights deserved by all but denied to many and has also called into question how well I really belong to the dominant race and class.

As I return to the moment and the question of the frequency of the usage of my white privilege, I reflect on the numerous times my skin and mixed-heritage have come in handy- both deliberately and unknowingly: I never fear being harassed for my race. I am asked by friends to be a spokesperson in restaurants, in government offices, at the bank, and at schools all because I’ll be perceived as white and therefore the calm, sensible one in moments of conflict. I get made fun of for not knowing certain things that ‘all Mexicans are supposed to know’ or for my pocho Spanish and yet am deemed too ethnic and called out for being too into racial politics by people who want to see me as White.

This is my reality. No box to check that will quite explain all the crevices I fit into or the experience of being one person living in many identities. Race, culture and identity are more fluid than a category will allow and ultimately I have come to embrace the various aspects, histories and visions of myself.

And when I grew weary of looking, I was found.

and then there was blood...

once upon a birthday party...


i was a clown and found myself surrounded by some semi-cute kids (if you're ever interested, ask me about my ranking of cute babies by racial groupings. it's astounding.) making balloon animals, playing some games, demonstrating some magic, etc. all in a days work as a mediocre-clown.

one child (male, age 8) was, well, annoying. needed so much attention from the clown and the other kids that he would run around and slide on his dress pants even though he was told explicitly not to by his father. he wanted to be the 'helper' every time but not in that helpful way. it was in that annoying 'please shut up because i will never in a million years pick you' kind of way. he wanted to be first to get balloon animals or take a role in a game. not only this, but he couldn't keep his hands off other kids. if it was the magic show portion then it required him kicking someone. if it was the game portion, then he would 'accidently' fall on another kid. I warned him that if he couldn't stop being rough, he would get to go sit with his parents. in short, he was on my nerves, and even though i'm a clown and supposed to love all children, i don't

all the boys wanted balloon swords (well, they wanted balloon guns, but i don't provide such items without at least a 3 day wait period). this, of course, becomes a war of the swords. well, annoying boy, because he lacks the attention he wants, starts to rough house... AGAIN!

just as i was about to make my last balloon animal for the night and head out for an evening that would turn out to be oh so fun, i hear the words no clown wants to hear "HE'S BLEEDING!"

the child that couldn't be calm had worked himself into a frenzy, fallen, slammed his face into the floor and knocked out a loose tooth. blood was spilling from his mouth-- ON TO MY FRESHLY LAUNDERED, MULTI-COLORED PARACHUTE O' FUN!!!!

All he could yell was, "Where's my tooth? Where's my tooth?"

and all I could think was "He's bleeding on my equipment!!!"

I hurriedly looked for help from other adults not dressed as clowns in search of his father. I was met with frustrated grunts that i was disturbing their dinner. the father was found, the bleeding child was cared for, and i got out of that room before i could be accused of some horrid violent act that never occurred.

I mean, the kid was obnoxious, be he didn't really bother me too bad until he messed with the parachute.

Clown Stories: Tickle Me Elmo No More

not too long ago, I was on my regular grind as a clown. now, most of you know that this means I not only dress up as a clown (wig, make up, weird clothes, etc.) but also as characters like Dora the Explorer, Cookie Monster, Hello Kitty, etc. It's a great job that includes free hugs from generally cute kids, free food, and the opportunity to just be a kid myself.

back to the story....

not too long ago, I was on my regular grind as a clown. This time I was dressed up as Elmo on a very warm Los Angeles winter day. I played games with the kids and painted their faces. Pretty nice family all in all. The birthday girl was scared and crying but that is actually pretty standard fare for my gigs, oddly enough. (side note: could be because the Elmo outfit smells a bit like wet dog for the most part. But who knows?)

At the very end of my hour and half adventure, I made balloon animals for the 20 + kids at the party. There was a group of boys about 12 years old that kept on asking for extra balloons. Now, if I wanted to spend the rest of my life at that birthday party, then I would have just kept on making those balloons even if they popped or got lost or whatever. However, I am a semi-strict clown: ONE balloon per kid- NO MATTER WHAT. (of course that rule is broken often, but i stick to it for the most part). The boys kept asking and I ulitmately ignored them and packed up.

I collected the clown money from the mom, said my goodbyes and headed down the block to my car (yes, still dressed as elmo). As I leave, I hear some mumbling from the boys but pay it no mind. I was about half a block down when I hear the glorious shouts of pre-adolescent boys:

"FUCK YOU ELMO"

Yes, they screamed not once, but twice:

"FUCK YOU ELMO"

I laughed, went to my car and drove home.

hilarious! welcome to my world....

and for those of you keeping track of my antics, this was the SAME day that I was kicked out of a downtown area bar for ASSAULT (see previous blog!)

Unexpected

You kissed me in a way that has left me with flashbacks for days to follow. Those tender kisses that bring chills down my spine just remembering the laughter that led up to that first moment. Out of nowhere, I find myself craving what I did not know I missed. Our lips touched as if it was our thousandth meeting rather than the first. Shocking how casual and comfortable our arms wrapped around one another embracing the flesh and excitement of curiosity and the unknown.

the carrots, the dog and the god

* A little story first:
I am not one to really explain my writing but this is a little interesting. Quite by accident I found myself at a poetry workshop tonight- specifically a Christian Ministry poetry workshop. As someone who is not Christian at all and is probably agnostic on a good day and much closer to athiest as a rule, this was an interesting scenario. The assignment was to take 2 randomly and pre-written items (my case: the carrots and the dog) from a pile of paper and the 3rd item was automatically God... ala The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Mix these items and 15 minute time limit and you have the following poem. I guess it could have a few levels but wanted to share my actual perspective and intent.


"Each spring creates a new harvest and this year would be no different.
Green tops and orange roots to nourish the farmer's family planted beneath the soil.

A new pup finds his balance and gracefully gallops through the green-topped-orange-rooted fields- his fields that he was born to protect.
His boundless curiosity mixed with his newly found freedom led the farm's guard to the tucked away barn forgotten at the property's edge.

He enters with hesitance, fear and caution and a glimmer catches his eye.
With deliberate steps he approaches the shards of broken glass and with raised brow he sees:

the D-O-G finds his immediate reflection: the G-O-D"

electronic correspondence with my mother-

I hear the static of your absence.

Once, our connection grounded my existence.

Our link was simultaneously biological, chemical, maternal, familial, irrational, painful, and sickly.

As your mind continued to unplug slowly from the rational world, our network grew weak and then, suddenly, any meaningful interface dropped altogether. Yet day in and out and in again, the reverberations of our unnecessarily shared fears and tumor-like interconnection linger in my mind and no matter how hard I slam my palm against the machinery or adjust the bunny ears hoping to clear the snow-like images, the static remains.

Each memory blinks on high frequency but is clouded in the cacophony of screaming, mixed up, mis-matched wires, crossed over one another unwittingly creating a spark that will lead to the fire that may burn any chance of renewed or reenergized potential plug-ins.

You found your way into the realm of my sleep.

Not in that sweet way like when you used to hold me as I dreamt and your smooth breath would make me want to stay curled against your body for all my life.

Not with the passionate kisses that would awaken me to the desire I once held for you.

Not in that tender, impulsive reach of my hand as it searched for your face in the middle of the night that would reassure me of your presence.

You found your way into the realm of my sleep.

In that panicked, frozen, fear-induced shortness of breath way that your name now brings to my body.

In that bad taste in my mouth way as I recall the thousands of kisses we shared as you wished to be any where but with me.

In that way that strikes me at my core with the profound understanding that while we occasionally experienced something worth sharing, we more often spent our time dragging each other through the filthiest and most painful mud.

You found your way into the realm of my sleep.

And this time, I grabbed control of my breath and pulled myself out of this fictional moment, returned to the calmness in my soul and melted into that part of my sleep that is now focused on my own heart and actual dreams instead of healing the un-healable you.

para mi dad y su pamelita

Cuando el sol quebra el cielo y la madrugada retira, mis suenos me levanta y mis pensamientos regresan a ti, a nuestra vida. Nunca tengo un descanso de ti, tu alma, tu espirtu. Pero lo que quiero mas de memorias, de suenos, de pensamientos es tenerte a mi lado por un momento mas para besarte y decirte una vez mas que tu fueras el amor de mi vida, mi companera, mi mejor amiga.

When the sun breaks through the sky and dawn retires, my dreams awaken me and my thoughts return to you, to our life. Your memory has never rested; it lives in my words, my thoughts, each stride along the river’s path. My hands reach for you in my sleep and my mouth forms words that are meant only for you. Your face appears at every turn and your powers of a muse inspire each breath.

Cuando el sol quebra el cielo y la madrugada retira, mis suenos me levanta y mis pensamientos regresan a ti, a nuestra vida. Con cada respira te siento en mi sangre y me da la esperanza que esta tristeza no dura siempre. En vez lo que nunca me dejare es tu sonrisa, amor y vida.

The Night I was kicked out of a bar for ASSAULT

so i had heard a bit about this bar and went last night for a friends
birthday. i was so excited because they had a ms. pac man console. so i
head over to the corner to play and just as i am beating the high score
on the game, i feel something brush against the inside of my upper
thigh ( i was wearing a dress). i turn to look what was going on and some
dude who works there was on the ground. now, to be fair he may have
also been cleaning up but i'm not sure why i should have felt light
brushing against my skin. in what was a completely instinctive reaction, i
pushed the guy and yelled for him to stay away from me and walked over to
my friends.

I feel I should mention that i was COMPLETELY sober and hadn't had a
drink in days! so i was very aware and alert of what was going on.

the next thing i know i am being escorted out by the security only to
be scolded by one of the owners (a fellow female, nevertheless). she
goes on to tell me that i am kicked out for 'ASSAULTING' the guy. i
explain what happened and was told that i shouldn't have reacted. that
instead, i should have 'ASSESSED THE SITUATION BEFORE RESPONDING'. yeah, in
the future when i think i'm being molested i'll be sure to pole the
audience for their thoughts and opinions. basically, i was the victim and
was being told that i had been the one in the wrong. immediately after,
i'm getting dirty looks from some lame old hipster in a nasty ugly suit
and when i ask him what his problem is he proceeds to call me 'honey'
and tell me how wrong i was when he hadn't even heard my side of the
story. he looked strung out but that is a different story. He was the
owner!

so my friends and i (about 20 people) promptly headed out and as much
as i loved the ms. pac man i won't solicit a location that let's their
employees molest women and then accuse the woman of being in the wrong.

And no worries ... I'm fine and even ran in a 5 k race with my best
time yet. Maybe molestation was just the motivation I needed.

and here is a reenactment...

thoughts on a day of thanks

My soundtrack was the melodious-jazz-piano-plunking set against the chilly Thanksgiving night as I drove through the emerging vibrancy of downtown. The fast-paced song urged my foot to push the pedal just a little more cruising through the almost empty streets as the residents of the city of stars passed the evening with their friends and families feasting on too much food an too much drink. The only human presence on these dark urban-turned-yuppy streets was nestled beneath sleeping bags with backs pushed against the windowpanes of the corporate buildings to guard against the brisk breeze.

This holiday was spent in solitude that year by choice. It was indeed a day of thanks: for strength, inner peace, health, happiness. The warm sun reddened my cheeks earlier that day as I ran along the coastline soaking in the sea air and watching as families gathered in their beachfront homes to celebrate; young families gathered for a non-traditional barbeque, volleyball and surfing. Sweat dripped into my eyes, burning. I paused to rest my lungs and muscles. A restaurant was giving out free turkey dinners complete with trimmings served on Styrofoam plates and plastic cutlery. The local transient residents sat on the brick walls, belongings close by, enjoying the warm holiday food. Today is a day they are welcomed out of the shadows of homelessness and embraced by the ‘homed’.

Driving through downtown that night in search of an open bar, I passed a local shelter, cleaning up after their own Thanksgiving celebration and soup kitchen. Surely that morning and afternoon had been filled with cooking and donated time to the less fortunate- to those who have nothing. Gifts were wrapped and distributed in preparation for Christmas. Children living in shelters praying to find their next meal are granted a day of joy and look forward to the next holiday celebration.

As these layers of images spun around my mind, I was overwhelmed by the irony of the feast or famine mindset of this country. One of the most overlooked, invisible populations: men, women, children who simply do not exist yet suffer daily in their all too real but seemingly transparent lives. Tucked away in nearly ancient hotels not suitable as homes yet serving as shelter; children sitting in classrooms with grumbling stomachs and aching, growing muscles; men and women self-medicating on the nearest readily available drug to numb the reality of hopelessness. The money and wealth are stockpiled by the rich and richer throughout the year only to dole out small helpings of resources on sanctioned federal holidays. My heart sunk as I thought of the colliding worlds. How is it that we have enough money to feed every human being some days and only enough to allow the most elite to gorge and overindulge on others?

Our Mutual Confusion

I remember all of my mother’s stories. Each one has affected me in one way or another. Some stories stand out for their humor and others for their pain. I have heard each story many times, and can probably tell them much better than my mother by now. I remember her stories of being pulled out of school at a young age to work the fields, along with her brothers and sister; stories of dressing and feeding her younger siblings while her parents worked. I remember stories of names that children called my mother and her family; stories of hatred and humiliation she endured at school. At a young age, she was the main support for her family, both financially and emotionally. While my grandparents worked, my mother cleaned and cooked. Any money she earned went to caring for her family and herself.

My mother tells me stories of dreams she had. The most memorable is about her third grade picture day. It was the night before picture day at school and my mother was excited to dress up and have her photo taken. After falling asleep, she dreamt of how her pictures would look; imagining her face with ivory skin, blonde hair flowing past her shoulders and her blue sparkling eyes. When my mother awoke from her fantasy, she was disappointed to see her black hair, brown eyes, and coffee colored skin reflected in the mirror.

Her stories continue through the university years. My mother was the only one of six children to graduate from high school and attend college. She recounts her struggle to work full-time in order to pay for school and how she fought to prove that she belonged in this intellectual university setting. She tells me of meeting my father, their courtship, and her fears as they married at the age of twenty-two and proceeded to move to Los Angeles a year after their wedding. She tells stories of pain and confusion she encountered in her marriage to my white father and explains the guilt of ‘abandoning’ her Mexican culture.

While the tales that my mother shared mesmerized me, I somehow lived my life oblivious to my mother’s struggle with her identity. My head was held high and I was aware of my importance. This was all due to the knowledge that my life would be easier than hers. I was educated, but more than this, I was light; I was fairskinned. Born with the features of my Chicana mother, but with the skin of my white father; I had it made.

It was never discussed, but I knew the value that my family put on my light skin. My mother and her Chicano family recognized the benefits of my pale-skin. Because my light color would allow me to ‘pass’ into white society, they were happy that I wouldn’t experience the same pain and humiliation associated with the dark skin that they had. It was thought that my skin would grant me an enchanted childhood.

My father’s family, on the other hand, had different reasons to be happy about my white hue. It was not the potential harm or shame that I would encounter with dark skin that worried that my father’s family; rather, it was their own embarrassment that they did not want to face. I was the first mixed child of their family, and they were not exactly comfortable with this. There was a sigh of relief when I was born ‘white’. My father’s family would not have to worry about walking down the street with a little Mexican child as people stared.

My mother rarely tells of the poverty that her family survived. Only as I got older did I begin to hear more of the hardships that my family had faced. She is hesitant to discuss in detail the humiliation of welfare and government aid. My mother’s experience with government assistance has left her scarred, yet determined to never be dependent on it again. Her past life of poverty is something that my mother would like to forget, and rightfully so. It was through my mother’s desire to protect her children from poverty and prejudice that I became ‘anglicized’; the more effectively we could pass in the white world, the better guaranteed our future.

For much of my elementary education, I attended schools filled with rich white children. It never felt quite right to me. I got along with the other students, yet I didn’t feel any real connection to them. I didn’t understand the difference between the white kids at school and me. As far as I knew, we were the same, and yet, I felt so different. My mother did not have blonde hair like the other moms and my grandparents didn’t own condos on the beach. At Christmas, we ate tamales, arroz, and tortillas, not turkey and pumpkin pie. The greatest source of my confusion stemmed from my skin color. I looked like the children at school, but my family did things so differently. While my parents constantly and subtly reminded me of my light coloring, I felt as if I blended in perfectly with my Chicano family.

In any case, I have always looked up to my mother and admired her. My mother is the epitome of a strong Mexican woman. She works full-time, cares for her children, and still finds time to nurture her family. I grew up watching her, studying her moves, how her hands became rigid as she molded the tortilla dough. I paid attention to the sweat on her brow as she ran behind me when I decided it was time to take off my bike’s training-wheels. She was my hero. My mother’s kind actions made me want to be just like her. The only problem was that I thought this was impossible.

I understood that my mother was Chicana and my father was white. What I didn’t realize was that I was brown and white too. My self-image was distorted and I felt like an outsider in every situation. I didn’t look like my mother’s family and I wasn’t at ease with my father’s family. For most of my life, I was confused as to why I felt like such an outcast.

Since the day I was born I have been told that I am ‘white.’ Nobody asked me who I was, they simply and matter-of-factly told me. Everyday I look in the mirror and I see a proud Chicana ready to take on the world. I also see the pale skin that fools outsiders. They assume I am one of them and tell me so. Instead of being bitter or angry, I use my frustration to remind myself of my pride. My pride in being Mexican; my pride in striving for success; pride in being my mother’s daughter.

Where my mother’s life becomes my own is in our mutual confusion. She was ashamed of being Mexican and tried to be white. Simultaneously, I knew I was Mexican and didn’t want to be known as white. We each experienced a youth devoid of identity and cultural awareness.

I remember all of my mother’s stories. Each one has affected me in one way or another. Some stories stand out for their humor and others for their pain. Now, as we each assume responsibility for our cultural identities, we have been able to learn about and experience our stories together.

Surrender

Give all that you hope to receive without the expectation

Release

Hold on to that which is good to have the strength to learn from that which hurts

Submit

Without fear, without regret, without hesitation

Surrender

wandering spirit: thoughts on my father

He was born to be a Shaman, a community healer, a griot- the keeper of history and song. He was created to create; to tell the stories of a people. And yet, he wanders with a lost soul cultivating his skills in a time that is not his. In another time he would have lived on the land and respected its vast strength. He would have used the knowledge to heal his people. Each song would have been respected as a chapter in history; as a fine piece of art to pass on through generations.

In this time, modern day, he is a man of so much knowledge and wisdom that it often overwhelms. His talents are so seamless that you are convinced that you too can pick up a guitar and create a new song in mere moments with the same ease as his fingers.

In a world that values the dollar and a persons ability to earn at whatever cost, the ability to love and heal is not seen as an asset of any worth. At the age of 50 he has lived many lives with as much loss as any one person should experience. He lives in his heart and is therefore that much more susceptible to being broken.