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.