Kali's Temple of Doom

This is How NOT to Flatten the Curve

2020-05-14T23:44:00.002-04:00

I was bingeing on one of my favorite shows the other night, on one of the free streaming services. It was late night and I was surprised to see my local assemblyman staring back at me from my TV. My first thought was, “So, not in jail yet…” But then, after the second showing of the ad, I listened to what he was saying. Apparently on the 51^st District there have been at least 100 deaths due to COVID-19.

I’m still not overly concerned because we are not a hotspot, but I am cautious because these deaths mean that there is a possibility of infected members of our community. It certainly gave me pause because I knew I’d have to make a trip to Mom’s bank (we won’t be able to do online banking for her until she goes to a branch and as it got complicated, I’ll handle stuff for her until this nightmare is over).

I was going yesterday but I overslept. So I set the alarm for this morning and set off deep into Sunset Park. I was a little iffy about getting on the bus, and the bus driver made it really easy when they wouldn’t lean—and unless I did a three foot vertical jump, there was no way I was getting on this thing. Plus, I figured, I’d probably break my neck trying to jump off the bus when I got off at my stop. So I walked to the bank.

It’s only about half a mile and I really haven’t been exercising, so it’d be good for me. Today was in the 60s, so it was great walking weather.

The plan was that as long as I was going to the bank, I’d stop at the green grocer and the pharmacy for some supplies.

The walk down was slightly annoying. Across the street from the Basilica, I saw a woman come out of the supermarket with two bags, pull her phone out of her pocket and put it to her face (while still wearing gloves, but she wore no mask). Then I saw several people with children. Toddlers and a couple of infants… I saw at least three couples with little ones in strollers. The adults wore masks, but the kids were fully exposed, and the adults (who were shopping and handling things) were touching the children’s faces and the food they were giving the kids (from bottles to snacks).

On the way back, what I noticed most were people wearing their masks incorrectly. It shouldn’t be so hard, but apparently it is.

Some of the men wore their masks hanging from their chin. Some people held the masks in their hands, waiting to put in on when entering an establishment—and all are now requiring face coverings—but then they’d pull it off and carry it in their dirty hands until their next stop. I saw one of the local mailmen wearing the mask below his mustache. And then there were the ones wearing their masks barely covering their mouths. They gave me the vibe they thought they were being both rebels and that they looked cool—much like the dudes who walk around with their pants hanging below their crack. Only much stupider!

And my people do not seem to quite understand the whole idea of social distancing. My take is that most of these people seem to think six feet is just about arm’s length. And that could only be true if you are six feet tall, and then you’d have to measure arm span, not just length of one arm. So, maybe my peeps can’t do math. I don’t want to generalize, but today they all pissed me off. I can be fairly general about that: Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Mexicans, Guatemalans, Colombians… whatever! They all pissed me off. What the hell is wrong with you people?!

I got home and sanitized like a woman possessed, and as I was washing my mask it dawned on me that considering that the virus is hitting the Latino community disproportionately, the danger of contagion is so much greater for their ineptitude or imbecility as we as the horrifying realization that the majority of food handlers in the city are Latinos (from kitchen workers to food delivery people to supermarket workers, etc.).

Y’all be careful out there, please. If not for your own sakes, try being considerate to the rest of us that would prefer not to get sick because you’re being idiots!

Chicken Soup for the Feverish Mind

2020-04-28T15:05:00.002-04:00

There are familiar elements I revisit in my dreams when I am feverish. The house I grew up in is larger (probably the way I saw it as a kid), and there is a non–existent set of stairs that look remarkably like the entrance to the basement in the house at Storms Avenue in Jersey City. I lived there for about four months when I was eleven. Then I returned every summer and almost every Christmas until I left Puerto Rico. My great grandmother had been moved there by one of her daughters.

There is also a beach that, in my dreams, it's located just about where the river bends in Bayamon. And I even have a few friends that I meet there when I visit. Not real people. I have no idea who these guys are. But we are friends and I always feel welcome. Surely, as the architecture, they are amalgamations of people I’ve loved because they comfort me.

I am finding a sinus infection: hello, spring! And last night I had one of those dreams. It’s always interesting because there is always some sort of caper involved (usually I “borrow” a car and go joy riding).

I awoke early because I apparently needed to stop at the pharmacy before going to school. School figures prominently in these dreams because being a student has always been one of my favorite things. The classroom brings me joy. I know some of you do not quite relate, but trust me, if there’s a classroom and studying involved, it’s a good dream for me. For most people, finding themselves in a dream about to give an oral report, for instance, is a source of major anxiety. They find they forget their speech. Suddenly they find themselves pantless or naked. Me? I teach a whole class because I am full of citations. Yeah, sometimes I am naked, but I’m cool with that.

In this dream, I awoke and left my room to turn off the alarm radio in the kitchen. And it was the old transistor radio Mami kept in her kitchen. And it certainly was the kitchen I woke up to since I was almost two until my seventeenth year.

After I left the house, the trip to the pharmacy took me through parts of SoHo and Chelsea, and then into the McCrory’s on Bergen Avenue in Jersey City. A ways from Santa Rosa in Puerto Rico, but in my dream within walking distance…

Then I had to deliver some papers to the office. The dream office is always some dream bastardization of the Disney offices on Fifth Avenue off Union Square. But I was in some floor that did not quite belong. It was a labyrinth of makeshift cubicles and tiny hallways dotted with tiny, windowless offices. I assume it was an insurance place, but cannot swear to it.

There were bags of tiny M&Ms everywhere, and as I was leaving, I briefly chatted with a young woman who told me she was meeting a mutual acquaintance for lunch. Shortly after that, I drove past a beautiful old theater (which used to be across from Journal Square but which I believe got raised years ago). I saw the young woman sitting on a sidewalk table with a young man who looked remarkably like Aaron Tveit. Why Tveit? I have no clue. Daniel Sunjata would have been far more interesting.

I stopped to talk for a minute, knowing I had to make it to school, and as we chatted I remarked that I had not formally dropped a philosophy class the previous semester and I was not sure if I’d drop it before I automatically failed it or if I’d be forced to take the final without the chance to defer it. Their advice was to talk to my professor to see what could be done.

Before heading to school, I went inside the bar to use the facilities, but instead found more bags of tiny M&Ms—some spring colored. Then somehow found myself in the Disney building, trying to take the elevator, but apparently it only stopped going up and I took one and found myself chatting up with Anne-Marie Johnson, who apparently knew the exact forms I needed to fill out and the right words to make sure that my professor would grant me a deferment.

Coincidentally, when we all came out of the building—and this part was a little different because it looked like we came out of the side of the building that faced Sicily—there was my professor: Bernie Sanders!

He agreed to let me defer, but first he lectured me on the best ways to pass the class. And because he’s from Brooklyn, he waved his hands to punctuate every word (sometimes every syllable spoken). I can’t tell you what he said. I stopped paying attention after I realized it was Bernie and my own laughter woke me up.

So, what have you guys been dreaming about lately?

Dreaming in Color

2020-04-09T12:28:00.003-04:00

Last night my dream landscape was drawn and partially scripted by Hal Foster. My brain animated it just as it did when I was a little girl and the stories of Prince Valiant in the Days of King Arthur came alive as I sat on my grandfather’s lap and he read them to me.

Prince Valiant was the only thing he ever read that he did not embellish—everything else he read he would make up ridiculous details and try to pass it as what was on the page. This resulted in me demanding learning to read because I knew he was lying to me.

Reading the comic strip was our father/daughter time. I sometimes leaned on his lap and watched as he pointed out the colorful panels. I learned some of my colors that way. Sometimes we’d talk about other things but it always came back to the story. I remember once talking about the cool breeze near the shore and the sounds the waves made and the feel of blades of grass on your feet because someone had made it there in the story and this is how he made it all come to life for me.

During the week, Papi would collect the paper and on Sunday we’d sit to marvel over the pull page panels. I spent hours tracing lines with my fingers and playing in my head the stories he’d read to me. When we had collected a fistful of strips (every other week or so, I guess), he’d cut out the weekday strips and then cut out the full page from the Sunday paper. The larger ones he numbered with the pencil stub he used to markup wood when he did his carpentry.

Then, he’d sprawl on the ground in the backyard with me, with paper and glue paste, and we’d put together my own personal comic books with the strips.

Whatever issues I may have with Joe Watley, this he did right: he instilled my love of reading, comics, and Arthurian legends (and Vikings and dragons and all sorts of cool genre stuff). He also encouraged my childhood fantasies of being a complete publisher (I played at being a roving photojournalist, I did the layout, and then I pedaled like a maniac on my tricycle “selling” my newspaper).

Last night, my dream was a Hal Foster painted panel and I was mesmerized. I’m not sure I’ve existed in a comics panel in a dream before. The details were so familiar and oddly comforting, and I got lost in it. It almost felt like I was looking at a tapestry as I examined the details.

And then, movement and indistinct chatter somewhere in the distance… I looked for the source and found myself inside the comic book panel. Then I saw her walk past me—her white dress and her beautiful, wavy hair flowing in the wind and creating a sort of soft trail as she moved. It took my breath away and I knew exactly where I was!

“Aleta...” I whispered her name.

She turned and smiled at me. Then I woke up. And I’ve had this sense of wonder and of being loved all morning.

In times of stress, dreams can heal. And that, my friends, is spiritual alchemy…

No Person is Lesser. Not One.

2020-02-28T15:37:00.004-05:00

< commence rant >

Earlier this week, heartless assailants shot a young transgender woman to death in Puerto Rico. They literally hunted her down and killed her. They recorded it and posted it on social media, taking hatred, prejudice, and bullying to a whole new level of assholery. (It’s a word and it is damned appropriate here!)

The whole thing is heartbreaking, although there is a ray of hope in the person who, days before her death, approached Alexa and befriended her, listened to her and tried to counsel and offer her some hope. His subsequent interview with David Begnaud both made me cry and feel tremendous admiration for this man, his generosity, and capacity for love and acceptance.

I did not know Alexa, but her passing brought back memories—some awful.

There have been LGBTQ folks in and around my life since I was a child. The nomenclature has evolved, but the important thing is that these are people. They’re just humans. Who you love or how you love, how you identify in terms of gender, none of these things should affect how others live their own lives. I still see no point in attacking people for this. Let people be! Live your life and stop attacking others for not living as you see fit. Mind your damn business! How hard is it to mind your business?!

There have always been gay, bisexual, and drag queens in the family—and they were mostly lovely people. Those who weren’t lovely did not qualify for the “bitchy” label based on their sexuality but strictly based on their actions towards others.

But I have also known plenty of folks outside the family who fall under the rainbow banner. One of my favorite singers of all time lived out as a lesbian for as long as I knew her voice (since early childhood). And when I met her and she embraced me, she did so because we shared a moment and also ideals that were larger than just two women standing under the blue skies. She did not care about my sexuality any more than hers affected me or my own.

In junior high school, I met a young man who’d already been part of the drag world. She was a pageant queen, and she confided in me that one day she wanted to be a real woman. And back then, while scientifically possible, it was an expensive proposition making it a pipe dream for most. Years after I’d left the island and returned on a “secret” vacation, I once went to a restaurant/club of ill repute in San Juan and remember seeing a picture on the wall of one such pageant and I was sure it was Angel finally wearing the crown she sought so fervently. But do you know what I remember most about Angel? She was sweet. And she taught me how to properly apply lipstick and blush. For a brief moment in our lives, she was my friend. Because she was just a person and we connected as people.

In college, while attending the Fashion Institute of Technology, my best friend introduced me to the underbelly of gay culture in New York City. I loved dancing and the girls let me dance unperturbed. Dancing without the constant threat of sexual harassment was liberating and I loved them for letting me be part of the party!

I became friendly with many of the young men and women, but after a while I moved on to new experiences and new circles of friends. But that did not diminish the experience and I was thrilled when I first watched the documentary “Paris is Burning” and recognized some of the people I danced with or saw perform around town (from Better Days to downtown dance clubs and bars), or hung out with… Suddenly on screen, Venus! I remember smiling and thinking of nights hanging out at the pier downtown, where we’d just line up and vogue and laugh and smoke and drink until the sun came up (or the cops made us disperse).

Then there is that horrible scene when we learn that Venus was found, dead--strangled and left under a bed in a sleazy hotel. She always took chances and sometimes she was so damned naïve. When she should have listened to her inner red alert and experience fear, instead she ignored the danger, thinking she could outsmart it, or she'd simply not recognize malice in the eyes of those who sought to hurt her.

Venus deserved better. Alexa deserved better. There have been three decades in between these two young women losing their lives. And we’re still making LGBTQ folks feel inferior and treated as if they were lesser. They are not. They’re just people.

I don’t really have a point. I can scream it until I am hoarse: THEY ARE JUST PEOPLE!

I just wish we could reach a moment in which humanity would lose the need or the inclination to find reasons to hurt each other. Live and let live. Those of you who respect others keep on keeping on. The rest of you, please, just stop being evil. I beg you.

People do not owe you acquiescence. If you believe in God, then let God handle his own children. And if you don’t, let people be: don’t be an ass.

Some days humanity is just exhausting. Right now, I am exhausted.

< /end rant >

Revisiting a Classic Moment

2020-01-30T00:09:00.000-05:00

Working as a freelancer means my commute is out of bed, down the hallway—with one stop in the bathroom and another in the kitchen, and back to the room—sometimes to my home office, depending how “formal” I feel that day. It’s convenient, but I do miss the daily commute. Not getting pushed around and battered by bad manners and awful smells on the train, or stuck in traffic on the bus… no, what I miss is the Only in New York moments.

Looking for something else on the blog, I reread this old entry and it made me laugh.

I won’t be getting on a subway any time soon (or ever, if I can help it) just to witness little episodes like this, but still: what a treasure trove of delightful exchanges my fellow New Yorkers have with each other!

January in National Thank You Month

2020-01-19T17:52:00.002-05:00

January is National Thank You month. Personally, I’d never heard of it, but I find it interesting, especially because it seems like the little niceties that help shape a community—and a civilization—have been eroded in so many ways that they barely exist, except in fiction and poetry.

Gratitude is the acknowledgement that we have certain blessings in our lives, but saying thank you is directly attributing some of these to people who have brought these blessings to our lives, or who have been the very blessing that kept us going. It is about giving credit where it is due and expressing our gratitude simultaneously.

The lucky ones among us will have had the opportunity to thank those people who have meant something to us and our development. Of course, more often than not, those whom we owe the biggest thanks are not obvious recipients of that gratitude until years later.

Perspective is everything, and often we really cannot see the forest for the trees.

We don’t all get that Oscar or Nobel Prize speech moment when we get to take a moment to thank those whose love, support or influence got us to that point. Sometimes, because it may take us years to recognize the very love, support or influence, we are robbed of the opportunity to thank people first hand. People move on, they may be afflicted with dementia in old age, or die and make it impossible to share the moment they deserve.

A proper thank you, in my mind, comes accompanied with a strong handshake or a heartfelt embrace. But we all know that may not be possible, for some of the same reasons already mentioned.

I still think the traditional thank you note is the best way to thank someone for the gift of their time, their attention, their presence. A thank you letter may be more appropriate, especially if you have a lot to be thankful for.

But when distance, absence or death becomes a hurdle, I rely on two methods to express my gratitude: a letter (which will never be sent but whose content needs to be documented for posterity) or I simply imagine a conversation.

As an exercise the imagined conversation becomes a relaxing meditation and an almost palpable reminder of the person who has meant so much to you and your life. Depending on how well you can visualize, the thought of their voice, their smile, the warmth of their touch, their laughter, their guiding hand or example will give you something else to be thankful for: memories.

And as much as I relish my memories, what I’d like to stress out to you today is that you should take a moment every once in a while and reflect on the people in your life (those in the past as well as those in the present), and how they affect your life and your very being. If you recognize an outstanding individual, do not wait… Thank them. Thank them hard and long, respectfully and lovingly. It’s life affirming.

Happy New Year!

2019-12-30T16:39:00.001-05:00

I wanted to finish the year on a good note, so I am leaving you with a little gift... Enjoy!

We wish you all a happy and healthy year full of good fortune and good food.

I Want What Whistler Wanted

2019-12-19T22:45:00.001-05:00

The last few years have become contentious on almost every level of existence. Tribalism has become a way of life. People take sides and firmly stand for their way and no other. Compromise, cooperation, compassion and civility—none of these things seem to be elevated in regular discourse any more, and it is not only in matters of political import. This is infecting all manner of communication.

People are distrustful and cynical. And sometimes it is disheartening and demoralizing. Not always, though. Sometimes it’s a blessing.

I recently had an exchange with a prospective client. They had numerous questions because it was their first foray into self-publishing and hiring freelancers. I tried to answer their questions and guide them through the process, so they’d know what to expect, how long it would take, and the costs associated with several elements of the project.

At the end of over a dozen messages, they went silent for a few days. I followed up. They informed me that they decided to go with a different freelancer. I thanked them for letting me know and wished them luck with their project. My exact words: Thanks for letting me know. Best of luck with your book project, and happy holidays!

I received a message seconds later, in all caps.

>> WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN? WHY “GOOD LUCK”

My response was simple: I meant that I wish you success with your book project and also wish you a happy holiday (whichever you celebrate at this time of year). As I typed my response, another text came through. Also all in caps.

>> YEAH, LIKE WE CANT DO GOOD WITHOUT YOU? IS THAT IT? THATS JUST SOME ARROGANT SHIT

I hit send almost simultaneously as their message popped up on my screen. (Sigh.) I took a deep breath and seriously considered whether to respond or not—it seemed useless to try to reason with this person. But I tried anyway, and wrote: Not at all! I only meant to wish you good fortune with your project.

Their final response was pretty much consistent with their previous messages, only slightly more nuclear:

>> YOU THINK WERE STUPID AND YOUR JUST A CONCEDED BITCH. FUCK YOU!!!!!!

I stared at the message, my inner editor bleeding internally (it was meta-suffering, y’all!). I chuckled and muttered to myself, “Well, bless your heart, I do concede!”

And there you have it: a blessing with an FU attached.

The thought occurred to me that this person may not have been serious about their project or about hiring me. Then the thought occurred to me that I was the fortunate one for not having to work with them—not during the holidays, not as a possible end-of-year project, in fact, not ever.

I’d like to think that I remained professional and dignified during our interaction, but mostly I am grateful that the trash took itself out and left me to have a peaceful and happy holiday. I wish you all the same . . . and good fortune in the coming year. Literally!

I Want Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward Humanity.

Counting my Blessings

2019-11-28T19:09:00.001-05:00

Perspective is everything. Gratitude depends largely on our ability to recognize the blessings in our lives. I don’t mean this in a dogmatic way, I mean literally good people and things one ought to be grateful for; something or someone that bring us joy, the affirmation of life, and well-being . . . that kind of blessing.

I truly believe there is a silver lining to every cloud, though there are times it is so dark you may not see it. But trying to find it is a journey itself and, often, the little push you need to escape the darkness.

We have a lot to be thankful for here at the Temple. We both have our health (relative as that may be, she types as she simultaneously sniffles). We have a roof over our heads and the favor of the kids who have inherited the house and accept and love us as part of their family and home. We have food and all our basic needs are being met.

Having lived through periods when some or all of these things were in flux makes it easier to recognize why it is all a blessing; and we are truly grateful!

We are also thankful for family and friends, both new and old—especially friends who have become family by virtue of their love and support, their loyalty and their wisdom, the laughter and whimsy they being into our lives, and the virtual embrace many offer with no expectations other than to be treated with respect and maybe a little affection. We all need a tribe, and we have a fabulous one. It’s small in numbers but its collective heart is bigger than most nations.

At this point, I’d like to veer into what may sound a little strange, but we are extremely grateful for the Muse of Creativity who visits us in a variety of ways—from Mom’s adorable cookies and candies to my daily sketches. We each enjoy our process immensely, and it brings us an inner peace that is priceless. And we both find that sharing the product of this creativity is a gift in itself and in a myriad of ways (inspiring humor and joy, fantasy and remembrance of joyful moments). This contributes to good mental health, and that is something we all should be thankful for while we have it within our grasp.

For all these wonderful things, this year has not been our best. In the space of less than a year, I have lost both grandmothers. I am both grandma-less and abuela-less, and it sucks in both languages. Intellectually, I had already said my goodbyes to both women, who were both suffering symptoms of dementia—a fate that terrifies me. I knew they each were well-cared for and relatively happy in their own little world (in which I existed as a child or a young woman, in both cases as a studious good girl).

Their fate was inevitable as it is for each of us, and I accept that. I’m all for positive-thinking, but there’s no point in fighting a war you couldn’t possibly win. I tend to pick my battles (though not always wisely, I admit).

Nevertheless, it bears mentioning that I am grateful for having had them both in my life.

I am grateful that I was able to develop a loving and mutually respectful relationship with my paternal grandmother—outside the web of trauma that is my father. She loved me and encouraged me and with her former daughter-in-law we formed quite a trio. I still miss our visits, but know how fortunate I am just retaining the memory of it.

I have been trying to write loving tributes to these two women who were so integral to my life, in different ways but with genuine love. Words fail me, because it’s probably too close to my heart and they both broke my heart a little.

Mami was a large influence in my life since childhood, despite our tug-of-war and push-pull relationship from my pre-teens into my twenties—which gave way to a deeper understanding about true love, and sacrifice, kindness and forgiveness (because I had to forgive her for being only human, as we all have to acknowledge of our all our heroes and authority figures).

In short, (I know: too late!), it is too soon for me to commit to words everything I feel and my deep gratitude for having had both women in my life. I am grateful that Mami ended her days as a centenarian and that she finally had a happy childhood—and this point is important because she was a truly generous soul who made sure all the children in her life (not all her own) experienced the magic of childhood, felt safe and loved and were well cared for. Most of her own childhood lacked all of these components, and no one deserved to experience it more than she did.

Finally, no matter what else may be happening, I am grateful for life itself and the fact that I have things to be grateful for. Happy Thanksgiving!

Why I Will Absolutely Always Love My First Grade Teacher

2019-11-07T18:20:00.000-05:00

I just found out from her niece that my first grade teacher passed away a while back. We used to write each other for some time, but between one thing and another, we stopped doing that. She kept abreast of my life through Mami (my maternal grandmother) and I did the same.

After Mami’s health made it impossible for her to live on her own in my childhood home, my uncle bought her a little house near her sister on the northeastern coast of the island—a couple of hours away. So my connection to the old neighborhood was gone.

I am surprised that I did not see any mention of it on Facebook as I am still friendly with some folks I attended elementary school with (though to be fair, I don’t follow them all and I may have missed it). Of course, it is more likely that I saw it and couldn’t deal with it and just went into instant denial. I do that sometimes where death is concerned…

Mrs. Rosario scared me a little bit when I was little—but I suspect my grandmother had more to do with it than my teacher did. The fact is that she was lovely to me. She did not treat me any differently because I had an Indian first name, an Irish last name, and a Scottish maternal surname. In fact, she let me mentor the New York kids (we got two that year, at different times). She was strict and she did not let me get away with anything—but that’s the way she managed her classroom in general.

She lived six houses away from ours. She used to have a capuchin monkey I used to play volleyball with, along with their youngest daughter who was a year or two younger than I. Her husband was the sweetest man. But I was terrified of him. He was a policeman, and my grandmother—in her infinite wisdom— told me that if I misbehaved the cops would come get me, throw me in the trunk of their car, and only god knows what would happen to me, but I would likely never be seen again. Sometimes, after I was allowed to walk to school by myself, he’d be driving out to take their youngest to school and he, ever the good neighbor, would offer me a ride. I wouldn’t even talk to him. Honestly, I couldn’t! I’d stop on my tracks, back up if he came closer, and vigorously shake my head. Not even a thank you, I did not want to chance being misunderstood.

When I went to Puerto Rico the last time, in 2001, Mami told me Doña Carmen had been asking after me and I should go visit her. I took Mom with me and introduced everybody. We sat chatting for a while, had some beverages, and she brought out some of her poetry notebooks and let me read through them. I was very touched by this gesture.

But the most touching gesture, one I will never forget, came when I was her student. That spring, at Easter, I had an accident. The less said about it, the better. Suffice to say I impaled myself on a fence and was touch and go for about a week, because the doctors were not sure if I was bleeding internally and it was impossible to assess the full damage until the inflammation subsided. Because of this, as well as my kidney problems, the consensus was that they would not transport me to the medical center in San Juan.

At the time, Bayamon did not have a general hospital but we had a dispensary and a maternity ward. Given the choices, they kept me in the maternity ward—which angered the hell out of the head nurse who apparently hated children, but that’s another story.

I was bedridden for weeks and stayed in the ward for about a month or so. They kept me pretty much sedated for the first week. Mrs. Rosario did not want to set me back unless it was absolutely necessary, and she created lessons for me and even came to our house to help me catch up. But before I relearned to walk and was sent back home, my teacher arranged for a field trip for my classmates. They were not allowed in the ward, but she managed to get them downtown and across the street from my hospital room window so they could wave at me.

It was this gesture that ignited a fierce loyalty for the woman, so that when one of older girls started bullying Ivy (Mrs. Rosario’s kid), I told the girl to pick on someone her own size. The girl was way bigger than me and she pushed me, I pushed her back, she back handed me and chipped my tooth. There was blood. And I lost it. I wailed on her ass and it took three adults to get me off her.

The kid and I weren’t really close—though we played with the capuchin together. But I felt sufficient kinship because her mother had shown me extraordinary kindness. Years later, when Mrs. Rosario would watch over her grandson, the boy and I had a courtship that included some loving on my way to school and on my way back (if he was still there).

I know I’m rambling but I am a little broken because I feel guilty that I did not make a bigger effort to try to stay in touch. I am grateful to have had her in my life, and even more grateful that she offered me her trust and friendship as an adult. I hope she knew that I loved her and that she’ll always have a bit of my heart because of what she did for me.

This is How I Play

2019-10-15T18:46:00.001-04:00

When I started sketching again earlier this year (some 250+ sketches ago), and a friend suggested a curvier, more realistic body type for some of these, I gladly added a plus-sized

model. In fact, sometimes it is the plus-girl that gets the hotter, sexier outfits.

I still do the “high fashion” long legged bean poles because that’s just the standard, but the plus-sized sketched are a lot of fun to do.

And it’s not a politically correct thing; it’s simply a practical thing. We have been svelte, we have been curvy, we have been plus sized. Through most of it we were well dressed (or at least Mom was, I sometimes tended towards the Bohemian and it can be argued that this does not fall under “well dressed”).

Many of the sketches are based on clothes we have owned and loved—work clothes, play clothes, party clothes, travel clothes, and leisure wear. It’s funny that so many of the plus-sized sketches are red, but the truth is that in reality most of it was just some shade of black.

Since I last blogged, I managed to write just over 1,000 words in the story (the working title is “Dressing Barbie”). It’s not much but it’s still dancing in my head… Creativity has expanded beyond the kitchen, journal and laptop to a sketchbook and even some crafts projects—something I have not done in a very long time.

Someone asked if I was going to “monetize” my art and the short answer is no. When I started, I was picking up something I loved doing and had not done in many years. My art is for joy not an enterprise. I challenged myself to try to make a sketch a day to see if I could still do it.

There is no commercial value here because its purpose is simply for me to escape for a little bit, and to share a fantasy with a handful or two of folks who are willing to play. It’s not

career path because it never was and it has never been what I wanted.

It’s the same reason I couldn’t be a chef. If it becomes work, it’ll take the joy out of it just as surely as the IRS will take out taxes out of that paycheck.

Am I wasting an opportunity? I have no idea. I doubt it, but it doesn’t really matter. I can’t tell whether my sketches would sell or not, if I put them up for sale. Besides, it ain’t Antonio Lopez quality (I’d pay for that!). I don't really aspire to that kind of refined art. But I like the idea that I still have a lot to learn and eventually will pick up new skills as I play.

While still following Neil Gaiman’s advice to make good art, to me this is just play. Play that soothes my soul, but play nonetheless. That is priceless—because joy!

The long answer is that if I like any sketch enough, I may use as chapter art when the story is finally written (assuming I ever finish it). I’ll share and may publish them here, but all I want is for you to enjoy a trip down memory lane or a moment of whimsy. No cash need exchange hands.

My artwork's legacy, as I see it, is to facilitate good conversation, good memories, or a good fantasy. If I can achieve any of these, for at least a handful of folks, it pays for itself because it is a gift that keeps on giving.

The Wonderful Anarchy of Pursuing Passion

2019-07-06T22:26:00.003-04:00

There is a wonderful anarchy in the pursuing of passions. You need not commit to only one and you may jump from one to another without consequence—other than experiencing joy.

The last time I stopped by here I was waxing poetic about the return of one of my early loves: fashion sketching.

Originally my sketches started as part of my process as I was building up a story about a character that made her living making Barbie clothes. Don’t ask me why this is the one detail I had nailed down about the character. That’s the way it goes sometimes. I still haven’t really fully understood who she is or what her story may be about, but I can tell you that the working title is Dressing Barbie.

And while practicing and rediscovering the skill, a friend suggested that I include sketches for female models that were curvier than that plastic chick. The long-legged, ridiculously proportioned fashion croquis is still part of my daily sketches, now the more realistic and the plus sized sketches are in the majority.

Of course, I now sketch daily for my own enjoyment. These sketches may or may not end up being part of the story. I don’t know yet. But I am truly enjoying is the shared fantasy. With an audience that ranges from the prepubescent to the nonagenarian, reactions to the sketches vary. There are those who pick outfits based on what the drawing alone looks like; but then there’s the evocative nature of the experience, when we are reminded of similar outfits—which in turn, sets each person on their own sentimental journey. Each drawing brings back memories of youth, and love, and freedom, and dance, and travel, and parties, and being!

So far, I find that random features (a collar or a sleeve) that set me off in a particular direction turn out less random than I expected, when I realize that it is a throwback to something I used to own, or something I remember my mother wearing. And because that’s the way I tend to dress myself, sometimes the outfit develops from the shoes or a hairdo.

To my surprise, every once in a while my mother will look at one of my sketches and she’ll remark, “Mami [my grandmother] used to have a dress like that…”

Because my inspiration may borrow from anything from the 1920s to sci-fi, you never know what stories each sketch may evoke.

My sketches will never hang in a gallery somewhere, but that was never the goal. I sketch because it’s my daily meditation, as it were, and it beings me joy. That it also brings joy (or at least the occasional trip down memory lane) to my friends makes it priceless.

Certainly, some days I’ll sketch an outfit I did own, and wore, and whose story I cannot share in public—for reasons—and that tickles me. But if I enjoy my story being recreated in my head sketch by sketch, I also love the fact that my friends are experiencing something similar, and that they can picture themselves in outfits they’ve never had or worn and create a narrative for themselves (a second or a minutes, it doesn’t matter, it’s a creative

journey they take along with me and my sketches).

I wonder if the way to approach the story is to adapt exactly what is happening right now—letting the sketches dictate the narrative. I’m thinking the character (poor girl doesn’t even have a name yet) can use the sketches to communicate—or to facilitate telling her own story or help others tell their story.

I’m in no rush to figure that out; the story will unfold one way or another. In the meantime, I have passions to pursue and sketches to draw, a growing collecting of coloring pencils and markers, and finding joy in improving my skills.

Fashion Sketching Milestones

2019-05-19T17:56:00.001-04:00

I have been doing fashion sketches since I was ten or so. I liked drawing but never had any formal training, nor did I possess the extraordinary talent that naturally flowed from my uncle’s hand.

When I was about three years old, Hillary came to visit and we were watching this tiny frog cross our balcony and then followed it across the front yard. I remember he grabbed a pencil and in a few fluid moves managed to sketch the little frog with amazing dexterity. I wanted that! I desperately wanted to be that good.

Doodling became a hobby of sorts, but fashion sketches were always a joy.

It bears mentioning that my uncle Hillary was a fantastic designer and my grandmother was fairly good at sewing. She tried to teach me but I refused (there were reasons that are not important right now).

As much as I enjoyed immersing myself in fashion magazines, designer collections, and bridal fashions, it was always about fun. It was never about a career choice.

Imagine the confusion—which lasted for years—when I chose to transfer from SUNY-Stony Brook to the Fashion Institute of Technology. Let me illustrate the endless conversation starter:

“Oh, you’re going to FIT. So you’re going to be a fashion designer?”
“No. I’m getting a business degree.”
“So, fashion merchandising?”
“No. My major is advertising and communications.”
“So, why bother to go to FIT at all?”

That conversation was repeated dozens of times during the years covering my associate degree. When I started working on the bachelor, then the conversation deviated at, “No. My major is marketing…” and right back to the misinformed assumptions.

It was never easy to convince folks that there was far more than just “fashion” about FIT. When I brought up the fact that there even was a master’s in museum restoration, the response usually went something like, “For fashion stuff, right?” Oy vey!

I stopped sketching so long ago I’ve forgotten when the last time I picked up a pencil was. When that happened, I still had doodling. But then, stress and total lack of joy zapped the desire to create. Then, of course, the longer I did not do it the rustier and foreign it seemed to me.

Still not sure what clicked or got switched back on in my brain, but I started sketching again, and have been positing my drawings on Facebook for friends. So now, instead of journaling daily, I sketch daily. (I should do both, but as long as I pursue at least one creative outlet regularly, I believe I am feeding my soul.)

The truth is that I have been toying with a story idea for some time now and part of the story involves a character who makes her living making Barbie clothes. I don’t have all the details straight in my head or even outlined yet, but somehow the sketches came to me and that’s what I have.

Somewhere along the line, someone wanted sketches for curvier folks (and I started mixing and matching the real women croquis with the long leg beanpoles).

I was thinking of using some of these as chapter banner art (or maybe it’ll be a whole page announcing each new chapter, I don’t know). A friend suggested an illustrated story using the sketches—maybe something geared towards the middle school crowd. I’m not convinced that the sketches are quite that good, but then perhaps the very amateurish nature of the sketches can become an integral part of the storytelling… and maybe even an excuse to actually post something to Instagram, but I make no promises on that account.

Not sure where this is headed, but I am having a great time rediscovering lines and color and getting lost in the process. I am enjoying thinking about how fabric flows, and that alone brings me joy.

Until I get a better idea of where the story is going, who the heroine in the story truly is and what her journey might be, I’ll just share my little drawings and hope each sketch has an element of spark that will remind those who see it of a time or place or an event and how they felt just then.

Who knows? Maybe that’s the thread I am looking for: stories about the emotional side of fashion. And make no mistake, there is an emotional component in fashion—from mood enhancing designs to very personal histories of people and their own fashions (not only because fashion is a form of self-expression, but because it is also pinpoints specific eras and milestones).

At any rate, as I approach my 100^th sketch—and the 25^th anniversary of my graduation from FIT—fashion is very much on my heart and mind. And I welcome its return to my days and remembrance of good times!

If you’d like to help me practice the skill and hone my craft, I will consider requests and challenges…

Friendship in the Digital Age

2019-04-20T16:08:00.002-04:00

This is the longest I have gone without writing on the blog since I started back in 2005. I tend to interact with those who follow my writings here almost on a weekly basis in other ways, so it’s not like I have completely abandoned you. But it does feel like I’ve abandoned myself. So perhaps it is time to fulfill my need to write and give this blog thing another go…

This weekend as a good number of folks celebrate Holy Week and Easter, the joys of spring, or Passover, I find myself mourning a friend who has passed away unexpectedly.

He was part of my every day and he injected art and music and haikus and striking photographs and images, as well as his own witticisms. And the memories he invoked were the stuff of love and life and laughter!

Here’s the thing, though. I did not know this man beyond a Facebook friendship. He was a friend of a friend (whom I have never met either but who has been in my life for two decades).

So for the third time this past year, I find myself mourning someone I’ve never met. Not that having been in the same room with another human being is all that is required to mourn their passing.

And this is universal in that we all mourn the passing of artists and writers, actors and singers—mostly because their work has had some emotional resonance in our lives or has marked landmark moments in it.

This set me thinking about all the people that I have maintained relationships with over the years, long distance as it were—from the pen pals of my childhood to the information age equivalents…

And there is an equivalency even if we are not sharing letters written in long hand. The difference is that we no longer have to sit and wait for the mail carrier to deliver word; we now can get answers faster. In the earlier days of the internet it took hours to a few days to get an e-mail back. Then chatroom emerged and you could have instant conversations with a relatively short lag. And now we have several forms of social media and instant messaging (from text to video calls) that make time and distance irrelevant.

But just as in the heyday of the ‘zine scene, we share our own art and found art and communicate in a myriad of ways simply to connect with other people in a way that resonates. Friendships do not require a physical presence. That’s what marriages are for, I suppose.

I became an online pen pal to a youngster from Bulgaria over 20 years ago, and have witnessed from afar how he’s developed into a doctor and a formidable young man. We’re not tight, but we’re still friendly and he is still in my life, even if only virtually.

The core of my online friends came from one particular group I belonged to in the ‘90's and the ones I interacted with most heavily are still part of my life. I have only met a handful of them in person, but they are all part of my chosen family now.

I’ve been online long enough to have “met” a gentleman decades ago when I was starting some genealogy project I never finished and have now become friends with some of his grand kids (just by coincidence because we did not stay in touch after I left AOL).

My old pen pals, none of those remain because we all went separate ways (finding new interests, moving, refocusing our passions, etc.). New media makes it easier because there are so many ways to connect.

This doesn’t mean that tacking a “friend” label or “following” someone on one of many virtual platforms will make you actually connect at a deeper level. For that you must communicate, truly share ideas and memories and values. You need to feed each other’s hearts, minds and souls with words, images, sounds, and deeds. Friendship, in order to become a beautiful thing, requires grooming and maintenance. But whatever way you get there, once someone becomes you friend, the have a semi-permanent spot in your heart.

Losing a friend, even a virtual one, means that spot becomes a tiny wave of sadness and nostalgia and regret and joy all bundled up in one neat package. But that little wave also contains memories of interactions that included laughter and strong words, and other memories that now are tied together to remind you of your friendship.

All relationships are temporary because life is finite, but all friendships make you a better person for as long as you live. So I thank the universe for setting these folks in my path and mourn that I wasn’t allowed to spend a little more time with them.

TL;DR: whether virtual or physical, cherish your friends and honor your connection. In a vast universe, those you pass through your life on their own journeys do not get there by accident, and those who truly matter will leave their mark no matter how brief their stay.

Despite our Huge Economic Boom (the biggest in history)

2018-11-17T20:09:00.000-05:00

This past year saw a number of relatively horrific floods, hurricanes, nor’easters, tornadoes, mud slides, fires, and even a volcano eruption. On any given day some 60,000 families with children are homeless. In 2018, that number has probably tripled if not quadrupled.

That means that the holidays are going to be really tough for some people. This isn’t a political post, but do spare me the BS story that we’ve never been this flushed in the history of the republic.

If you can give a little, please contribute to your local food banks and pantries, and soup kitchens. Use these resources to locate the closest organizations helping in your area: Feeding America, Ample Harvest, and/or Food Pantries.

The purpose of this post, though, is to suggest you consider becoming Santa’s helper because this year there will be a lot more needy children whose families have very few resources.

Check out local campaigns collecting for Toys for Tots—the Marine Corps program that collects and distributes toys for children. You can donate a toy, host an event, or volunteer.

The USPS Operation Santa allows you to “adopt” a letter to Santa and help children (some ask for toys, others ask for clothes, boots…). Visit the Operation Santa website and check the Local Programs for instructions for individuals and for corporations (if you want to do an office-wide giving program).

If you prefer, there is also a digital version of Operation Santa, called Deliver Cheer—starting on December 3 you may visit the site and adopt a child’s letter.

Even if we can’t find ways to be civil towards each other, can we agree that it is worth the effort to give some children a little magic this holiday season?

Word Play Seduction?

2018-11-11T14:50:00.001-05:00

“Hey, baby!”

I don’t particularly like being called that (my own mother rarely calls me that and I am her baby). So when I see this on social media, I know it’s a stranger addressing me. I find it insulting, frankly. But whatever! what follows is usually some comment on how hot I am (even if all I have posted as an avatar is a cartoon). That little detail never really matters, apparently.

It always makes me wonder what kind of idiot thinks that works? And yet, it keeps happening, so they must be successful to some degree.

I don’t find this happening as much on Facebook because I’ve locked up my account relatively tight. If a friend of a friend contacts me, I actually vet them. I have a stricter vetting system than the White House!

The fact remains that in almost every platform within social media, at any given point, some strange man will try to pick up a woman. And in the most hilariously stupid ways, at that…

More than once and from several of my female friends I have heard the complaint. These days, or rather in the last couple of years, the problem has become more prominent on the game Words with Friends--and I'd like to thank Zynga, their parent company, for not offering the option of uploading photos to their chat feature. If they did, I suspect this would be the usual opening line (more or less):

What exactly is it about words that make these men so damn horny?

Ah, but of course, it’s not the art of working lexicon but the mask of relative anonymity that social media affords. What isn’t clear to me, or any of the women who get hit on while playing the game, is what could these men hope to accomplish? They seem to be looking for romantic entanglements, but appear not to understand the art of seduction.

“Hey, baby!” cannot be your opening line. And if that was the extent of it, it wouldn’t be so bad, but some are brazen enough to go straight into what they’d like to do to you (which is awkward, at best, in any relationship that isn’t intimate). Not that they ever ascend to the level of good erotica either! It always reads like some scenario borrowed from a teenage fantasy conjured by a virgin who spied 30 seconds of porn on the Internet.

None of it is worth keeping or even repeating (I recommend blocking them and letting it go). I have learned to ignore them, just as I learned to ignore the catcalls on the street since I was about 12. The only thing these oversexed players inspire in me is the desire to beat them so thoroughly they are embarrassed to be in my virtual presence and go away with a limp, as it were.

Usually they go away after three tries—which is good because you do get a bonus after three rounds, so they are not completely useless in-game.

As recently as last summer, there was a piece on the Daily Mail about what they termed a “lonely middle-aged woman” getting scammed. And while I don’t generally give the DM any credence, there was one quote I found interesting: “Social media has overtaken online dating sites as the most common way for dating and romance scammers to contact potential victims.” Of course, I assume these folks have more finesse than the trolls I (or my female cousins or friends) have encountered.

A cursory online search will show signs that this has been prevalent in the game, going back to 2012. I am not saying that every person who begins a conversation on WWF is a scammer or plain scum. My playing partners tend to be female, but I have played a few men not in my immediate circle of family or friends who have never tried to phish me or get into my virtual panties.

I have been playing with one man I do not know for a couple of years and I did not share a single word with him until this summer when I alerted all my regulars that I was going to the hospital and may not be around for a while. These players have become regulars because I love their moves on the board. Some of them beat me daily, and resolutely, but they are clever and I enjoy a clever game regardless of scores or outcomes. I don't usually play to win, I play because I enjoy clever word play (I'll put down tiles that yield 4 points if I can create a palindrome in a corner just because it amuses me; some days I will play themes such as food, clothes, pets, Latin, French). I used to try to impress with obscure words, but the chance to put one down is rare and the point value is hardly worth the effort. Though, I will throw in a good science word where I remember to spell it!

So for those trolls who like to start games and go in for the “Hey, baby!” (or the more sophisticated "Sexy lady!") as soon as I accept a game invitation from them, BEAT ME OR BITE ME. I just want to play, man!

I Heart Trader Joe's Hard

2018-09-27T19:52:00.000-04:00

Today we trekked to Downtown Brooklyn and spent a couple of glorious hours at Trader Joe’s. Not only was it a fun excursion, it was, as it always is, pure joy to shop there. The staff is always helpful and friendly. I cannot praise them enough in that regard.

Succulents in sugar skull planters at Trader Joe's today!

But customer service aside, we shop there because they have a great variety of products that make us drool (ladies drool sometimes, shut up!). The prices are not prohibitive—at least I find most of the prices to be relatively reasonable.

Now, we had to make some concessions to accommodate the new diet (heart healthy, low sodium, fewer carbs, with some eye towards calorie intake as well). As I’ve said before, these standards do not mean that we give up on taste or flavor, and it doesn’t mean that eating becomes a joyless activity. The opposite, in fact!

The challenge is to make eating nutritious and tasty and a fun activity while also meeting the new realities (I need to lose some weight and we need to meet the restrictions or considerations already mentioned). And if you know us, you know that it is absolutely possible.

Breakfast

We got egg whites (they only had pints, which should last me a for a bit since Mom doesn’t really do eggs in the mornings so it’s just for me).

To replace my New York bagels, we got the house multigrain “rustico” bread. (We actually had a sandwich after we came home and used the bread, it is a great replacement.)

For more details:

https://flavorpalooza.com/trader-joes-soft-multigrain-rustico-bread/

We settled on the mixed nut butter based on friends' and the TJ’s staff recommendations. We added a pumpkin butter (which, if it doesn’t work for me will end up in Halloween cookies-so win-win).

For an interesting review: https://www.epicurious.com/expert-advice/trader-joes-mixed-nut-butter-article

Finally, I got my favorite trail mix (with a variety of nuts, dried fruit, and yogurt chips). And while I don’t generally eat cereal, I did get a box of their clusters of Very Berry – which will end up in yogurt (my take on parfait).

Condiments

We replaced our lemon pepper seasoning (with grinder), and added their “21 Seasoning Salute”—and this variety maintains a fantastic palate of flavors that make foods taste great even if you eliminate salt from some items.

Trader Joe's 21 seasoning salute is a smooth blend of onion, black pepper, celery seed, cayenne pepper, parsley, basil, marjoram, bay leaf, oregano, thyme, savory, rosemary, cumin, mustard, coriander, garlic, carrot, orange peel, tomato, lemon juice...

Of course, we picked up a roasted garlic hummus, because hummus; and a pesto, because pesto is awesome; and a garlic mustard aioli sauce because sandwiches (and burgers) have the right to being ridiculously delicious too!

Lunch/Dinner

For dinner tonight, we got a bowl of the cut up stir-fry vegetables (the Asian version with includes onions, broccoli, mushrooms, baby corn, carrots, water chestnuts); and that will be paired with the TJ’s s frozen seafood medley.

We got a whole wheat fusilli. We also brought home a holiday pasta, the fall zucchette, a “pumpkin shaped pasta that derives its orange hue from paprika.” And because we are allowed a treat every once in a while, we got lobster ravioli, too!

There is a bag of steamed lentils in the fridge as well as a bag of colorful, tiny bell peppers, and there will be a lentil salad in our future.

Our seafood treasure is fantastic. We got both mahi mahi as well as salmon burgers. We got wild caught crab (for another fantastic salad).

Halloween & Other Treats

The Trader Joe’s Halloween gummies are fruity and delicious and come in fun shapes (a jack o-lantern, bat, skull, and pumpkin-shaped). These gummies will become adornments to lollipops.

And for Mom’s fun endeavors we got chocolate-covered sunflower seeds, candy-coated drops, Speculoos cookie butter, semi sweet chocolate chips, and tahini (WeekendChef: Honey and Tahini Cookies http://bit.ly/2CRqdxF #KaliFoodGoddess).

There is a place for special treats, and even sweets, in our lifestyle – though in moderation and not often. We got chocolate covered fruit medley, one of my favorites; and a new offering, maple sugar candies.

[Update: I forgot the pumpkin pie spice! Mom's year's supply of pumpkin spice was replenished.]

I heard in the news that Americans will remember today for decades to come, and I tend to agree. We mastered the art of delicious bounty.

Vulcan Nerve Pinch: Reboot!

2018-07-13T19:29:00.003-04:00

I have not been writing for the blog in ages. That was not the plan. But then, I had very little material.

Sometimes you ride life. Sometimes it rides you. I was doing neither for a bit, more being a reluctant witness to the passage of time. For whatever reason[s] I took a detour somewhere: I checked out, if only partially from truly living and isolated myself atop our little house. I functioned and kept the household going, and I kept working but it has not been the healthiest of existences.

Yadda-yadda-yadda, I found myself with what I thought was the beginning of a summer cold that suddenly turned on me and knew it couldn’t be a cold. Then things got ugly. Fast.

We made it to the hospital, but once at its doors, I could not make it in on my own. Poor Mom had to drag herself on her bad knee up a ramp and get someone to come get me. A burly man ran me up on a really comfortable wheelchair.

My breathing was shallow and apparently my skin took on an industrial gray color, like the carriage on my laptop. They quickly rolled me into the emergency room, where about a dozen nurses and doctors descended on me with amazing efficacy.

It (the swarm) looks different from a supine position than it does on TV medical dramas.

The room was a tiny alcove and Mom, who followed closely and sat a few feet away, said it looked like a reversed clown car at the circus—people kept going in and she wasn’t sure how on earth they could work shoulder-to-shoulder, as it were. And then they started bringing in equipment!

The first distinct question I remember as they set me down was, “Can I cut this off you?” as an intern held some scissors and grabbed my brand new shirt and another young elvish person held wires to attach to my chest. “I just got this!” There was the tiniest pause and she asked, “Can you take it off?” And I did, breathelessly. We’re not animals.

[At this point, Mom reminds me, “Seriously, only you and Kevin Smith… but at least you didn’t call it your lucky shirt!]

For the record, Kevin had the heart attack, not me.

We just had similar shirt stories.

I heard the words, “Have you ever been intubated?” And I panicked, but there was none of that, they just put a mask on to help me breathe. I also heard the words “heart failure,” but I was determined that whatever this moment was, failure was not an option.

About seven days in the hospital later, I feel refreshed. The universe applied the Vulcan nerve pitch and rebooted me. (My nerds will get it.)

New purpose, new plans, new adventures, new opportunities… The short story (too late) was a bout of pneumonia. The ongoing thing now is determining if the enlarged heart was caused by the pneumonia or other issues. And if issues arise, we will deal with them, but it’s not my time yet. You’ll have to put up with my silly humor, sarcasm, and obsessions for a while longer.

The truly important part, past getting better relatively quickly is that I am feeling like myself in ways I haven’t in a very long time. Apparently all the universe had to do was turn me off and back on quickly. And I appreciate the off switch was only a nanosecond long and I am here to enjoy the aftermath.

The brain thinks it is perfectly okay, but the body will take a little while to adjust. I now rearrange and redefine my life to live it to its fullest. There might be more sensible recipes on the food blog, because that is what I am into at the moment. There may be stories of struggle and loss in the writing blog, because I witnessed some and it bears telling. Do not expect a blow-by-blow of medical appointments on this blog, because that's just not interesting--but do expect new stories of everyday living in color and in stereo.

I got a warning because I went off course for a bit. I am back on the path. There rest is going to be fun (I can feel it)! I hope you’ll come along for the rest of this journey.

Like a tiny Latina phoenix rising

(and dancing, because if we must rise, we might as well dance!)

Preserving Memories in Pink

2018-04-27T02:17:00.001-04:00

Mom has been collecting pink Depression Era glass since the 1970s. Our everyday “china” is actually pink glass as are our wine glasses.

Her collection goes beyond the kitchen too. We have a small vanity in the bathroom, and on it lay a pink glass tray with a few perfume bottles and a couple powder jar containers. Each piece is lovely and some are adorable, from soft and sweet to sexy, exciting art deco lines and curves.

At no point will you see either of us on an “Antiques Roadshow” giving the camera a shocked look and exclaiming, “Oh my gawd! We’re heiresses!!!” It’s not necessarily a valuable collection.

Its real value, beyond financial or insurance, is sentimental. It took years to acquire these pieces and complete parts of the collection. Most of it has survived at least 5 moves, 1 major breakup, the end of 1 life-changing friendship, the death of a major love...

Each piece, as each song in our hearts, points to a specific time and a very specific experience. A memory attached to whatever sentiment ruled the moment. Remember always that even little things have stories we don't know and may never learn.

We don’t do antiquing nor do we conspicuously shop as we used to. And that’s fine. We do not need a lot of things and we are considerably poorer than we used to be. It’s not a lamentation but a reality, and we live with it in perfect peace.

Last week, Mom placed a sweater on the vanity for a moment. As she went to retrieve it – as she had done thousands of times before – she grabbed it and pulled one of the jars with it. It landed on the tiled floor and made a horrendous racquet—the high ceiling on the railroad hallway made it echo.

There are few sounds that cause me to cringe more than glass breaking (and if you’ve ever stepped into glass and had to have minor surgery to remove said glass from foot, you’d understand). The scar on my foot still stings on humid days, reminding me for the rest of my life about the incident and its aftermath.

I waited all of 3 seconds and sprang like a pop tart, ran down the hall and found Mom picking up the pieces. She was being stoic.

“It’s just a thing,” she said. “Things break.”

She said nothing else, but I could see the memories washing through her, the sadness that overtook her otherwise bright eyes. That piece must have been special in a way that asserted something else. She didn’t say, and I don't need to know the details that broke her heart about losing this specific piece, but I knew it needed to be replaced.

To her, though, it was already lost and she would mourn it in this very moment and let it go. She did not see a way around that reality. But I know there’s eBay and Etsy and other possibilities. My cup of tea is to defy reality when I can.

I could have held it up for a couple of weeks and given it to her as a Mother’s Day gift, but I never do that. Here every day is mother’s day! We don't wait to celebrate Mom. She is Queen every moment of every day for as long as the universe lets me have her.

She was so happy. She held the piece, lovingly to her heart, and smiled. She put it down, carefully, and hugged me, kissed me. We're huggers, so that was not a shock, but she was surprised and thrilled and it was adorable! She placed the piece where it belonged and she looked at it, memories she did not share washing over her and filling her back up—but this time she walked away pleased rather than circumspect.

If I can preserve some joy in her life, I am doing my job. And I know she did not need the thing itself, it’s only a visual cue to memories. But memories sustain us just as much as they help shape and define us. Some memories haunt us, but we should try to sooth those away and nurture the others.

Mourning, Babbling, Remembering, Honoring

2018-03-06T16:39:00.000-05:00

I think of 2011 as a landmark year. I was still getting used to life without sleep apnea and my body was slowly returning to what it had once considered normal. I wasn’t there yet, but I was on my way. My job was both awesome and a nightmare because politics and my stubborn inability to subjugate myself to curry the dishonest promise of favor at the expense of others. It was a cold spring day when I was stripped of my title, my position, and whatever security came with the job.

That moment also marked my liberty and a new life in many ways. I reconnected with friends and I made new friends. I formed a new tribe and was incorporated into many that have lasted a better part of this decade—lovingly tendered by witty, charming, beautiful and lovely people who have been my anchor and support during this century and added to the backbone of strong relationships I carried over from the last century.

A friend of a friend introduced me to a gentleman whom I referred to as Sir Saucy and who listed me as his niece on his FB page. Sadly, we never met. But through him I befriended another man whose facility with language and humor was extraordinary. He could turn a phrase into either the most fascinating morsel, a heartbreaking piece of pure poetry, or a pun that sent me into fits of face palming (a ritual we repeated quite often).

Gary was funny and charming, passionate and compassionate. He understood the true meaning of friendship, but seemed so sweetly surprised that so many of us loved his presence in our lives. He loved his creatures (furry and feathered) and his stories about his dogs were delightful and quite memorable. He was a better writer than I’ll ever be, and yet he was incredibly supportive of my efforts. He cheered me on like I deserved literary prizes.

He made me cry a couple of times (the first time when I read his story about the little girl in the car crash) and this week.

We had this recurring bit about spiders (he loved them and I prefer a planet where they can all go hang out and I don’t have to see them) and something about shopping carts/trolleys. We loved to talk food. We shared the odd ukulele video and sometimes communicated only in Spanish, because we could and it seemed funnier en español.

And although I begged everyone not to encourage it, I admit to feeding him some of his puns… Oh, and we loved a clever bit of graffiti – colorful and tongue-in-cheek pieces of urban art. We played Words with Friends together.

And we shared our love of puppies big and small. And stews? Did I mention we shared a love of stews? He introduced me to his favorite musical comedy acts and we shared some affinity regarding some writers and other forms of entertainment. And, well, there was so much more to him and on some of it we were sympatico and some of it not.

Gaz made me laugh almost daily and I appreciate that immensely because laughter, to me, is a gift.

There were deeper conversations but never a cross word (not even on the one thing we disagreed on and I had to concede begrudgingly because it was about his dignity and choice and a personal ethic I could not fight).

He was accident prone, sometimes to hilarious consequences, though at times I wished he had adult supervision!

We never met. I don’t think we were meant to. He was meant to be in my life exactly this long and no more. I feel cheated of a year where his health robbed me of his wit and his silliness for some time. I learned from him and I will miss him.

On his FB page, Gaz is listed as Sir Saucy's (Roy Saunders’) husband, and from them I inherited a larger group of lovely people, so the gift continues. He had a great eye for beauty and I’d “steal” one of his photos for Halloween every year—and always wanted us to join forces to create cover art from his thousands of photos! That’ll never happen now. I kept trying to convince him to write another book, but that is never going to happen either because we lost him.

There will never be another like him and as much as I’ve written here, I doubt the right words spilled out. He was special and I am glad I found myself on the same path; that we traveled on our journey together for a moment; and that he considered me his friend too.

[All photos on this post, except his own image, stolen from Gaz Hunter.

And if he has a problem with that, then stop on by for just one more minute...]

Chasing the Muse and Outsourcing the Pain

2017-12-06T03:49:00.000-05:00

Last year at around this time, I was fully immersed in proofreading and editing a couple dozen essays with a hook about alcoholism. The process took about a week and it had my full focus: long days packed with nothing but this project. Hours upon hours (in the double digits daily) fully immersed in writing about alcohol and alcoholics…

When the Santa crawl happened last year and there was a news item in one of the local papers about it and a downtown bar called “The Thirteenth Step” Mom got a big laugh because I missed the reference altogether. I wrote about it here.

I returned to the project briefly to format the paperback. Depending on how the client feels about it, I may be involved in a step or two beyond the work already submitted.

This year, the second reference to AA came not wrapped with holiday cheer but with a 21^st century twist.

I was going through advertised projects to determine which I would bid on, and there was one that stopped me on my tracks. Someone was outsourcing the ninth step!

For those not familiar with Alcoholics Anonymous, the ninth step is the one where alcoholics make amends to those they have hurt. This person, having determined they had no time for it, decided to find a freelancer to write apology letters for them instead of taking personal responsibility for it themselves.

On the one hand, a good writer might deliver an articulate apology; but will it have the emotional breakthrough one expects of a personal apology? I'll never know. I did not bid on the project.

At least there is a chance these apologies will be delivered to those affected, and perhaps we should all be thankful that we are not living in 1980 because this alcoholic might have chosen “The Apology Line” as a one-stop repository for Step Nine.

So I spent a relatively stable year anchored (and somewhat flanked) by literary, if not exactly literal forms of alcoholism. It sounds all rock and roll, but it feels a little different in the twenty-first century than it did in the twentieth… My life is less “I am with the band” and more “Brought to you by the Philip K. Dick Theatre”—it all seems almost real, doesn’t it? But it can’t be!

Meanwhile, our emergency Jameson has doubled in size. Just in case.

One More Thing Maria Took From Us

2017-11-10T02:23:00.002-05:00

I was always aware my maternal grandmother had a younger sister but was not exposed to her much throughout my childhood. Mostly her name would come up when the middle sister would bitch to my grandmother about their younger sibling, and Mami would try to reason with her to "be kind." The first time baby sister came to visit our home in Puerto Rico, she came with her second husband, José “Chen” León.

He was thin, lanky and had an easygoing persona. His skin was the color of cane sugar. He was gentle and polite. I liked him instantly because he was sweet, and he looked like my Cantinflas string puppet and I loved that damned thing.

Their first visit was also their last to our home, and on their way out they took my great grandmother and broke my heart. Poor Chen ended up in the middle of a war no one could ever win, but still he tried so hard to mediate a lasting peace.

A lot more happened that serves no purpose repeating here. Suffice to say that he welcomed my great grandmother to his home, just as he welcomed his sister in law and me shortly after. We lived with them for a limited time, crammed into a two-family home full of chaos, until my grandmother decided that we ought to return home. For the third time in my short life I was being separated from my great grandmother, again, and I was not happy, but Chen made it very clear to me that we were family and I was always welcomed in his home—no matter what else was happening.

Just as he promised, we were always welcome in their home in Jersey City and then their home in Luquillo, Puerto Rico with the same love as ever. And while I did not always love my blood relatives or being near them, when I am sick and feverish, my dreams take me through this temporary home because there was some comfort being there, and tío was a big part of it.

My great aunt took in foster kids and they even adopted one of the girls. The house was always full of kids and laughter, screaming, running and mayhem. Chen was the glue that kept it all together. He was the magnetic force full of love at the core of it.

And that is what defined him: he was a family man. He was, above everything else, a good man.

Born in Mayagüez, on the west coast of Puerto Rico, he made his way up north to los Nuyores looking for work. For years he worked in a factory that made women’s purses. He liked a cold beer and a tiny shot of good Puerto Rican rum. He liked to laugh and he loved his island in the way only someone who grew up there can—fiercely. And much like the land from where he came, he was both humble and generous.

He believed in God. Although I left the Church shortly after I met him (through unrelated circumstances) he was still “tío” (uncle) to me. He was not a judgmental kind of Christian. He saw value in everyone or tried to. He was forgiving and he was not afraid to show his emotions. He personified quiet dignity.

He loved and respected my great grandmother and my grandmother. This was and is very important to me. He treated my Mom and me with the same love and respect.

It is a great solace to remember that I had an excellent, living example of a gentleman in my life.

Sadly, his health had declined in the last few years especially since my great aunt passed. When hurricane Irma hit he was already delicate. When hurricane Maria was about to hit the island, the decision was made to hospitalize him – he needed constant care and oxygen. And so Maria takes yet one more thing from us!

I don’t know the details nor do I need them. He was fragile and now he is gone. I am saddened that I will not have another easy conversation, share a 'palito' or a laugh, go on a walk and get an ice cream cone or a piragua, or sit quietly in the balcony some cool night listening to the coquíes singing their little hearts out and watching the stars. I do know I was blessed to have him in our lives when he came into it, and that he was good to me and all my matriarchs.

So, for the last time: Bendición, tío…

Saying Goodbye to a Formidable Woman

2017-10-15T04:05:00.002-04:00

Puerto Rican Mother and Child, Alice Schille

I met Doña Aida on February 7, 1982. I know because the day merited an entry on my diary. Rereading it I seem to remember details that aren’t written, but the emotional resonance of that day still rings deep within.

It was a complicated year for me but Mily was the saving grace in my life (even on the two or three times we were at odds). She balanced the sadness and frustration I lived daily. And then on February 7th at the top of the journal entry these words:

“Relato noticioso: me divertí de vicio.” (News flash: I had a good time.)

According to my diary I spent over an hour with Mily, Pily, and their nephew (whom I remember as being the cutest little boy I had ever met, until I met Mily’s youngest years later and he totally stole my heart).

Here’s my first impression of Aida: “La mamá de Mily es tan seria que le tengo respeto (bueno, terror pero ya estoy grandecita como para poder decirlo así porque sí).” ("Mily's mom is so serious that I have respect for her (well, she terrifies me but I'm a big girl so I shouldn’t go around saying that just because.")

But she was just on Mom Mode. She wanted to make it clear that she was the Authority and as long as we were all good, everything would be fine. And to be honest, my so-called terror left my body the moment she offered me a sandwich!

She welcomed me to her home and accepted me as part of her extended clan by way of her daughters.

The last time I saw her was when I spent a magical weekend with Mily and Gury and their boys in Orlando. Aida was still an imposing woman, and still a little scary but only for a few seconds, and then we were able to interact as adults. She was funny and vibrant, sassy and adventurous. That was a revelation to me. But then I realized she’d always treated me the same way. It was my perception of her that changed, and my access to her as a woman rather than just an authority figure.

Doña Aida was a formidable woman in her own right, but she’ll always have my respect and affection because she brought into the world two of my favorite women—who have been a blessing since the moment they came into my life.

Sadly, she passed on October 13, and she will be sorely missed by many whose lives she filled with love, joy, and companionship. I don’t know where we go when we die, but her presence lingers in what she left behind, and her legacy is as awesome as she was. I call that a triumph; and I am glad I met her, no matter how briefly.

Rest in peace, Doña Aida, and thank you for everything (including that delicious cheese sandwich).

DONATE. VOLUNTEER. HELP.

2017-09-26T21:50:00.001-04:00

The last few weeks of summer went from their easy, festive norm to a horror show as the Caribbean and the panhandle got hit with powerful storms (category 5 hurricanes that devastated almost everything in their path).

I watched the news and the timelines of friends and family as storm after storm battered the US Virgin Islands too. I tried to make out the places I’d visited in St. Thomas and St. Croix, and poor St. John, and mourned quietly.

Visions of the aftermath in Barbuda will haunt me forever. And then, for good measure, Mexico got hit by two large earthquakes from which they are still trying to come out under. It has been overwhelming.

Part of my heart belongs to Puerto Rico because I spent a better part of my childhood there. I do have mixed feelings about my life there for a variety of reasons, but when I need comfort food, I make Puerto Rican food. Music from my little island—from salsa to bomba to strumming of a cuatro--always lifts me up. Hearing the playful sing-song of the Spanish language as spoken by a Boricua fills my heart with glee. And when I am sick and feverish, it is Puerto Rico where my dreams take me because that is where my happy place resides.

I’ll always have my memories and these will have to do because I do not know they can put my little island back together again any time soon. There are thousands of people left homeless and there are no temporary housing facilities for them. It will take months, possibly years, to repair the infrastructure. Millions have no electricity or water, and while help is on its way, lack of proper emergency management finds the island in the ridiculous position of having thousands of containers full of food and water ready to go and no trucks or gas for local truckers to deliver them—not to mention that not all roads are passable and as many were affected by the storm, businesses may be slow to reopen to receive said shipments… And that is not taking into consideration that hurricane season is not over yet nor is the rainy season and that deadly flash floods and mud slides are still possible.

All this pains me because I have loved ones in the island. All this pains me because my beloved island is broken and there is nothing I can do to fix it.

I am trying desperately not to politicize or editorialize, so I’ll end this with a list of vetted charities and organizations that will offer help on the ground to victims. Find a way to support our human family in Mexico, Puerto Rico and the US Virgin Islands: donate, volunteer, help in any way you can. I thank you on their behalf. (And if you are a little tapped out right now, consider giving to Habitat for Humanity in the near future so they can help in the rebuilding.)

21 US Virgin Island Relief Fund (Tim Duncan’s Fund)

All Hands Volunteers

Americares

Catholic Charities

Community Foundation of the Virgin Islands

Direct Relief

Global Giving

Heart To Heart International (medical aid)

Helping Hand for Relief and Development (assist earthquake victims and communities)

ICF/International Community Foundation (earthquake relief)

International Medical Corps

Operation Rebuild the Virgin Islands (check FB page to get involved)

Save the Children

UNICEF (relief for children and families)

United for Puerto Rico (spearheaded by the island’s First Lady)

Genealogy and Identity

2017-09-15T19:31:00.001-04:00

Immersing yourself into a genealogy adventure is like a sweet drug. It has no side effects, thankfully, other than robbing you of tons of time spent on research and daydreams.

The last time I went into the deep was 2011. And it was exhilarating!

I’d love to do one of those DNA tests. It would fill out a world map with the places my ancestors have touched down, as it were. And if family legend bears science, it should include Africa, western and northern Europe, India, China, and the Americas. It may also identify relatives we don’t yet know. I do, however, find the idea of voluntarily handing DNA without safeguarding who gets to look at it and what they do with it a little suspect. Nevertheless, when I have cash to play with, I will probably do it.

In the end, personal and family history is everything! The idea of expanding the puzzle of our own beginnings is exciting and maybe even romantic.

It is hit with ugly realities where slavery truncates it. Some Americans seem to have overcome the idea of filling branches with the solace of knowing where their people came from, and learning and adopting new cultural ideas related to their new identities.

(AP photo/Bill Haber)

Then there is the fact that as time passes, space and silence meet generation after generation, and you lose part of the narrative of who you are by way of who you were. The search is unpredictable, though. Family secrets may spill out. Scandals may come to light. Lies may be freed from the ties that bind them. The excitement may turn to mortification quickly.

The search for genealogy is a search for truth, an exploration of our own origin stories. The search for identity is about our ultimate truth. You can relabel and redefine, I suppose, but origin is—there is no dressing that up or down.

I have known my whole life that I am the product of several generations of interracial marriages on both sides of my family. But I have grown up in a world where it has gradually become less taboo and more commonplace. It is still not accepted by some, because clearly racism still exists and we’ve seen it rear its ugly head back into the light without sheets on its head.

In my mind, where family was concerned, there was always a mixed child or generation. I suppose they lived on the edge, carefully straddling the line between worlds, just as I have done but with greater facility and ease. It wasn’t until this week that historical facts I read—from Sally Hemmings to The Feast of All Saints to Having Our Say, and several other biographies of various personages from the Harlem Renaissance—also became part of my personal history.

Reading personal histories can provide a deeper understanding of events and the environment that affected, say, Sadie and Bessie Delaney because the historical perspective is close to your own—by virtue of sharing ethnicity or, at least, the condition of being colored—but it remains abstract. But when you can put the faces of family to that same set of variables… wow! That gives you an anchor to history (because being part of history must always be more than just existing as it happens).

Singer sewing machine picture postcard from 1930

One of my maternal great great-grandfathers was English, he was white. His children were mulatto. My great grandfather passed as white and traveled the Americas working as a carpenter and a ship builder. This is how he ended up in Panama while the canal was being built and with my great grandmother. Apparently, one of their daughters passed as white and worked as a dressmaker in the 1930s. (A graduate of the Fashion Institute of Technology, I feel great pride knowing my history includes a dressmaker in the Garment District during the Depression.)

Somewhere between the 1930s and the mid-to-late 1950s, my grandfather lost all communication with that sister. I do not know why. I do wonder how it would affect the family dynamic. While the family never lived anywhere where Jim Crow laws were in effect, and we were not African Americans (but West Indies' transplants), the Great Depression did create a whole new racial separation across the nation.

Hide your daughters!

My grandfather owned property and had boarders, and my understanding is that he never lacked for a job. I don’t think he ever passed as white, but I don’t think he suffered much for being light skinned.

I can fill branches in a genealogy chart. I can meet new players – both dead and alive. But, oh how I wish the narratives were hidden gems to be discovered as well! I mourn that we’ve lost the art of passing down oral histories. What we lose is far more than mere words. What we lose is at its core identity.