amelia pontes

Team Victory

2012-05-26T18:19:00.002-04:00

On June 8th, I'll be walking with family and friends in memory of my cousin Victor who passed away last month from cancer. Even in his last days he continued to preach the value of love, friendship, and pursuing your life's passions. It's been a difficult year for the family, but we know coming together for this event to support others who are struggling with this disease is a way to keep his legacy alive. We are also walking in honor of our cousin, Thomas, who is undergoing his second round of chemo as we speak.

We're participating in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life, which is a 24 hour walk around a track. The entire family (we roll deep!) is camping out and completing the race together. I know money is tight and we're not asking for a big donation, but if you could give anything, we'd really appreciate it.

When Victor was diagnosed last August, the doctors gave him one month to live. But with the new advances in cancer research, they were able to keep him alive for eight invaluable months. We know that the more we can give to this, the closer we are to finding a cure, which can turn someone's eight months into a long and healthy life.

If you're not able to donate, forward along our team page to others and send us your positive vibes.

Here's the link: http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY12National?px=29122239&pg=personal&fr_id=39672

Team Page: http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/?team_id=1199373&pg=team&fr_id=39672

Much Love,
Amelia

What I Know For Sure About Time

2012-05-15T08:26:00.001-04:00

When an educator has the guts to say, "I don't have the time to help one kid who is having a rough day," I can do nothing but write it down in my little black notebook. My arrogant self wants to say, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

But I write his words down because in them is a truth about each of us. How often have we all felt that way? It didn't take long for me to recognize my own lack of patience these days. I've been rushing through mornings, praying for the next hour to hit, and letting my eyes glaze over as people tell me the inconsequential details of their lives.

It's hard when you're wrapped up in your own head. The worst thing about being sad is that you turned into a selfish little bitch, too. Your hurt, your fears, and your thoughts are the only things that matter. Your ears turn off before your heart does.

I was taught a lesson in compassion at our family's Sunday brunch. Nothing feels normal yet, but the sharing of stories helps.

My cousin works at a fancy hotel in Boston as a server for large functions. We've all known that she has been in close proximity to professional athletes, actors, and other very important people. It wasn't until this past Sunday that I learned that she has also served Bill Clinton. Twice.

She told me that the first time he came, his handlers had to rush him out of the hallway because all he wanted to do was talk to the servers. He asked them questions, told stories, and most of all, the former President of the United States of America, gave them his precious time. On his last visit, to prevent him from taking up too much time talking to the regular folks, they banned anyone from standing in the hallway. Imagine that? You're one of the most powerful human beings on earth, but your biggest flaw is spending too much time with the people who serve you stale chicken and potatoes.

If Bill can do it, so I can.

Last Friday, I stopped typing, shoved the papers to the side of my desk and sat in the office with a colleague and listened to his story. I wanted to tell him to be grateful for his life and to stop bickering about the tough cards he had been dealt, but I knew that was my own sadness speaking and it wasn't from a place of love. I dug deep beneath my own resentment for this unjust world and praised him for his tenacity and ability to overcome his obstacles. And while I tried to make him feel better and watched him wipe a tear from beneath his glasses, my heart opened again.

What I know for sure is that although life is short, there's always enough time to listen. All struggle and hardship is relative, but important. If we can find, better yet, make the time to hear each other's stories, we can rediscover compassion and love even in the hardest of times.

A Gift

2012-05-09T08:59:00.002-04:00

Got this early morning gift from a friend. I can't believe I didn't own this.

I Ate Good and Wore a Decent Outfit

2012-05-08T19:54:00.001-04:00

This hasn't happened much in the past two months, but today after a long cry and a few minutes resting in child's pose on the yoga mat, I pulled it together. I asked my food guru Nik for some advice on the arugula (evoo and freshly squeezed lemon) and went back to my favorite baked herb roasted eggs. For the outfit, I dug the thrifted polka dot dress out of the closet (it stopped fitting a few months ago), wrapped a pearl necklace around my left wrist, and finally wore the Eloquii mustard leather jacket.

And this is what it looks and tastes like to be normal again.

One Month

2012-05-07T12:25:00.001-04:00

"You don't have to process anything now, but you do have to process it. Maybe your subconscious will do it in a dream, but at some point, in order to really move on you will have to process it."

Not today.

Mountains and Valleys

2012-04-25T09:22:00.001-04:00

I slipped out of the terrycloth bathrobe, nude except for the underwear I kept on for false modesty and jumped underneath the sheet on the table like the masseuse had instructed. My arms dangled towards the floor, lifeless, and my head faced down with eyes closed breathing out my mouth because of the stress cold I caught the week following his death.

Her palms began at the nape of my neck, passed my shoulder blades, against my spine, into the small of my back, and to the tip of my tailbone. Over and over again she made me feel the length. She was taking a long journey through the trail of my back. And for the first time, I didn't think about the imperfect skin. The scars from teenage acne became irrelevant as I could feel the overpowering little hills and valleys that have formed from on my body from too many second servings of my mom's cooking and years of playing sports.

My body, a landscape not a canvas, built and constructed to perform and sustain.
My hips and rolls took up most of the table and left little room for my arms to lay by my side. I rested them on my belly, soft and warm like an oven underneath the sheets. I wasn't going to let insecurities and the fear of not having a perfect body keep me from enjoying the massage I paid for. If she didn't like my body, then she could be the one bold enough to refuse to serve me. I let myself experience the privilege of living in a body you love.

An Honor.

2012-04-24T21:06:00.001-04:00

Show and Tell

2012-04-24T20:45:00.001-04:00

I took a cab home from work, rushing to warm up leftovers in the microwave and sleep in the dent of my own bed. Before I could do any of that though, I would have to show my mother my wrists. A weekend getaway at a spa in New Hampshire started with ax-throwing and ended with black ink tattooed below my palms.

Before I sat in the chair, I kissed the blank canvas and faint blue lines goodbye. I mean, I really did kiss them. Someone told me once that a woman's wrists were the sexiest parts of her body. I think that somebody was Jamie Foxx as Ray Charles, but either way, someone said it. I tried not to think about how many men wouldn't like them anymore and came up with quick explanations for people who ask why I have the words permanently marked on my arms forever.

My mother was making her bed (don't ask, she likes to tidy up before she goes to sleep). Her right cheek swung up in the air as she said hello. I hadn't seen her since Saturday morning when she handed me a picnic basket filled with tuna empanadas for the 3 hour road trip. I dropped my backpack on the kitchen table and came back to give her kisses, a hug, and to reveal my secret(s). Her eyes darted to the left cuff of my jean jacket and as I pecked her cheeks, I could see that her eyes were still down. She said, "Okay, show me."

She knew (darn Facebook). I scrunched up the sleeve and waited for her the frown lines on her face to appear. They didn't. Her cheeks rose again and her lips parted into a smile. Her hands came up to my jaw and now she was giving me kisses. Mommy wasn't mad or disappointed.

Not only did she know about my tattoos, but she knew why I needed to get them. She told me there were pork chops on the stove and couscous and beans in the fridge. I warmed a plate and added some barbecue sauce to the side, I missed my couch and cable tv. I walked by mother's room and saw her lying in her bed, watching her recorded soap operas from the morning. I went into her room, placing my hot plate on her desk, and gave her one last kiss on her forehead for the night. "Thanks for being a good mom and not judging me," I told her. Her response? "It's not something I would do because it's not me. But that is you. You want them, that's all that matters."

Sixty one years old and born on the tiny island of Fogo on the smallest island of Cabo Verde and has unlearned everything that she was ever taught about propriety and womanhood to raise and, most importantly, love her girl child in a way that makes her feel valued and respected for all of the choices/mistakes she makes. To overuse the word some more, she is amazing.

For a moment, while I walked up the stairs and let the tears drip down my cheeks (the ones I inherited from her), I almost stopped being sad. And these days, that takes whole lot of love. Thank goodness for mommies.

A Reminder.

2012-04-23T19:41:00.002-04:00

Because I Can: Ax Throwing

2012-04-21T21:42:00.001-04:00

On a mini getaway in New Hampshire and in between a trip to the roadside market and back into the hotel for dinner, we found a young man to teach us how to throw an ax. I thought I'd be decent at the sport because of my previous experience in discus and shotput throwing, but I barely hit the target.

And it was okay. I tried something new and I can say that I stood on a mountain top and threw an ax. A freakin' ax.

Victory is Forever

2012-04-13T14:15:00.001-04:00

Victor Pontes-Macedo aka MC Exposition

Back then I was still sagging my basketball shorts and slicking my hair back with LA Looks Gel, when my cousin passed me a black journal and asked me to take a look. He was sixteen and didn't concern himself with haircuts and wearing the flyest sneakers like the rest of the teenage boys I knew (or wanted to know). I flipped through, skimming the words, and squirming in my skin about how to respond.. And so, like the great little cousin that I am, I said, "Damn, Victor, what do you know about the hood? You live in Medford!"

He didn't refute or even take a low blow about me being from “Slummerville;” that wasn’t his style. He stood by his words. He made it so simple. And for years I wondered about the boy who would rather listen to music, scribble in a notepad, and read red books about Marxism than wear a varsity jacket.

Through his work (and with much time and maturity on my part), I learned that artists do not have to explain themselves, they simply reveal the world for what it is without the obligation to present the facts. They are not the journalists, but the truth seekers of what is the universal human condition of emotion.

I can listen to a song like “50 Million Pictures” and take a stroll through the Boston streets with Victor and taste the the slice of pizza he just picked up at NYP on Mass Ave. Or I can pump my fist when I listen to “Sketches of Pain” against the social darwinism that has us fighting and not loving fellow human beings. And with the first line of “It’s All Over,” I feel like digging into my brother’s closet and tilting a Red Sox hat to the right.

Writing is the inspiration that appears to comes out of nowhere, but has laid dormant deep inside of you somewhere for generations before you were born. To seek its source is to waste a lifetime searching for a thing that has no home and no name.

Artists expose us for who we really are. In a room with Victor, walls came down. Somewhere in between him teaching me how to make block letters with his silver and gold paint markers and handing me a copy of his first album, “The Metro,” he stopped being just my mother’s sister’s son. He became MC Exposition. He didn’t think he was going to change the world with music, but he was there to pull the blankets off its corruption and conflicts, as well as enlightening the rest of us on the beauty of life.

Victor was not MC Exposition when he came home or ate a burger off the grill like the rest of us, but he was something special. What he taught me most about life had nothing to do with information or analysis, but about living in the moment and turning interests into passions and then into a way of being.

He was more than just the cool older cousin who backpacked through Europe, moved to California to pursue a career in music, and who grew his hair out into its now iconic length. What is remarkable about him is that he did these things without explanation or excuses. Even in his last days, he remained positive, kind, and...Victorious. Just like he had rejected the social norms which would have pushed him to go to school, get a job, and a wear a suit and tie, he refused to let cancer change or alter his spirit. In his final days, he still cheered on the Red Sox, translated the Italian lyrics of “Con Te Partido” to those in the room, and made the room laugh with his sarcastic humor.

As someone who has chosen to express herself through writing, I am thankful for having such a role model who has talked the talk and walked the walk to guide me through. I go back to that day when he showed me his journal often (before his diagnosis) and think about his ability to be so open about his artistry. Yet, there is no way I can say that his loss is a good thing or even look to use God or some higher being to explain his absence. What has happened is a part of life that is still difficult to accept. However, the only thing I can find peace in is knowing that I am nothing short of lucky of having the chance to know, love, and be loved by someone so special and courageous.

The Time I Cried In A Meeting With My Boss and Committed Feminist Suicide

2012-04-13T01:12:00.002-04:00

I thought I was done crying. I thought I was over my emotions and ready to be rational with my boss when I walked into her office on that Tuesday morning. Brown biker boots clunked down the hallway and nestled underneath the table. Sturdy and eyes wide, bypassing pleasantries to recite the speech I prepared on the walk from the train station.

I was going to tell her how their actions reflect poorly on the organization, how they disenfranchised their workers (me!), and how they had failed to properly weigh the gravity of their decisions. This is the moment that years of rocking out to the Beastie Boys (Fight For Your Right) and Public Enemy (Fight The Power) and attendance at a women’s college had me salivating over. Gloria Steinem would invite me over to burn bras and eat bon bons for what I was going to say. My voice wasn’t going to crack and my shoulders weren’t going to slump over.

Not so sure when it happened, but soon enough I was reaching into her tissue box to pat my eyeliner that had begun to run. Nose clogged and throat closing up, I tried to drive home my points. Frustration grew within me. I was crying. Here, I was sitting in front of my boss, in her office having an emotional breakdown.

I wish I could be the Don Draper equivalent of calm, cool, and collected. I wish my feelings didn’t betray me. I wish my lips didn’t quiver when my blood boiled. I wish I could walk in a room and make people sit up straighter and work harder. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I were a robot that didn’t have to worry about my feelings compromising my integrity.

I dabbed the corners of my eyes and wiped up my nose to connect with her eyes, and there I saw the light from the window shine on a tear of her own. I waited for it to drop from her eye, but it never did. She held her hand over her heart and her voice softened, “Melinda, I am so sorry that you feel this way. I don’t want you to ever feel hurt over something we have done.” I apologized for my tears, and she interjected to say, “Your tears mean that you care so much, that’s what I see.”

I can’t think like a man. I am over trying to boost up my testosterone and searching for something that I don’t have, to become something I never even aspired to being.

I smile to get someone to move my desk or use flattering language to boost the ego of others to adjust their schedules, I manipulate emotions to evoke empathy and sympathy in others to get what I want. I don’t mean to do it, as much as men don’t intend to use their broad shoulders and deep voices to intimidate others into compliance. It’s who I am.

I’m type of woman that I was told to never become, but I like it. I am me without apology or regret. If feminism was supposed to be all about wearing pants and running around trying to be something that I’m not, count me out. Instead, I like to think that I’ve found a way to embrace all that I am (and am not) to get all that I want, without having to kill the best pieces of me.

The Victor

2012-04-09T23:49:00.000-04:00

I'll write about him soon. Hasta la VICtoria siempre.

Mommy's Retail Therapy

2012-04-06T10:15:00.003-04:00

An Idea

2012-04-06T09:05:00.001-04:00

I'm still trying to figure out how to encompass all of my personal blogging needs into a format that allows me to write long essays and still post about the simple things that have nothing to do with metaphors and such. And you know, I even miss posting outfits.

So here's what I am doing that probably doesn't make sense to anyone else but me. Either way, I'm trying it. If it sucks and is more confusing than helpful, I'll switch it up. I'm trying to fail with purpose. I'm ready to make mistakes and learn from them.

#1 Amelia Pontes will be the home site. It's where I'll post pictures, outfits, updates, inspiration, and such.

#2 More Than Just Ramblings will house my longer posts. All of my new writing and thoughts. Like I've said before, I'm really trying to put together an e-book. I'll be workshopping some pieces on that site.

#3 Sound Bites and all of its old blog posts will live here and up top where you can just click the link in the tab.

Not sure if people are still reading Amelia Pontes, since I shut it down and all, but I guess it's back. And I'll admit, I've started it back up because I realized that I closed down a space that had lots of traffic coming through. I'd rather keep this platform and expand, rather than rebuild all over again.

So. Here we go. Starting over, again.

Child's Prose

2012-04-06T08:54:00.003-04:00

My knees dug into the floor, thighs tucked and settled under my hips, and forehead pressed down into the mat. I let my sweat and tears blend as they splattered beneath me. I didn’t bother moving my outstretched arms to wipe, this position felt too good, too safe.

The night before, with laundry hung over the antique couches that were once pristine and too fancy for street clothes and unwashed hands, we sat feet away from his hospital bed. We partook in polite conversations, taking quick dips into the possibility of death and grief, and emerging moments later gasping for relief and changing the subject.

His pants slid off his backside and the crotch hung low like a pair of hammer pants. With a grimace, he pushed his body back into the couch to find a better position. My eyes looked away and fingers swiped the passcode on the cellphone to distract my thoughts of mourning and wailing. I take a look at the pillow behind his back on the couch, and I fluff it and whisper, “Is that okay?” There is nothing easy about this. Going to the bathroom requires untangling the oxygen tank tubes, giving it enough slack, and avoiding the corners and doors of their old one family home. To walk up and down the steps, get dressed or brush teeth would be to burden his ailing body.

I wake up the next morning, with eyes glued to the screen of my telephone. Checking my work calendar and I see the yoga class scheduled into my lunch break. I’m tempted to skip out, until I reread Victor’s words from a Facebook posting he made before I went over his house the night before. I was on the couch in his living room, working on a post about dieting when I first read it. I didn’t say a word to him, even though I could see the light from the TV exposing the shape of his feet beneath the blankets. I swallowed the words and stored the message:

I think about what I used to consider “problems” before I was diagnosed, and I laugh cuz I realize that those problems are absolutely NOTHING compared to what I have to deal with now. The only thing I wish is that I was in possession of this knowledge before I was diagnosed, it would’ve made my life before so much easier and less stressful.

So I guess if I have one message for those of you who are healthy, it’s don’t sweat the small stuff. If your job is pissing you off, you’re running low on money, or that shirt makes you look fat. Whatever the issue is, if you really stop to think about it, its so small, you’ll always find your way through it and live to fight another day. As long as you have your health you have everything!

I’ve stayed away from posting about my struggle and fight this whole time cuz I’m not the type of person to put my personal business out there, but it hasn’t been a walk in the park. That said, I feel would be doing a disservice if I said nothing. I’m not here preaching or trying to start a movement, I just feel like I’ve been given this unique knowledge, and I wanted to share it with you all. What you do with it is up to you.

With Love

-V

I went to the sauna/yoga studio without a towel or a yoga mat, but with lots of anxiety about being fatter than the other girls and my hair extensions falling out in front of the entire class. The instructor assured me that I’d be fine and told me to retreat into child’s pose whenever I felt overwhelmed, “Make sure to take care of your needs while you are in there. Rest when you need it. Drink water. Listen to your body.” She had no idea about the extensions and I felt relieved that she couldn’t tell.

During the class, with my ass in the air and palms digging into the mat searching for balance and the ease of pain, I inhaled and exhaled five times as instructed by the ominous voice from the back of the studio. My legs quivered and breath shortened. I walked my feet up to my hands and straightened my spine, pushing my chest up in the air to come out of downward dog. Arms emerged from the sides of my body and floated over my head. I stepped back into warrior pose and pushed my hearts up into the sky. I could only feel the weight of what slept inside my heart. I wanted the hurt and fear, thumping against my ribs, trapped in the sturdy frame, to burst out of my body.

I crawled back into child’s pose. Knees tucked into chest. Feet snuggled beneath hips. Forehead buried into rented yoga mat. The tears and sweat dripped into a pile. I savored the salt on my lips and thought about what I wanted to eat for lunch. I bent back into downward dog and tried it again. My muscles failed and I collapsed back into the mat. Over and over again I did this, until my fall became a part of the routine. A healthy body being pushed to its limits, only to recuperate and strengthen.

“...you’ll always find your way through it and live to fight another day.”

On my back, with legs dancing and a cool draft wisping through the cracks of my toes, I let the balls of my feet, my ankles, my calves, and my thunderous thighs take a rest. I wiggled my torso until the core of my body held all 210 lbs of my weight. I floated for a minute; closing my eyes to rest. I didn’t know what position would be moving into next, and I didn’t care. Whatever was thrown at me next was going to be just fine because at least I’m fortunate enough to even have a chance to try.

Thankful For...

2012-04-06T08:50:00.001-04:00

1. cherry blossoms.

2. weave, excuse me, extensions.

3. my yoga mat

4. male coworkers who wear bunny ears and keep the atmosphere cheerful and light

5. late night runs for milkshakes

6. sitting around with cousins watching stupid people do stupid things on video

7. Kristen letting me borrow her macbook pro

8. a clean desk at work.

9. blue and white striped blazer from the Gap.

10. google docs for making my writing life easier.

11. eggs and bacon in the morning.

12. red wine in the evenings.

13. Don Draper.

14. the two blue stripes painted on my bedroom wall.

15. vosges chocolate sampler.

For When You Have Writer's Block

2012-04-01T09:16:00.000-04:00

Coffee and a olive and feta scone via Bourbon Cafe in Cambridge

Subi Alto

2012-03-19T09:11:00.000-04:00

Subi Alto, Audible Mainframe

I wish I could tell you that I when I sit down to write my brows are furrowed in concentration and fingers dance on the keys until I'm finished. But let's be honest, I'm an 8 year old boy with a serious case of ants in the pants. I'm a non-believer of writer's block. I have found that by not worrying about putting together pretty little sentences and rerouting energy towards creating, it gets easier.

I like taking lyrics from a song and finding ways to depict them. It's a reminder that writing is the transformation of images into words people can feel, touch, see, smell, taste, and hear in their minds.