Sensory Overload

Social Capital ~ my only high yield investment

There’s more to wealth than just money. Social capital is as real as financial capital, and sometimes more valuable. ~ j.d. roth

Getting To Know My Money

Over the past few years I've learned the hard way about the need to bank my bliss ~ my attempts at sustaining a safe reserve in my emotional savings and loan association.  Unfortunately, deposits into my financial institutions have not been nearly as strong.  So, in recent months, for many reasons (not the least of which was Tax Day), I have been trying to master my money issues.  Let me tell you, with personal finances, ignorance is not bliss ~ and it's uncomfortable admitting it to anyone, anywhere ~ much less here.

The mountain of information was staggering and intimidating.  I had no idea where to begin (savings? stocks? mutual funds? IRA? what's the difference?).  Embarrassed by my financial illiteracy, and by the dismal return on my one request for help, I reached out to the anonymous, non-judgmental hero of information we all rely on ~ Google.  Thankfully, beyond all of the staid advice in the popular financial-self-help books, I found several very helpful, down-to-earth financial blogs, many of which serve as quasi-aggregators of the practical advice buried in the (expensive) get-rich books. ~ Thank you blogosphere!

I quickly became addicted to the Get Rich Slowly blog, although my goal is simply to pay down debt ~ no delusions of any sort of financial wealth.  I've taken the first few baby steps encouraged by the GRS blog; and I finally looked into the retirement fund that three+ years of government work has afforded me.  I was pleasantly surprised, relieved really, to discover how much of a nest egg I had built up without even trying (not from a high salary but from healthy contributions).  It's not a huge amount, but it's a safe start and much more than I would have ever saved had I tried on my own.  I've taken other steps, too; but I won't bore you with the details here ~ suffice to say it involves several side-jobs and eBay.  ;-)

All of this tortured explanation is to say that I have spent a lot of time recently (although late in life) learning the value of economic/financial capital.  Most of this anguished self-education has taken place alone ~ late at night, in libraries, or in my favorite tea houses.  Fortunately, Serendipity (in the form of a myriad of hyperlinks through a maze of money-management tips) led me to a December 2007 GRS article about the value of social capital.  To illustrate the concept of social capital, the article refers to one of my favorite movies of all-time, the very wonderful It's A Wonderful Life, and explains:

You generate social capital when you help your neighbor repair a fence, or have your Sunday School class over for barbeque, or join a bowling league. Any time you participate in the community, you are generating social capital, both for yourself, and for the other people involved. Individuals (and communities) with high levels of social capital are able to find help when they need it; those with low social capital can spend a lot of time frustrated and alone.

Getting To Know My Neighbors

Coming face to face with the cold, grim stare of my finances, however, nudged me quietly into the warm embrace of my social capital ~ that richness that revolves all around me in the many pockets of Oakland that claim me as an Oaklander. 

Saturday afternoon, after running a few too many errands on an empty stomach, I wanted to try out the super-cute new cafe (and their Blue Bottle Coffee!) at the bottom of my hill ~ Cafe 504.  I wasn't sure if they would be open, but when I drove up, there was a cute couple sitting outside in the sun, sipping coffee, smiling, chatting ~ so I walked in.  The owner  told me, though, that they had just closed ... because a water pipe under the street had burst and their kitchen was flooding.  Just then, "Chico," a sweet neighbor (and, apparently already a regular at the cafe) explained that two other businesses on that street were flooding, and that the pipe had burst several times over the years.  I told them I had the number to the Public Works Agency programmed in my cell phone...and added that I worked for the City so they wouldn't think I was a freak.  I called the PWA Call Center, but they were closed.  Luckily, I had the cell phone number to a Councilmember from another district, and she explained I should call the OPD non-emergency dispatch, who would transfer me to the Fire Department(!)  But when I finally reached the OFD, they explained that a fresh water pipe is controlled by EBMUD!  As I dialed yet another number, Chico said there was no way they would have known how to navigate through the morass of agencies to call.  In the midst of all this, the ladies from the old-school no-name hair salon next door and the laundromat on the corner wandered out onto the sidewalk and talked to Chico about the flooding.  Fortunately, EBMUD answered right away and the service vehicle was dispatched immediately ~ and Chico ran up to his house to get pictures of the other times the pipe had burst, to show the EBMUD tech. 

The point is, it took the teamwork of about six people to fix something in the neighborhood ~ and all the while that couple at the table outside quietly continued their caffeinated conversation.  Despite the mayhem and flooding, I felt an amazing sense of community ~ it was quite a memorable way to meet the owner, Jaime, and other neighbors; not to mention an elaborate way for the cafe to put together its 'emergency contact list'. 

I went inside to say goodbye to Jaime, since EBMUD was on its way.  Just then, Jaime's beautiful three little daughters came flying into the cafe, followed by their father.  It was so fun to see the whole family breathing life into the beautiful little oasis they had brought to our little street.  Then, for no reason at all, one of Jaime's daughters quietly walked over to me, and hugged me.  She only came up to my waist, so she wrapped her arms around my legs and pressed her head to my waist ~ I was overwhelmed.   She looked up at me with a smile.  Her blond hair literally glowed from the sunbeams streaming in through the windows, and the indigo color of her blouse was as profound as the deep blue oceans in her eyes ~ this little girl's smile felt like the sun washing over your face and the breeze cooling your toes as you lay in the grass. Overwhelming.  She silently hugged me again, and then ran off with her sisters. 

The owner and the Barista thanked me, and insisted I take a cup of coffee to go ~ I told them I wanted to come back as soon as they were open again (because that coffee was delicious!).  It's nice to know that I have a cafe only a block away, where everyone will know my name ~ I look forward to making Cafe 504 my own Oakland version of Cheers.

Walking The Walk

The coffee/flooding incident made me late for my 2 pm appointment ~ I had volunteered to meet at my boss's campaign office to campaign for her re-election, at local businesses up and down 20 blocks of Telegraph Avenue.  I still hadn't eaten anything all day, so I wasn't really looking forward to a two-mile city walk to discuss politics with people.

My partner, Reza, and I set out from the Plaza to the first business at 17th and Telegraph Avenue: Wigs by Tiffany.  The store was amazing!  It was huge, and mannequin heads with wigs of all shapes, sizes, and colors were displayed on shelves reaching up to the ceiling; there were hundreds of white foam heads with mysterious eyes and pouty lips, neatly lined up like floating soldierettes, staring at us as we wandered into the store.  We stumbled through our campaign pitch to Tiffany herself and, thankfully, she took a sign to put in her window. 

Having quickly found success, Reza and I confidently set out on our journey ~ a mile up Telegraph to 34th Street and then back down the other side of Telegraph.   We had the most amazing three hours, finding little gems (even the ones that are rough around the edges) all along Telegraph Avenue.  I discovered that McB's Shoes at 17th Street really has a large selection of nice dress shoes, kickin' boots, and hip handbags.  Because their windows are partially tinted, it seems it would be hard for the store to get noticed by drivers zipping through the intersection; but the store was very busy when we walked in.  Within minutes I was really glad I was out walking in a tiny portion of our District, actually meeting the business owners I usually assist by telephone (my Boss and another staff member are usually the ones who meet constituents in person).  In fact, when I introduced myself to some of the merchants, they recognized my name or said they had spoken to me by phone ~ and then the conversation would lengthen, deepen, to specific concerns of each business.  At the end of the day, I had a long list of issues to research for several of the merchants ~ but I also had a wealth of unique information about each business.

At Lam-Toro, the wonderful West African restaurant near 25th, Mamadou asked us how he could get information about business micro-loans.  At the Rock Paper Scissors Art Collective, they accepted our sign but explained the Collective would have to vote on Monday to decide whether they can place it in the window.  At Mama Buzz Cafe, the hipsterette behind the counter with the buzzed haircut said yes to the sign and then ignored us as I held the chair on which Reza balanced precariously while he tried to tack the sign into the wall. 

When we walked into Bibliomania, at 18th Street, we were greeted by the comforting, dusty 'used bookstore smell'.  I love the smell of used bookstores ~ not only of the story itself, but the history of the book...where its been, whose read it, whose loved it, how many places its been through.  I sometimes buy used books which have been highlighted or otherwise marked up ~ personal notes in the margin, underlining in sections the past reader found important ~ and I love that about used books ~ the tiny glimpse I get into the thoughts of the person who read the book before me.  All of those thoughts whirled around me as we stepped inside and the gray-haired husband-wife owners greeted us.

Reza and I took turns making the pitch, and we received more Yeses than Noes.  As we walked along we also got to know each other.  Reza told me he was born in Canada, then moved to the States, then spent a year in Iran, and back to the States again.  When I asked him how his parents ended up in Albany, Ca, he explained: "My dad lived in the States, then he went to Iran to get a wife, and came back."  I laughed and said he made it sound so simple.  We both talked about speaking Farsi and Spanish at home, about our families, and a little politics.

When we reached the Marwa Halal Market at 30th Street, on 'Oakland's Butcher Block', Reza made the pitch completely in Farsi to the Afghan owner.  The owner didn't know very much about my Boss, so we showed him a picture.  A woman who was at the counter said, "Oh I know her.  She helped me with my literacy tutoring, at Second Start."  And that's how we turned the discussion to my boss's commitment to literacy ~ we couldn't have asked for a better real-life example. 

I began to notice that at nearly every business we went into, friends and neighbors were gathered around, talking and spending time together.  The exchange of social capital was taking place at least as much as, or in some cases, more than, the exchange of financial capital.

At the River Nile Market, next to Halal Meat and Produce, the beautiful young man behind the counter sat and talked with two of his friends ~ and let us place a campaign sign in his window.  He asked me, genuinely concerned but in a hip/tough kind of way:"Is it true Oakland is going to turn into the next Emeryville?"   At Prime Communications, the small wireless store next to Marwa Halal, three older African-American men sat in folding chairs and exchanged stories.  At the Korean beauty store near 27th Street, three older women sat around a tiny table having tea over animated discussion.  At nearly every one of the dozen or so nail shops we entered, families gathered around, waiting for the one getting her nails done.  The chatter mixed with the chemical fumes was dizzying.

On Telegraph Avenue, Ethiopian spices are being sold next door to Afghan breads next door to kosher meat and seafood next door to nag champa and shea butter next door to Cajun seafood (where super burritos also happen to be offered).  Sprinkled along the Avenue are also the cd's, videos, and body oils sold at House of Soul; the wildly busy market at Koreana Plaza; African art, clothing, and jewelery at Sami African Imports ~ all tucked in between the empty retail spaces we still need desperately to fill.

The day was topped off by a leisurely, amazing meal at Lam-Toro and two glasses of their delicious Bissap ~ where family members of the owner or employees gathered in the corner lounge by the window, and we all laughed as their toddler ran around, stumbling and giggling.  All of this was the Oakland I adore ~ I felt like my entire day was a huge investment in my portfolio of social capital ~ I hope you'll invest, too. ~ :)

it's the little things

You work day in and day out with the same people; celebrating one, then two, birthdays within the same walls ~ they start to feel like family, especially during those 14+ hour days when you (have to) have dinner together in the office, preparing for the big meeting, sometimes bickering over your political positions as you pass the potatoes, often laughing together as you compare gossip, lightening the day's mood before it gets singed by the night's fiery rhetoric. 

It all starts to become a blur, it seems like everyone is wearing the same suit, or same colors, every week ~ or like nothing changes, despite the chaos around you.  So, it feels like they don't, or won't or can't, notice little things about you that seep in under your skin like shadows under a door ~ the shift in your shoulders as the days wear on, the dulling of the spark in your eyes as you wither under the weight of a silent avalanche of emotion.  You work quietly and think no one notices anything about you.  Just your work.

And then one day someone walks in and, from several feet away, exclaims, "You're wearing earrings!  You never wear earrings!"  And later, someone else notices, too.  And the tiny studs are a big deal because you never, ever wear any jewelry except a thin silver chain around your neck ~ and no one has ever asked why you just wear that chain and nothing else.  And the moment is momentous because you realize you have been noticed.  When all this time, you thought you were quietly hiding out in the open.

Ë Ë Ë Ë

Me, I never wear jewelry ~ save for that special chain.  I've never felt comfortable in earrings because I feel like they 'call too much attention'.  I wish I could wear them confidently like others (men and women), changing them to match my moods.   Apparently, my mother and grandmother thought I would be the type, because I hear they pierced my ears on the front porch when I was a toddler, with a sewing needle.  But years ago, as a teenager, I guess I decided I would like to walk past you and have you notice the sparkle in my smile, not the glint of metal dangling from my ear.  Maybe that's what happened ~ a strong rejection of style and peer pressure, to proclaim my individuality ~ of naked ears.

Oh, I've tried over the years ~ I've bought fancy, dangling, beautiful earrings ~ but when I look in the mirror, it is not me.  A little (or a lot of) lipgloss, yes ~ but a shiny shout of personality dancing around the nape of my neck?  No.  Years ago, a boyfriend was pleasantly surprised, even grateful, for my disinterest in jewelry ~ cheap date and easy to impress, it seems.  But I am interested; I secretly covet certain gems ~ I just don't want them, and wouldn't know how to wear them anyway.   Besides, the guilt over diamonds would take all the fun out of it. 

And so, much of the experimental jewelery I have bought for myself sits in little trays on an antique dresser in my bedroom ~ a collection of colorful little eyes that watch me walk by every morning without touching them.  Waiting every day to be noticed ~ I know that feeling.

But this morning, for no reason, I picked up a pair.  Sometimes I really do do things for no reason at all.  Ask around ~ it's true.  ~ As usual, I was late to work.  The unruly curls went unwashed so I scooped them up like a single-dip cone of Haagen Dazs dark chocolate ice cream ~ and stuck a pin in 'em.  Then, without explanation, and as if I had been doing it every morning for years, I grabbed two tiny blue pearl-like earrings and pinned them to my ears as I walked out the door.  I felt like such a girl ~ I didn't know how to feel about that.

So, I thought no one would notice the little studs ~ or that no one would notice that I never wear jewelry.  But a few people did.  And it was startling, but also a little comforting, to realize people do notice you ~ notice things about you, or habits you have ~ that you don't even realize seep into people's subconsciousness. 

And so of course, it made me wonder what other little things people notice ~ especially all of the little things I try to hide.  And it made me think about what I notice in other people ~ the quiet little things they do or don't do, that speak volumes about them. 

Ë Ë Ë Ë

I like to watch people in my favorite local tea shops ~ friends and couples and people sitting alone ~ the secret body language between lovers, the comforting slouching among friends, the way the loner dangles the pencil between his lips as he ponders over which profound statement to scribble in his journal that day.

What do you think?  What little things, or changes from the ordinary, do you notice in the people around you ~ the ones who have been around you for years ~ what new thing will you notice about them today?  Will you smile slyly, content in being a part of their secret?  Will you miss it because you are blinded by the banality of seeing them every day?  Will you notice if they notice a subtle change about you today?

I'm just asking ~ It's 3:00 in the morning ~ I just worked a 14-hour day ~ I was pulled over by a police officer on my way home from work, at 11 pm, and had to hope he would believe my explanation about the registration tags ~ really, tonight of all nights did that have to happen?  And I have to be back in the office in six hours ~ but maybe I'll wear earrings again, a different pair ~ just to see what happens ~ ~ ;-)

in a moment ~

~ a perfect moment can seem like the sweetest lifetime ~

On Thursday nights I gather with a small and sweet group of friends to work on a semi-writing volunteer project; it's very private, it's very intense ~  and every Thursday night, the starry sky on my drive home is infused with the pale yellow tint of the laughter they evoke from me, and the brooding midnight-blue of B's smoky voice, the fire-engine red of the sparks that bounce off of Y's curls when she talks, or the copper-coated words of comfort R throws into the pot of proclamations we all take turns stirring up.

On those Thursdays, there is usually a moment, sometimes two or three or six, where my heart lights up as I watch someone's eyes glimmer with Understanding or Passion or, even, Need.  Although we have a certain task to work on, often personal stories come out, and so I have learned bits and pieces of each person's history or home life ~ some of it intensely private so that I could never share it here; but I can share what the experience is like for me, learning about people in this way.  There are some groups where the work is the focus, and personal issues don't seep in as any sort of distraction ~ those groups feel close, without really being intimate.  But intimacy in some groups, for some work, is so vital ~ and I'm so glad to have stumbled upon a group of hard-working people who are so open to being so raw sometimes; and with whom I fall in love all over again every week.  This doesn't mean we see each other during the rest of the week, or that we hold hands and sing Kumbaya on Thursdays.  Instead, I get to experience  jewel-like moments with them that I then get to slip into my pocket so that I turn that moment over with my fingertips, touching every smooth corner of the thought or the sentiment, for the rest of the week ~ it means that I get to spend the rest of the week thinking about these people, and appreciating them, and really taking to heart the things they say.

Last Thursday, someone made a strong statement, and another person asked, "Why would you do that?"  Without pausing, the first person responded ~ "Because I have your heart in my hand."

It shook me up, it rattled my cage of thoughts ~ we haven't known each other very long and I was taken aback that someone would say something that intimate and mean it, and be so protective.  It made me think of the people who say and do things knowing they have my heart in their hands, and so are very careful with it; and it reminded me of the people who don't do that; and it showed me the complete strangers who do that were looking right at me.

The moment hung in the air for a nanosecond, and the conversation continued ~ on to something else ~ but now the conversation, and these relationships I am forming, are cradled in these protective hands ~ so I think I will swing in that cradle for a bit, to see what it feels like when people are careful with your heart.

I wasn't going to write about this but then I heard a show and an album about those moments ~ that flash of a moment where you fall in love, or your world changes ~ and so I felt like the Universe was telling me to just spit it out ~ to tell this little story.

First, I listened to the Valentine's Day episode of This American Life.  Sometimes I like the Prologue much better than the actual acts, and that was the case with this episode.  In the Prologue, Ira Glass speaks with Richard Klein of Cornell University, who explains that the way we view love really began with love poems in the 13th century — an illusion.  Ira Glass asked "what do we talk about when we talk about love?"  His answer ~ "this very moment" ~ the moment you feel it.  Richard Klein said it is that "coup de foudre," that bolt of lightning, of seeing someone and instantly falling in love.  The Prologue wasn't about the aftermath, or the reality of it all, or how love changes ~ it was about simply the moment that your life changes, when you fall in love.  For me, it seems to be every Thursday night.

For Richard Klein, it is Petrarch and Il Canzoniere, which Petrarch wrote for Laura, the woman into whose eyes he looked and fell instantly in love, but with whom he had little or no personal contact, ever.  There is a wonderful collection on-line of Petrarch's work, with the simple caption: For a woman he would never know, For a woman he could never have, He should change the world forever.  The passion that Laura deNoves stirred in Francesco Petrarch led him to compose the first lyric love poems ever written ~ 366 of them to be exact, all an ode to Laura.  I envy the impression she made.  Even near the end of the obsession, in poem 352, Petrarch writes vividly about the profound impact of that first glance:

Spirto felice che sí dolcemente
volgei quelli occhi, piú chiari che 'l sole,
et formavi i sospiri et le parole,
vive ch'anchor mi sonan ne la mente:

Happy spirit that glanced so sweetly
from those eyes, brighter than the sun,
and formed the sighs and speech,
so alive they still echo in my mind:

From an Italian, 13th century Renaissance humanist to a 21st century SoCal self-described pocha blogger, matters of the heart are still what drives us to write with passion, to write about the impact on our being of that first moment we look into that other person's eyes ~ and we are changed forever.  Petrarch wrote that before that moment one lives in a life of distraction, and when we encounter the eye of the other, it turns you into something else ~ all you want to do is to return over and over to that ~~ to that feeling, that impact, that moment.   

In the podcast, Richard Klein also  explained that the ancient Greeks had (at least?) two verbs for "seeing" or "to see."  The first verb means "caring observation" ~ the second refers to "the look the eyes can flash, like lightening, like dragon breath, that not only illuminates the eyes, but sends out the kind of fire that penetrates the eye of the other ~ a separate word for that moment when the eyes flash and imply a fateful encounter."

We all know that feeling ~ that moment of initial rapture ~ we all also know quite well that it doesn't last; it's just a dream.  But it seems to me that the most profound people are the ones who love finding it all over again with the person who elicited the feeling in the first place.

And so Thursday I look forward to falling in love again with the colorful batch of spirits who help me write ~

On that note, I leave you with this song, Tiny Heart and Clever Hand [mp4], by Tender Forever, off their Wider album.  (It's sweet and funny and fun ~ stick around past the howling wolves in the Intro.)  I think Tender Forever's biography fits the theme, and Me, perfectly today:

Melanie Valera is the throbbing heart and head philosopher of the solo band, Tender Forever. She cut her performance teeth on the street of her hometown of Bordeaux, France, covering sixties girl bands standards for money for a whole year as part of the Bonnies. Along with this enriching, character-building experience, this hyperactive lady started a long-distance electro-pop project with an American friend she had met on the very last day of her trip to S.F., Ca. Garrison Rocks, a spontaneous love-at-first-sight band, endured and evolved, up until becoming a Franco-American orchestra including 3 new members. The team performed about 40 shows in 7 months, notably with Little Wings (K recs.) and Ted Leo (Lookout).

Oh, and the Hand Open With Heart is a mosaic by Cleo Mussi.

tell me something good . . .

an intimate conversation, a closeness despite the differences between you, an old soul in a new friend ~

then a long drive home, the lights on the bridge getting brighter, closer ~ as you ponder the profound impact of a gentle voice ~

is a lovely way to spend a Thursday evening.

I spent time tonight with my friend 'Y'.  We are new friends, but she is so open, so honest, so raw at times it amazes me how she contains it all, or how a song hasn't been written about her yet.  She brims with emotion, with wisdom and warmth ~ like the cup of tea you need at the end of a long day. She listens with her heart and her eyes ~ she speaks from the soul, from her core.  And you can't help but listen ~ really listen.

Y told me about some difficult times she has had ~ about that low point that many (only a few?) of us reach when we have been dragged down by doubt ~ in ourselves and in others.  For some, that point means forgetting all the great things about yourself.  So many of us have done things to try to feel better about ourselves and/or numb the pain ~ some sleep around, some drink, some run away, many of us bury ourselves in work so we're not distracted by the emotions we don't know what to do with ~ some of us write about it so we don't have to live it.  We all do something about it, for better or worse.  Y did something about it, too.

One day she sent an email to some friends and family and, I say through sheer courage, she says through sheer need to survive, she asked them all simply, "Tell me something good about myself; I need to hear it." 

She was inundated with responses. 

I told Y how a few weeks ago our friend 'N' told me, "Think of something you really really want. ~ Now, I have no idea what it is unless you tell me."  So many of us never really tell others what we really really want ~ not as in world peace or universal health care, but that other thing, that one "thing" you need to make it all better  ~ have you told anyone about that? 

Well, Y did ~ she admitted to a whole group of people what she needed. And when she read all the responses, all the wonderful things about her, she thought, "Well then, they can't all be wrong!"  And she smiled at me.

For some of my friends, if I tried that, they would likely punch me in the arm.  I have one friend who, when I make her laugh (which is often, usually at my expense), she will put her arm around me, kiss my cheek and giggle, "damn I love you."  So, I'll take what I can get.

You think you know what I'm going to ask you, don't you? 

Well, I do want you to do something ~ I want you to think of that vital person you haven't seen in a year or in a week, or the person you woke up next to this morning, or the person you wished you had woken up next to ~ that person you should call or email or tweet or DM or text or scream at across the house ~ and I want you to tell them what you like about them ~

tell them something good ~ about themselves.  don't wait until they need to hear it.

Go ahead ~ I'll wait ~ then come back here and tell me what it was like.

And for no particular reason, or maybe at least one good one, this song [mp3] to close the evening ~ or start the day, since it's 1 am. ~ ;-)

(my) relativity of memory

        Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us. 
                ~ Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

Thursday night over dinner, a friend asked, "What was your childhood like?" Just like that, out of the blue, over a pink lemonade with a bright green sprig of mint floating on top, and red lanterns reflecting in the window watching over us.

I've been asked this question before; we all have.  Without thinking, I almost uttered my usual answer: "I don't remember."  But I stopped for a bit, I thought about it again, I squeezed my eyes and tried to shake out at least one memory ~ like the final flavorful granules out of an empty salt shaker ~ but none came.  And so my answer was the same: "I don't remember."

But I wasn't talking about childhood amnesia (the common inability of adults to remember the earliest years of their childhood, typically anything before age 3 or 4).  No, my marker is age 14 ~ I told my friend I cannot remember anything, well no structured memory, before I was age 14.  I explained that our family home burned down when I was 14, on Christmas Eve; a brand new house, with brand new everything, a Christmas tree overflowing with presents, and everything inside but the clothes on our backs. The fire was so traumatic that my memories seem to begin with that event; everything before seems to have been erased.  I wrote about the fire before, briefly ~ about fleeting Fire Memories.  But Thursday night I told my friend more details about the fire ~ important moments of that particular day that I have not told anyone, no one.  In so doing, it made me remember one more important detail about what happened that day ~ something I had never thought about before; it's important, and so now I need to fit that piece into the puzzle that the fire has been for me for so many years.  So, while I was lightly liberated, in revealing something to someone that I have never uttered before to another living soul, I was also more deeply distracted by what the revelation means.  I suspect it will take another decade to figure it out.   As I sat there and thought about all this, and as my friend stared at me with wide disbelieving eyes, I realized the song playing on the restaurant's speakers was one of my favorites: El Cuarto de Tula [mp3] by Cuarteto Patria.  Really.  The song is about the firemen, with their bells and their sirens, rushing to Tula's room, which is on fire.  The utter irony danced around me as Eliades Ochoa taunted me with his melody ~~ Ay mamá, ¿qué pasó....

I don't know if changing the pieces of the puzzle, or filling it out more completely, will help me remember more about my childhood ~ but for now, I remember only 4 specific things:

(1) The smell of the cafeteria in my elementary school.  At certain moments in my adult life, I have recognized the smell, which I can't describe, and I remembered my elementary school ~ I don't remember my friends, or what the school looks like, or  even if my siblings were born yet ~ only the smell.  It is comforting, despite the darkness of the canvas surrounding it.

(2) I have a tiny heart-shaped scar on top of my left foot; right on the bony part.  When my family lived on the North Side of Houston, in a tiny apartment in the 'hood, I walked to the corner store with someone, but I can't remember whom.  We bought a huge bottle of Coca Cola ~ they were still made of glass back then.  I carried the bottle home, and just before we made it to the front yard, the bottle slipped and broke across my left foot.  I can't even remember how old I was.  I only remember the glint of the sun in the shards of Coca-Cola glass, and standing barefoot and bloody in the steamy summer heat that wafted up from the warm sidewalk.  I don't remember any other part of that day.

(3) I have a small scar, like a small brush stroke, right at the corner of my right eye.  If I were a chola, the scar is where I would have them ink the tear-drop tattoo.  One summer in Matamoros (I don't remember how old I was), a family friend or cousin and I were playing in the street.  Either we started playing rough, or he got mad at me, but from several feet away he flung a twig or a stick at me ~ hard.  I remember watching the twig propel itself towards me and at the last possible millisecond, I twitched my head to left and closed my eyes ~ the twig punctured a small spot of skin, right at the bony edge of my eye socket.  My grandparents, realizing how bad it could have been, made it that much worse for the boy who threw the stick at me.  I can't remember at all who the boy was or is.

(4) There is a small imprint of a steel beam, in the shape of a tiny leaf, on the bridge of my nose ~ right between my eyes.  I don't remember how old I was, but well before I was 14 I can assure you, somehow my family convinced me to be a cheerleader (along with my sister) for my little brother's flag football team.  I don't remember any of the game that day, or ever cheering at any of the games, or any of the other little girls on the cheerleading team.  The uniforms were maroon I think, with white turtlenecks maybe.  But at that one game, or maybe it was the first and only game for me, I remember that it was time for us to line up on either side of the goal post, to hold the banner between the posts so that the football players could burst through it, onto the field.  Just as I was about to take my place on the field, I think my mom dropped her car keys under the bleachers ~ she was sitting up pretty high and far back.  She insisted I go grab her keys ~ I was furious.  So, in my Arrona-stubborn-step, I stomped under the bleachers, found her keys in the grass, bent down hurriedly to pick them up, and whirled around ~ smack dab nose-first into a steel beam.  Maybe I never went back and cheered at any games, who knows.  It was my fault, for rushing under there and stomping around ~ I remember that ~ and I remember vividly the lightening between my eyes when the edge of the steel beam ripped into the bridge of my nose.  And the kids at school making fun of me when I went to class with a bandage or band-aid across my nose. 

I think that's it.  And these memories I remember because I have a physical reminder of each one ~ a sense of each of these moments has been ingrained in me ~ on me.  If I didn't have any physical scars, would I remember less?  Or more?  This has been a lifelong struggle, well at least since I was 14 ~~ to remember what it was like, what *I* was like, at age 7 or 8 or 9 or 10.  When I see my friends' children, and I see how fully their personalities are formed at those ages, and even younger, I wonder to myself what I may have been like ~ did I make profound philosophical statements like Jaq does?  Or did I emote as much as Dylan does, or use puns like she does?  Did I ask questions like Shelby does?  Did I read the dictionary like Diandra did when she was 7 or 8?  Did I shrug my shoulders and sigh like Rudy Jr. does?

For most people, looking at childhood photographs may jog their memory ~ a photo of you in the bathtub when you were 6 may help you remember that you wrestled with your brother in the mud that day.  A photo of you smiling broadly may help you remember it was the day your braces came off.  But for me, for my family, most of our photographs burned in the fire.  We've never even talked about the fire.  Ever.

There is a concept called the Forgetting Curve ~ it illustrates the decline of memory retention in time (the "speed of forgetting").  But related to the Forgetting Curve is the concept of strength of memory that refers to the durability that memory traces in the brain ~ that is, the stronger the memory, the longer we can remember it.

That's why photos, actual printed photos not just pixels on my Flickr account, mean so much to me.  And what photos represent, well it means that much more ~ a firestorm of memory more. ~ One August, a lifetime ago, I stayed up all night making a scrapbook, a memory book, for someone ~ an attempt to capture all of the good memories in one place, to make them all tangible so that they could be made worth their weight in gold.  But, the person didn't even really look through the scrapbook until days later, and the scrapbook stayed behind while the person moved on around the world; and the scrapbook was tossed into a box with other knick knacks and books, and put into storage, shortly thereafter; it's sitting alone in the dark, as memories are apt to do, I suppose.

But I want to remember.  I want it to have meant something ~ what the photo represents means something ~ you can't appreciate that until you lose your photos, or your memories, or the value someone else never really placed on them anyway.  That's why photos, and memories, are so important to me.

A few years ago, my mom mailed me what photos she did have of me as a kid ~ the handful of tiny snapshots, some still singed around the edges from the smoke damage, fit into a single ziploc sandwich bag.  Looking at most of the photos though, didn't jog my memory about the events they pictured.  There was a photo of me in a bikini (gasp) at maybe age 8 or 9, doing a headstand in the wet sand.  I have no recollection of ever going to the beach with my family, and I couldn't have been in my right mind, what with doing a headstand in a bikini.

But there was one photo, from a Halloween party at my dad's bodega, where I vaguely remember my mom buying costumes for my brothers at the last minute from a drug store ~ I think my brothers were horrified by the plastic ready-to-wear Chewbacca and Maitre'D costumes my mom made them wear.  I think my mom told my sister she could go to the Halloween party as a little girl ~ but she WAS a little girl!  They put her hair in crooked pony tails and made her wear white tights.  We were so poor back then.  So, for me, they made me a Gypsy ~ I call it foreshadowing.  I think I'm wearing one of my mom's scarves around my head and some of her clothes.

I read somewhere that D. Ewen Cameron wrote in 1963: "Intelligence may be the pride — the towering distinction of man; emotion gives colour and force to his actions; but memory is the bastion of his being.  Without memory, there is no personal identity, there is no continuity to the days of his life. Memory provides the raw material for designs both small and great. Thus, governed and enriched by memory, all the enterprises of man go forward."

So, if I have no memory, do I have no identity?  If I make it up as I go along, is my identity true to my real self?  Does your childhood shape you so much that even if you can't remember it, you are trapped by it?  If everything you once knew goes up in flames, what fragments do you sift out of the ashes?  Which do you leave behind?

I don't want to believe that forgetting is really part of the process of remembering, that my brain is trying to be ruthlessly efficient by ignoring distracting memories in order to better capture new or better memories. 

I want to believe that what I need to remember wants to be remembered, and it is trying to get my attention ~

at any age ~ at every age

We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
    ~Emily Dickinson

After the torrential downpour we had yesterday, I woke up early this morning, to a break in the storm and a glint of soft sun peeking in through the white curtains.  I drove for a bit, zig-zagging around fallen tree branches, sinkholes in the middle of some streets, water bubbling up through others, and rushing rivers of rainwater cascading  through the gutters.  The town I was in shimmered and the yellow trees glowed.  I was glad to be out driving, heading over to the senior home where I am a ball-toss volunteer ~ helping a group of seniors get warmed up for the day. 

The ball is actually a balloon, since most of the seniors have had a stroke or other medical ailment that has left them pretty fragile.  The first time I was in the room, I felt incredibly sad at the sight of some of the seniors slumped over in their wheelchairs.  But AO had said "HI" to me, smiling brightly and putting me at ease.  So, when I returned this morning, I was happy to see them all.

A handsome man walked in with his daughter, Sara, who is maybe 12 years old.  I thought they were there to visit a family member, but the man was simply dropping his daughter off to volunteer and he would return in an hour.  I asked Sara if she was volunteering through her school ~ "No ~ I like volunteering with old people," she said with a smile.  So, we tag-teamed, grabbed two balloons and got to work.

The volunteer coordinator, Melissa, turned on the CD player and Nat King Cole began crooning 'Unforgettable'.  I didn't know whether to feel it was cruel or sweet to play that CD, which would end an hour later with the song 'Too Young'.  Then Melissa explained to us that HW shrieks to get attention and RT will say she has to go to the bathroom even when she doesn't really have to go, so we should just go get Melissa when that happens.  She gave us a little more information about each senior ~ packaging each one into a one-sentence personality, or identity tag.  It's true that at first it's much easier to remember people as "shrieker" and "red sweater" and "sleeper" than their names ~ but I felt a little awkward, standing in the middle of the room where they could all hear us ~ until I noticed many of them were asleep, or simply not paying attention, anyway.  I wondered if they would be annoyed with me interrupting them to throw a balloon around.  I wondered if they get annoyed by the chipper voice the nurses use, as if they are speaking to children.  I wondered if they were lonely.  I wondered if I would get to know any of them, and come up with my own way of identifying them.  It made me think of how I "package people" to remember them ...... but that's another blog post for another time.

I started talking first to MI, feeling it would be a little too forward of me to just walk up to her and toss a balloon in her face.  Melissa opened the curtains and the streaks of sun gave way to sheets of rain.  MI said something about the intense weather and I told her I had been driving in it yesterday ~ she asked what it was like, driving in such a storm ~ "We're so sheltered in here that we forget what the real world is like."  And she laughed a little.  I asked her if she would like to play "volley-balloon" and she smiled and said yes.

The balloon toss isn't just to kill time while Melissa prepares snacks and movie time.  Arthritis and strokes have left some of the seniors with limp arms and hands ~ the balloon toss helps them try to reach up and use those arms, it helps them loosen up joints, and I guess it does help them pass the time.  MI was pretty limber and she punched the balloon pretty fiercely a few times.  When she missed she would say, "I'm sorry," and after a while, we actually enjoyed a conversation as we punched the balloon back and forth.  She sang the lyrics to "Mona Lisa" and later she told Sara she was really good with the balloon.

I gave MI a break and walked over to AO, whom I had met a few weeks ago.  She remembered me and smiled when she saw me, which warmed my heart.  At first she favored her right arm, leaving her left hand resting on her chest,  but after a while, in her excitement, she started using both arms and I felt incredibly useful today ~ she even used her legs a few time when the balloon went low, and we laughed and called it balloon soccer.  By now, most of the seniors in the room had been watching, and started looking interested in the silly game.

I looked over at RS and asked her if she would like to play, too.  She turned her head sideways, to give me a sly look, and she flashed a wry grin, then wriggled her fingers(!)  She was hilarious.  Sometimes she would fake me out and instead of punching the balloon back at me, she would just catch it and hold onto it, to watch me stumble around as I waited for the return volley.  She'd peek her face out from behind the red balloon, and giggle.  I immediately adored her.

Then, when HW shrieked to get my attention, RS frowned but gave me the nod to toss the balloon to HW next.  HW was pretty low-functioning, physically.  She was difficult to understand and I wondered if behind the huge glasses and the muddled speech she was totally lucid and thinking, "I'm not a toddler! You don't have to say 'Good job!' to me when I bat the damn balloon!"  Her right hand functioned better than her left and she would give me the "ready" signal by throwing her right arm into the air ~ I would basically gently toss the balloon right into the palm of her hand and let her SLAM that thing right into me.  Then, in her excitement, she started using her limp left hand ~ and she started raising her left arm as the "ready" signal ~ smiling each time I grunted "UUUUFFF!" when I caught her return volley.  After a while, I went back to MI ~ MJ, who was in the wheelchair next to her and who hadn't said anything the entire time, quietly inched forward in her wheelchair, letting me know she wanted to be next.  MJ had been sort of slumped in her wheelchair, looking down...until I tossed the balloon to her ~ her eyes lit up, she giggled, she smiled ~ but she never said a word.

By now I was working up a sweat ~ really.   Because they have little control over their arms and the force they use, most of the shots they made were widely random, bullet-like shots ~ I had to dance side to side to catch many of the shots, and after a while I found myself dancing around to the beat of the music, singing along to some of the songs with them.  I'm sure it was a funny sight, but we had a lot of fun.  I know I'll never look at a red balloon the same way......

After, we signed the Volunteer Book and I noticed how many volunteers visit this senior center.  I flipped through the pages and noticed the people who visit every week for the "Best Friends" activity, or to play Scrabble with the seniors ~ Melissa told me there are a couple of Scrabble-Shark seniors who play for blood.(!)  Word in the halls is also that a new guy was a friend of Hemingway, and is actually a character in one of Hemingway's stories ~ so next time, I'm going to seek him out and see if he'll chat with me.

Later, after some aimless driving, I ended up at Caffe Trieste in Berkeley.  I walked in just as another ocean of rain let loose from the sky ~ it was crowded and steamy and I wondered where in the world they fit the band when they have music there.  I sat for a while and couldn't help but overhear the older woman next to me giving a brain-download to a younger woman, the new teacher who would take over her fifth-grade class, as they went over the class list: "This little guy is such a creative soul; this one here will raise her hand all day and interrupt and want to answer every question; this little one is borderline-autistic, but I wouldn't say it like that to the parents;" and so on.  She was packaging each kid for easy identification for the new teacher ~ and I wondered if the i.d. makes the kid or the kid makes the i.d. ~ in other words, if the i.d. predisposes the teacher to fit the kid into a certain box, before the kid has even had a chance to explore every corner of the box and see if he in fact wants to be in that particular, or any, box. 

And I was left wondering what box I'm supposed to fit in ~ what "new" I'm supposed to be tomorrow ~

It's not what you do, it's how you do it

Sometimes when you least expect, in fact even when you actively fight against it, a tiny lesson with a huge impact sneaks inside you ~ past your defense mechanisms, through your tough facade ~ and wraps itself around your weakened spirit.  And when this lesson is something you already knew, it's that much more, well, enlightening ~

Tonight after work, when everyone else seemed to be running around getting ready for some huge storm that is heading our way, I went to the downtown Oakland YMCA, which you know is one of my favorite places.  Someone recommended I try the Feldenkrais class, to help regain strength in my back.  I wandered into the exercise studio and had second thoughts when I saw it was a dark room, two students (including me), and the instructor.  Before I could sneak out, though, the class started ~ and I lay there in the dark, wondering how in the world I would get through an hour of the instructor softly asking us to "imagine the connection your ankle is making with the floor," and so on.

So, for the first 10 minutes or so, I begrudgingly went along with her instructions ~ then a few more students walked in, and the instructor turned on a couple of large heaters.  The thing is ~ the thing is ~ it all started making sense, feeling right.  The heaters hummed and cast a huge orange glow, waxing and waning, bright then dim as their huge round faces smiled first to the left then glided quietly to the right, casting a long thin shadow on the ceiling.  I lay there, the shadows looking down at me, gliding across the ceiling with an "I told you so" smirk. 

The instructor explained how Feldenkrais requires only tiny movements ~ nothing vigorous. ~ When all you know is that anything good takes hard work, requires breaking a sweat, well, laying there quietly in the dark felt ridiculous.  We lay on our backs and crossed our legs and leaned them to the right ~ tiny movements, but it was hard on my back.  Then we uncrossed our legs and pointed our arms up towards the ceiling, as if clapping ~ and shifted to the right then to the left.  We went through a series of small, ordered movements.  She told us how the movements were not random but ordered lessons, laying out a story.   She explained that the order in which we did the movements encouraged a softening of the chest, a readjustment of habitual patterns, a gentle shakeup of how we organize our bodies in certain movements ~ a chance to do things a little differently for a lot of difference.

If you know me, if you really know me, you know that I'm about to say: There's a metaphor in there somewhere.

And there really was ~ we went back to the first round of movements and I laughed out loud when my body went farther than it had before, when it felt freer and better and lighter.  She told me that you don't have to push far to make big changes ~

I sprinted out of the room, smiling as warmly and widely as the huge beaming heaters, and I bumped into Brooke, who teaches the deliciously agonizing Step class.  So, I joined Brooke's class and at the 30-minute mark, someone panted and reminded us that the class is now 45 minutes long.  We turned up the music, shouted a lot, and shimmied through the cool-down.  Then I slipped my headphones on for a run on the treadmill and a spin on the machines for another hour plus ~ listening to Ira Glass.  I'd write about the 'Home Alone' episode I heard, but someone else wrote a much better post about that.

Deep in the Heart of ~~~~

Top six signs I am back home in Texas ~ Houston to be exact ~ where my family lives:

(1) My WiFi options this afternoon included not one but two Truck Stops within a mile of my house.
When they chose where to live, not only did my parents pick Houston, but to add insult to injury, they didn't even choose to live "Inside The Loop," which I hear can be very civilized and cosmopolitan (well, in a cowboy-kickin' kinda way).  No, my parents live way out in the "Aldine" area, somewhere between downtown Houston and the cities of Humble, Kingwood, and Spring, TX ~ and if you look at a map of the Greater Houston Area, you will see that there is not much, in fact, there is nothing, between downtown Houston and the nicer areas north of downtown (Humble, Kingwood, and Spring).  Luckily for me, I found out there is Panera Bread place in Humble, about 15 minutes from my parent's house, on FM 1960 ~ which is where I sit at this very moment, enjoying the quiet with a huge cappuccino and a bagel ~ all of which became absolutely vital to regain my equilibrium, my sense of Self (which is another post for later).  Bonus, hipter teens walked in, jet-back mohawk, tight skinny jeans, chain hanging from the belt.  Ahhhh, I feel much more at home!

(2) Absolutely NO Zoning ~ and it shows. 
The fact that there are two Truck Stops within a mile of my parent's house is a testament to Houston's absolute refusal to adopt official Zoning Regulations.  In fact, Houston is the only major American city with NO formal Zoning Code(!)  I have seen a gas station next to a residential home next to an auto mechanic next to a bar next to a school.

(3) God Religion ~ it's every where. 
The massive billboard on Highway 59 South, heading from Humble to the Lauder Rd. exit, declares, "Have you prayed for our Country's leaders today? 2 Chronicles 7:14."  (Apparently, you can now buy a handy guide to help you effectively pray for our Nation.)  After the billboard, along the same highway, I saw a huge Christian Life Center and then every mile or so, another church or bible study gathering place.  Religion is on every other billboard, every other radio station, and every other TV station (in Spanish and English) ~ I cannot get away from it out here ~ it is pretty suffocating, for me anyway (if one more person tells me to have a "Blessed Day," I may scream).  In my parent's kitchen, propped up in the cookbook holder, instead of a cookbook, there sits a BIBLE!  Someone save me now, please.  I like my religion like I like my Sundays ~ quietly.

(4) Strip Malls. 
As far as the eye can see in Houston, scattered below the seven-lane mega-highways, are countless strip malls.  There are tiny strip malls, huge strip malls, all-ethnic strip malls, new strip malls, old abandoned strip malls ~ but there are no nice strip malls.  It seems Houstonians cannot get enough strip malls.  On our drive to Bellaire this morning, I saw new strip malls being built right across the street or next to old strip malls or even other new strip malls that were mostly vacant, still leasing!  I don't get it!  I don't think I'm criticizing strip malls per se, but rather the SHEER NUMBER of them here in Houston, particularly when so many of them are not even fully leased.  Since this is Houston, and since Houstonians are addicted to their cars, and since there is sprawl everywhere, well, strip malls exist by necessity.  And truth be told, I was impressed by the diverse and mom-and-pop businesses in many of the strip malls.  But when you drive past three half-empty massive strip malls in ONE block, there's something wrong ~ it detracts from the (questionable) aesthetics of the surrounding area and it worries other businesses who may see leasing the empty space as too risky.  But that, too, is a whole other post.

(5) This is Ford Country. 
Not only is this God Country, it is clearly Ford Tough/Ford Country ~ Fords are everywhere out here.  I only add this one to the list because last night, my Dad reminded me that in high school, I used to drive a Ford F-150(!)  I think it was black and silver.  I'd forgotten all about that.  Dad put me (back) in my place, I suppose.

(6) Two words: DENIM SHORTS!

Above all this, though, the Heart of Texas is clearly the people ~ they smile; they cheerfully say, "I'll be right with y'all!"; they say "yes sir and yes miss"; they are full of twangy, smiling salutations. So, even if they do top if off with, "Have a Blessed Day," they are like comfort food ~~~ warm, inviting, humble.  They are just so damn friendly here!  So it makes sense that 'Texas' comes from the Hasinai Indian word 'tejas', meaning friends or allies ~ and the State Motto is 'Friendship'(!)

So, while there is a lot about Texas that drives me crazy (see, we're all addicted to driving), there are a few characteristics that are ingrained in every Texan which I do cherish, and which apparently are deep in the heart of me: loyalty, friendship, cheerful connections with strangers.  On that note, I have to rush off to meet my parents at their favorite restaurant, as they call it, "El Olivo Garden."
:)

Going Home ~ Looking The Part

Tonight I started packing for my trip home to Houston ~ to see my family for the Christmas Holidays.  I don't leave until early Tuesday morning, on Christmas Day, but going home to see my family means I pack way more than clothes into the baggage I carry home........... ~

For as long as I can remember, the motto at the Arrona household has always been: Put your best foot forward (con la pata derecha!)......and if you don't have nice feet (such is our curse), then for God's sake don't wear sandals! ~~ And so, not once in any of the the hundred-plus-degrees muggy summers that I spent growing up in Houston did I ever wear sandals.  Ever. 

In Houston, or well, maybe just in the Arrona household, you get dolled up just to go out and check the mail because (a) the mailman might be cute and/or (b) for God's sake, what will the neighbors think!?  We were pretty proper in my house growing up and we still speak to my parents in the formal "Usted" instead of the familiar "Tú" (although in huge fights we have been known to hurl a roaring "Tú" at them as a form of insult ~ oh the Greek tragedy of the Mexican telenovela at my house!).  When doing laundry, my Mom always said "la ropa interior" or "la ropa delicada" instead of the gruff "underwear" and never "calzones".

For better or worse, and I'd say it's just about even, that obsession with "what will people think" and "look your best" have been ingrained in me.  This is not an easy cross to carry, let me tell you, especially when you are clumsy like I am, or enjoy wilderness camping and say, not washing your hair often, like I do.  And the price my sister and I pay for lingerie ~ obscene ~ but it makes for drawers full of, well, nice drawers. :)

But back to the point.......I often, OFTEN, have wondered why in the hell it all mattered so much to my parents ~ and often, even now when I have conversations with my Dad, I am reminded of why it matters to him so, so much to not only "look your best," but more important, "look the part."

And I finally figured out that, for my parents, even now and for as long as I can remember, it is because the rest of them does not fit in.

When I was born, my parents spoke little to no English.  My Dad was starting out in construction and he quickly figured out that it was the white men in jeans and cowboy boots and starched shirts, the good ole boys, who owned the contracting companies, who called the shots, who made the big money, who got "all the respect."  And so, I remember ironing my Dad's undershirts and jeans when I was 7 years old ~ tip-toeing on a box to reach the ironing board my Mom set up for me in the kitchen of the tiny 2-bedroom apartment the six of us lived in during our poorest days. 

For my Dad, when people could not understand his English, he felt indignant ~ he was after all, wearing the same starched shirts and blue jeans as everyone else ~ his exterior fit, for the most part, and so he hated it when the rest of him did not.  He still does.  Even now, in the unbearable summer weather, my Dad will still wear his long-sleeved, white, starched dress shirts to the construction site.  Only this time, it's because he is the Boss ~ and he wants to show all of his workers that he does, finally, fit in with the rest of the Bosses ~ his partners in a now-very-lucrative building enterprise.  They have moved up to building hotels ~ my Dad says it's his charm and starched shirts and power point presentations that he taught himself to give ~ "como los Americanos," he says.  Even years after getting his citizenship, and proudly planting a damn American flag everywhere he can, he still calls them "los Americanos."

For me, "dressing the part" means I have had to endure mocking by my friends who don't understand my need to iron everything, although, thankfully, I have learned to let that go a little more the past few years.  In law school, I found out my nickname was "La Planchadita." I was really upset, even after my friends tried to explain it was because they "admired", yeah right, my "got it together" look.  Oh if only they knew about the static-cling of wrinkled chaos lurking behind my pressed tshirts!  When someone peeks behind the starched exterior, and gets a glimpse of the real person inside, the reaction says a lot about the other person's character.  I have found.

So here I am, years and years into adulthood and still I worry whether my Dad will like what I'm wearing when I meet them at the airport.  It means the world to me when his eyes light up and he oohs and aahs over my skirt or my shoes or my hair, and then as he struts proudly with me on his arm.  Would he do that if I were wearing old jeans and sandals?  I'm not sure.  And I don't care, or I don't care to test it.  On a bigger scale, the  clothes I choose to wear when I see my family are a symbol to them that I have made it in the world that eluded them for so long; if only they knew how far I still have to go.   

They were mocked for their accents and so they chose to dress well and teach that to their children; now I am mocked at times for how I dress (never casual enough it seems).  I am reminded of the irony every time the steam comes up off the shirt I just ironed.

My friends ask me isn't awful to not be able to "be who I am" when I go home ~ but it isn't like that.  I don't feel "oppressed" because it's easier to "look a certain way" when I see my parents.  Rather, it's a bit of the opposite ~ I am relieved, and it is easier, to give them simply what they want ~ to look nice, for God's sake.  Because so much of the rest of me is absolutely not what they want.  They'd prefer I move back to Houston, or just anywhere Texas ~ that will probably never happen.  It would be so much easier for them and for our dinner conversation if my political views shifted about 300 steps to the Right ~ that's not gonna happen.  They would love it if I worked for a law firm and made the six figures everyone else is earning ~ that will absolutely never happen.  They would be so much more content if I were married, with kids, and a white picket fence and a minivan in the driveway ~ preferably in Houston.  I am unlikely to achieve any part of that sentence.

So, what I can do ~ is to look nice for them.  So that the rest of me doesn't feel like such a disappointment to them.  That's not really as sad as it sounds ~ though.  I think when I look nice for them, it makes all of us happy ~ they worry a little less, and we can move on to other conversations besides, "Dios Mio, how old are those jeans you are wearing!?"  Besides, it's only for a few days ~ it won't kill me.  Ha, can you hear your parents telling you, "Would it kill you to dress nice for once?!?"  Well, it's true; it won't kill you.  I choose my battles.

Next week, I expect my Dad will take me out to the construction sites and introduce me to everyone ~ as "the Daughter who WOULD take over the family business if she weren't off making her mark in California."  OH if only they all knew...... I expect my Mom will, as usual, want to see everything in my suitcase, so she can ooh and ahh over the lingerie and the face cream and the perfume.  What used to be an infuriating, frustrating invasion of my privacy ~ well it wasn't going to change, so all I could do was to turn it into a bonding experience with my Mom.  What little we do have in common, it fits in my suitcase.  And truth be told, I'm glad she raised us to be so damn fickle with our personal grooming ~ thanks to a daily dose of baby oil ever since I can remember, I have the softest damn skin on the planet.  I've been told.

And so ~ yes, it sounds ridiculous, all of this worry over "looking just right" and personal grooming ~ but I take what little I can give to my parents, and I give it to them.  And with that, it should be a Merry Christmas after all.

Thank You Mr. W~

Weeks and weeks ago I published a post about an exceptional encounter I had with W~ But something about it didn't feel right ~ maybe it was too personal; for me and for him.  So I deleted the post.  But I have been thinking a lot about Mr. W since I met him, as brief as it was for a volunteer stint in September ~ and little reminders about him keep sneaking up on me.  His effect on me has been as complex as the look in his eyes and yet as simple as his sweet smile. ~

More recently, I stumbled upon some new TV show, apparently loved by critics and viewers. ~ The show is strange; about a guy, Ned, who can bring people back to life with a touch of a finger, but only for 60 seconds.  But Ned quickly learns that if something is revived for more than exactly one minute, something of equal "life value" in the vicinity drops dead, in a form of balance.  Did I say yet that the show is a cutesy comedy?  I've only seen one episode but it's the one where Charlotte/Chuck says, "You can't just touch someone's life and be done with it."

And so, I must defer to the authenticity of that statement, which could easily be brushed aside as another hokey Hollywood platitude.....but then someone like Mr. W, a Misfit just like me and just like you,  makes you re-consider ~ and so I have to republish the post, in honor of, and with gratitude to, Mr. W, because he matters; he's in the public archives now, and it's searchable ~ and in this day and age, somehow that means something ~ that means his existence, his impact, is recorded ~ ~ he touched my life and, apparently, is not done with it.

~

I heard the shuffle of his shiny brown leather, tasseled loafers before I saw him round the corner ~ and then the smiling face bent over mine, asking excitedly, "Hi! What's your name?" ~ even though I had told him my name only an hour or so earlier.  I told him my name again.  With enthusiasm he extended his hand and gushed, "Nice to meet you!", and he continued with a story.  I forget now what we even talked about, or what he said; I remember only the molasses color of his eyes, and the sweetness of his voice.  He finished his story ~ paused ~ and started to shuffle off to draw; then he stopped, and asked, "What's your name?"  So I told him, again.  "Nice to meet you!" he exclaimed, excitedly shaking my hand.  Again.

Earlier he had said, "I have schizophrenia ~ but the medication, it's helping ~ not so many voices now."  He said he was learning to recognize his voice ~ just his ~ not the others...wanting so much just to hear his thoughts, to know what he was thinking.

He spent some time drawing.  After, he rushed over to me, leaning hurriedly into his excitement ~ "Marisa, look!  I made these!" ~~ He had remembered my name.  He remembered me.

He leaned over and waved FIVE drawings he had made.  Before I could say anything, he started explaining...."This one represents travel...because I want to travel."  There were clouds, a bright sun, a gleaming blue ocean...and two islands ~ not one.  The sound of his smile made me look up ~ and I noticed the flecks of glitter and glue dotting his face.

The next drawing was a large box, filled with different colors ~ think Rothko with crayons, and Rothko's thoughts on "child art...the innate feeling for form that is, in the best and most universal work, expressed without mental interference...." ~ He showed me the drawing and I gushed, "oooh, abstract art!  What does this one mean?"  He was silent for a second ~ then picked up where his thought had dropped off and said, "Oh.....wisdom.....I think." 

Then he showed me the next drawing, a circle filled with different colors; "Strength," he said.  And the fourth drawing, representing more travel he wants to do ~ mountains and sky and sun and clouds ~ "mountains mean abundance," he told me. 

Finally, he showed me his masterpiece ~ the largest drawing, of a big box, divided into two sections, filled with different colors, and a line down the middle ~ at the top of one section, "Wisdom," and at the top of the other section, "Strength."

And he smiled some more, glitter shining on his lip.  Then he suddenly, silently, shuffled off ~ as if he remembered another appointment he had.

And so he made me realize the truth of travel versus journey, and of knowing oneself, and being kind without knowing ~ ~ and I was so happy to have met him that day ~ and so I remembered this song, one of my favorites; and now it has new, utter new meaning ~ I hold it in my heart for Mr. W ~

I never loved nobody fully ~ Always one foot on the ground ~ And by protecting my heart truly ~ I got lost in the sounds ~ I hear in my mind ~ All of these voices ~ I hear in my mind all of these words ~ I hear in my mind all of this music ~ and it breaks my heart.

~ Wherever he is, I hope he is doing well and has found a quiet place to listen to his thoughts........