Sophie plays with the flowers

Sophie was sniffing the flowers for a while today, while I meditated on beauty by the kitchen table.
And every time I tried to capture this hillarious moment she froze for the camera.

Sophie is a beautiful cat, and she doesn't know it.

She attempts to seduce her brother, Zarathustra, while he ignores her.
But, "c'est la vie,"  she says to herself.

"I'm just going to go about sniffing these flowers."

A Lesson from a Barrista During a Sunday Morning in Cambridge

The following entry makes me realize that I'm one of those people who posts obscure things on their facebook status, like:
"Coffee, tea, love, peace, sun= Great day." Or "Friends, cuddling on the couch with my cat on the fire place with wine=awesome." I'm guilty. Sue me [Or sew me.... Sue me. That's how you spell it. I think]. I'm an aesthetically oriented person; heavily influenced by my surroundings and I'm kind of right brained.


There are very few things in life that I love more than Sunday sunny fall mornings in Cambridge. Young couples with their children, old couples bickering during their traditional Sunday morning coffee, the sun-
THE SUN!
And the breeze? Awesome.
Why isn't it awesome in Beverly? It's awesome there too, but in Cambridge it's like 5 times better. Maybe it's the red brick, maybe it's all the action. I don't why. It just fills me with an incredible feeling that I'm in some cool movie and that music from the Garden State is playing in the background, especially when the leaves are yellow and green and red and amazing. I wish there was something concrete I could tell you about the reasons why this feels so glorious to me and alltogether cathartic--catharsis, yes. That's the perfect word to describe it. There's nothing concrete about it; atleast not that I know of.
But there's something about the smiley, touchy barristas at 1369 and the otherwise, odd combination of people, reading everything from mystery novels to archeological studies to New York Times Best Sellers to Elmo coloring books. There's something about Inman Square and the fact that they have their own journal where locals write essays and poetry (The Inman Review); the fact that the tiny yoga studio-art gallery-jazz club-concert venue-book club locale  is right next to it. Folks are sitting, standing, waiting for buses and people, and living life together. It's vibrant, it's diverse, it's beautiful and it's what life is about for me. Community.
1369 is like a family's klitchen during breakfast, except with music in the background.  The barristas playing the hipster version of your mother offering you breakfast, "Some yogurt, honey?"
Except these hipster-versions-of-your-mom know that you don't drink milk because of the hormones that are pumped into the cows or something and you that you want granola with your yogurt. 
The cafe-goers next to you, your brothers and sisters, except you actually want to talk to them and find out why they're reading Three Cups of Tea and what intrigues them about the newspaper this morning.
It's a cooler family than yours and you can leave the table without asking for permission if you get indigestion.  Uncle Jim isn't there to embarass you. Instead, you find the guy with the flower-print short who is talking to himself rather endearing and an essential part of your quirky cafe family.
Even more so, since the Lily Pad is right next door-as we previously established-and you go to yoga there with three of the same people that attend 1369 every Sunday morning, you may see them at an art gallery or two and you feel that you are part of something.  You're part of this painting here with jazz, intellectualls, hipsters, mom's, dad's, the other dad, weird-but-beautiful-crazies, and you feel beautiful in it.
This morning the barista with the oversized glasses. Ok. one of the baristas with the oversized glasses said to the other one,
"We were just using how you work as a metaphor."
"Shottily?" says, the guy with the  "Old blood, New Skin" tattoo---
Or was it "Old Skin, New Blood" tattoo?
Anyways...they laugh and Glasses-guy adds, "Slow and ineffectively?"

I thought about the fact that this barrista's "slow and ineffective" work-style is a laughing matter and something that everyone is ok. with. Maybe I'm totally missing what was meant and taking this brief conversation out of context. But in so far as it makes me feel better about my life, I feel that this is a worthy move.
Because I would describe my work ethic as shotty, slow and inefficient and because  I usually cannot laugh about it. Instead cry about it. A lot. I get nervous and when confronted with work that is hard I often get this overwhelming sensation in my lower back, causing me to feel like going to the bathroom. But laughter....never thought about it.
Laughter says it's OK that you are this way. The Blood-skin-tattoo guy took his time to make my latte. He had 4 cups lined in a row before mine to fill. His latte-art was-kind of non-existent. Much like my own work-whether it's school work or work work. But instead of taking my time I start to believe that I'll somehow make it better by frantically rushing and then, dropping pens and tripping over my shoe laces. I should laugh like he did. And I should take my time. And if someone has to wait. Then so be it. 'Cause I'm doing my best.
:) So there. I'm done.

Family

I remember it like yesterday. I was invited to Chuckee Cheese for her little sister's birthday. My mom bought her a Thumbelina VHS from Avon, the line my mom used to sell. The video was probably just as expensive as any of the other presents because Avon overprices things, but that's besides the point. She looks at my mom's gift and says, "That's it?" with a look of horror. Her mother quickly sushes her. Literally: "Ssshh." I just stared with all the colorful balls and paper tickets blurring in the background, while she took center stage.
The other day I had the experience of inviting them over as my guests. For the first time in my life, these people were in my house. I wasn't the one tip toeing into conversations, twiddling my thumbs or getting forgotten next to the heater for forty five minutes while having to pee when playing hide and seek at 8. They were in my hippie house, of course. So she says, "What's up with the pool table in the backyard?" I chuckle and tell her that it was my housemates' idea. "Oh....I guess it fits with the overall (pause) feel of the house."
 My cousin hasn't changed much, I guess. Whether she was 9 or 24, it's the same disdain for things beneath her. But one thing has changed: I've stopped envying her and that side of my "family."  They came to a place that has come to be an emotional refuge for me, where people have healed a lot of my wounds through their genuine love, candor, simplicity and support. So that while the paint on the porch is chipped and our walls stained, our backyard a collage of tarp, chipped pool table and wood, our inner world is radiant. With all of them standing beside me, I heard her disdainfully raise her nose and completely check-out at my bbq, but this time she was the one blurring in the background. My friends who have become like my family took the spotlight and so did my mother, who used to stand at the margins of their conversations during Christmas.

Dad

I met you today,
during a story.
And let my guts pour out all over the floor
over and over...
My life just lying there on the ground, for everyone to see
as I chewed and processed publicly

My heart melted when I heard a piece of me was a freedom fighter
sometime
long before I was born
And that his spirit, I still carry

If you're cool and you're reading this, this is not for you

I wanted nothing more than to dance salsa tonight. And it seemed like the conditions were perfect: It wasn't  one hundred and three degrees outside; I returned from the mall with an end-of-the-work-week reward for myself; i.e. a beautiful mahogany bag and gorgeous earrings. I wasn't feeling like a cow and felt confident enough to go out. So I call and text a couple of folks, all of whom are willing to go somewhere but not "all the way to Boston" and surely not to dance salsa.
Ok.
I set my Pandora station to Marc Anthony radio and get ready to go out by myself. Yes, I was going to do it. I was going to venture into this uncharted territory: Going dancing by oneself; treating your relationship with Boston as though you were a married couple trying to revive the flame by acting as though you were on a first date with the place. I was going to be a tourist in Boston with all the daring energy in the world. My cocktail dress was played down by a sloppy bun so as to not look too enticing--I didn't want to get hit on by creepy men.
And then...
I was anxious.
I was ready to go, but thought:
Where will I leave my purse when I am on the dance floor?
And how will I come off: A young woman by herself at a club, ripe for any man to come onto her?
Of course I wasn't afraid of the handsome professionals going to dance salsa after a long work week, who would impress me with great conversation and wit. I was worried about Panchito and his friend Hector, who resemble the men who are most likely to approach me and then ask me awkward questions with sexual innuendos. They'll be 2 feet shorter than me with huge mustaches. Oh, and one of my headlights needs a new bulb and I might get pulled over by the cops.

Before I knew it, my anxieties had defeated me and there was no salsa, no beautiful heels on wooden floors. No memories of Antiguo San Juan and a rekindling of that old Latin flame that still burns inside of me--somewhere--in a dark corner with cobwebs, probably in the basement of my soul.
Instead, I had traded my night of salsa for a party in Beverly--still in the clothes I would have gone dancing in, mind you. You might think that wearing the same clothes I would wear salsa dancing to a party is not that strange. Oh, but it is. Because Beverly parties are not like other parties. People dress in flannel here.
Also, people walk away from you when they don't like what you're saying, which is about 90% of the time for me.  And if they don't know you, they might turn their backs to you. Literally. You might not be able to tell whether you should continue a conversation because they may become uncomfortable with how long the conversation is going or with the dynamic of it all. They may prefer to talk about the word "sex" or "fuck" or cigarettes. If you mention something serious, they may just walk away because it's not in their repertoire of approved topics.
But it's ok. because I'm still seeking to understand people who are different than me. It's the only way to be. And of course, there were lovely people there. People who know me and who I appreciate dearly. It's just those folks I don't know, who I judge intently when they do things that are foreign to me and weird. And then I realize, there are some people who don't act this way, even in Beverly. And coincidentally, they are older and their jobs look a little different and their thoughts are consumed with other topics. So maybe tonight was ok. afterall.
And maybe one day I'll be surrounded with people who will want to dance salsa with me and wear heels and makeup, and maybe they'll want to live in the manifestation of their roots; of their culture; of what makes their heart beat. For now, the hearts of those who surround me beat for something different than me. And it's a tension I must learn more about.
 

If you find yourself in bed, crying now
No room to breathe
Know that pictures of your seemingly mundane life will soon make sense in the context of pictures of your future travels
You will look back at it all
Just when you think you're being complacent
Just when you think you are stuck
Songs of melancholy will turn into songs of depth
Perspective will rise from routine

You will see these photographs that are now melancholy, mundane, just evidence that you are stuck
You will see them in black and white and sepia
These, that seem so common place to you now
As they age, these will increase in value
And you will treasure their cracks and folded over corners

Food

I ate 7 Starbursts today--or maybe 10. One typically looses track of how many Starburst he/she eats after you pop that first one.
Oh, and I ate bread. And it wasn't even whole grain!
And best of all, I ate a buffalo chicken wrap. Out of all of the bad things I ate today, I look back at this item of food with the least regret because, to be honest, I didn't enjoy it. Especially not the blue cheese. But the Starbursts. Those were good. And so was the bread.

Question: Why exactly are you happy about the fact that you didn't enjoy the buffalo chicken wrap in all of it's cheesy glory? Answer: Because this is indicative of the fact that my body is learning to love itself and my taste buds are totally riding that wave-length and learning to love vitamin-filled vegetables .

People are telling me I look thin. And when I look at myself, I am happy. Best of all, I feel comfortable in my own skin.  But the fear of going back to a place where my hips protrude and my thighs rub together hangs over me with every Starburst and piece of white bread that enters my mouth. As soon as I taste the sugar and the starch I feel my thighs expand slightly and think about how much yoga I must do to get the fat to turn into muscle.
And as you hear me, you may think this is anorexia. But no, my friends, sadly, this is what women think about. All the time. Especially when you're not naturally a size 5.

Good morning

It's morning and the air filling my room is crisp and cool-like fall. And fall soothes me in a way no other season can. I wish there was a newspaper to pick up on the front porch so I could read it with tea in the kitchen or living room. Except we don't use those common areas in this house. We still haven't kicked the college dorm room habit, so we drink tea and read the imaginary newspaper in our rooms. My room is mustard yellow and beaming with the highlights of the sun that come through the curtains. 


It is morning and everything is fresher than it was towards the end of yesterday. Wait, why was I mad last night again? Now, I'm slightly embarrassed that I ever felt negative feelings at all. 


It's Saturday and the thought of have tos came into my mind briefly in my sleep. 
-"Have to get up and go to yoga...." 
-No, you don't have to. Have to's are for Mondays, and Tuesdays and Wednesdays. 


Saturdays are for sleeping and feeling the coolness of your sheets on your skin; for letting the sun greet you in place of a loud annoying alarm.
-Why, hello Mr. Sun. Come in. 

I haven't felt this way in a while

There are some things I mull over like a dog reluctant to give up the frisbee she's been biting for 7 minutes. "But puppy,  Charlie wants to play with the frisbee." 
And puppy stubbornly bites harder, refusing to relinquish. The following is one of those things in my life. I should just let Charlie play with the damn frisbee, but I am stubborn. So I'll let you know when I become more refined and less dog-like. But until then...



It's like that scene from "Save the Last Dance" when Shanille rips on Sarah and says something to the effect of "open up your pretty blue eyes and look around you, Sarah."  Sarah looks around the free clinic to look at all of the Black single mothers holding their crying babies with no Black men beside them, and Sarah, all the while, has Derek-the only Black man who seems to be doing something with his life in their neighborhood. And of course, he goes for the only white woman in an almost entirely Black community.

It's like when a suburban white girl cries about shit I think is trivial and everyone cancels plans for her and she's more than OK with their sacrifice. When she turns around so that I can see her puffed up face and go "awww....what happened?" Frankly, during times like that, I am not moved.

I am moved when a mother gives everything to buy her daughter a small cupcake for her birthday because that's all they can afford. I am moved when a Dominican family in bumfuck Dominican Republic living off of so little  prepare a large meal for their American guests.

I am not moved, however, when you want the world to revolve around you. I am not moved when you say "I would be fine with living in poverty for the rest of my life" when you can't even begin to scratch the surface of what that even means or looks like. And I am definitely not moved when you have every support system in place, financial and emotional cushions and when you have the luxury of "rebelling" against your parents and yet still find reasons to try to get me to pity you.

In fact, I'm going to be honest here: I have little compassion for people who cry and complain when things get tough when at the same time they have looks, smarts, the favor of everyone in their path and a constant flow of affirmation. And do you know why? Because I don't have all of that all the time, and I don't have the support systems. I do not have the luxury of throwing a fit and asking people to forgo their plans for me. They will most likely respond, "Ok. Annery. We'll be back later. Call if you need anything!" No one planned my birthday. No one showers me with affirmation. And for certain, no one would do my homework should I be in a state of utter chaos.
 I can't just become a barista if I want to because there is no one to rely on. When I'm broke I don't mean I have $600 in my savings account and a trust fund. I mean I have $0.53 in my savings account and -$2.00 in my checkings.

"No other assets?"
"Well...call your parents to see if you can borrow."

First of all, I'd never have to borrow money from my mother. She would gladly give me every penny she had at no cost. And secondly, I would never do that to her because I have more than she does. So, basically,  all I have is me--whether I am crying in my bed at night or shivering with fear--ain't no one going to come to my rescue.

So when little suburban girls want me to pity them-I'm sorry. Ain't gonna happen.
And then I feel like a bitch. You see me with my neck roll, finger raised and scrunched eye brows next to poor white beauty with tears and a red nose. Who do you think looks more affable and approachable?
I am sorry that your life has been so tough, little white girl. Welcome to the fucking world.

The GRE's

Ever since I could remember I always wished I was "that girl"--someone over there who I wasn't and could probably never be.

In 4th grade, I wished I was my best friend, Melinda, who (in my eyes) had everything an 8 year old could want: Good clothes, untangled long dark hair, the admiration of her peers, a family the size of the Camden family of 7th Heaven-except much cooler, with a love for Jamin' 94.5 and a wealth knowledge of Hip Hop on and off the radio (so they knew Foxy Brown and Tupac's songs that were off the radio waves that only the cool people with cable had access to).  These things were of upmost importance then. And these people who told hilarious jokes and were young--in their mid to late 20's showered her with gifts and attention. I wished more than anything I could be her.  Family was at the core of my longing here, and instead I would go back to my lonely room as an only child to make up stories and find creative ways of entertaining myself. 

In the 6th grade, I wished I was Maria. Petite and beautiful with everyone's attention. She was charismatic with a large personality and high cheek bones. I longed to look like her and talk like her and have the authority of those popular people who command everyone's attention in the room.  Affirmation was what she had that at 13, could have come in handy and done wonders for my self esteem. 

Then, my role models became more academic in form. I longed to be like my Harvard-attending family-a distant family that I only really saw on holidays when they extended pity invites to me and my mom because, frankly, we had nowhere else to go on Christmas, and the thought of spending it alone just us two was foreign and uncomfortable. I saw my cousin and her friends arduously study for the SAT's, dropping words like copious and ephemeral and nonplussed every chance they got. The Princeton Review SAT prep book accompanied her everywhere she went-from the pizzeria we hung out at after church with the youth group folks to the car on the way to church sometimes (when I happened to be there, by chance). I was there wishing I, too, could see the fruits of my labor on trees of Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Brown and Stanford. Instead, I got Gordon. My attention span was too limited to bring SAT prep books everywhere and actually focus on them. My support system was more of a collage of random people I had pulled from mentoring programs, begging them to help me study. I turned the pages of my review guides with confusion, not knowing where to start or what it took to get a 1300. But, God, did I want it. I never had a problem with passion. This, I had in copious amounts. 

These days I find myself in a similar place, way more content with myself than I was before and looking upon friends as flawed role models. Yes, they may have diligence and a discipline that I long to have, but do they have passion and a resume as long as mine? Yes, I might be an anomaly that co-workers and colleagues have a hard time understanding, but do they have my innovation and creativity? However, as I find myself studying for the GRE's I long to be like my cousin and like my friends who will do well enough to get into the programs of their choice. I may have to struggle a little more. I wonder if this time around I've developed the appropriate tools to study well and perform well.  I'll let you know when I take them. 

But, there is one thing I'll never forget. Professor Barthold, a philosophy professor I sought to talk to after one of her talks in chapel during my time at Gordon told me, "Well, Annery, don't you think that the story of the person who got straight A's all their life is a boring one? The story of the person who struggled and made it, makes for a much more interesting narrative, don't you think?" 

Yes, and these words changed my life. I've always been unconventional, a little rough around the edges and hard to understand, but perhaps one day I can say that all of my awkward struggle towards achieving dreams that seemed so far away and distant paid off. And that, perhaps, will encourage a young awkward, rough around the edges, mini-me to keep struggling even when you lack a strong family, a strong academic support system and a natural talent for test taking. 

The All-Too-Familiar Dishes in the Sink

I use the last bit of paper on the toilet role. As I'm about to leave the bathroom I look at it and think: That brown cartonesque cylinder really doesn't add much in the way of beauty to our bathroom. But what actually makes me remove the bare toilet role and throw it into the trash is the thought that follows: I hate it when my roommates just leave it there for the next person, who is most likely an innocent victim of someone else's procrastination. He/she most likely rushes into the bathroom after holding it in for the entire car ride back home, to face a big surprise after their release--no TP.

I  am cleaning my room, and in doing so, I usually remove all of the empty cups that were filled with water at some point. I am tempted to leave them in the sink, but then I think: God, I hate it how whenever I come home the sink is full--the sink if full of manifestations of background stories:

• A cup I found in the living room that wasn't mine so I left it in the sink
• A dish and two pans I used to make myself lunch quickly and then ran out the house
• Utensils that I keep forgetting to wash because they're smaller and less obvious than dishes
•  I rather sit on my computer for the five minutes I have left before I have to go to work than wash my dishes or clean the counters my peanut butter, jelly and water residue mixed to create

And there we have it: The accumulation of 7 hours of procrastination on sticky tables, a full sink and a dirty floor.

But the point of writing all of this is not to complain at all. It's to draw attention to this bizarre phenomenon. We've all been there....Or am I alone?
Your dishes in the sink irk me, my dishes in the sink are fine.  Or...better yet...the blame game:  Maria says, "Katie never cleans her dishes " (without noticing that 3 of those dishes are hers).

What is this all about?

Well, it seems as though it is easier to not do the dishes than to do them. Doing them requires a consistent vision for a clean house. And if this isn't on your mind or on your list of priorities, it is much easier to toss a dish in the sink and then forget about it than it is to take the 43 seconds it takes to wash your cup. It requires mental energy.
If, on the other hand, your mind is plagued by how many people might have written on your wall in the last 15 minutes or what Focault might say next about the role of historical perspective in counteracting war as the foundation of institutions of power in "Society Must Be Defended," you won't clean that dish.  Because doing so requires you to put Focault on pause or your email compulsion on hold to take a whole other mental direction.

So what helps turn this around?

When I began reading Real Simple magazine and uncovered the real reason behind my laziness and reluctance to cook, I began to clean up after myself on an exponentially more consistent basis than I had before. I envisioned a nice apartment, opening my fridge and being able to see all of its contents instead of guessing that the soy milk might be sitting in the back somewhere between the old cilantro and the dry carrot. Visions of myself waking up in the morning to the fresh scent of laundry sheets and to a bathroom ready to offer me my toothpaste, brush, cleanser and moisturizer without having to tip toe over accumulations of lint.  I envisioned myself actually wanting to get up in the morning because I don't have to sort through everything on top of my desk, inside my closet and in my dresser to find it, I'll just know where it is.  And this has virtually changed my life.
The problem is that not everyone followed me in this vision--probably because the people I live with are not as complex as I am and can live with a smaller set of requirements than I can.  We must also note that I live in a hippiesque situation reminiscent of the communes of the 1970's with compost bins and everything.
But the point is what motivates me, what motivates us. A vision of a nice place is the bigger picture, but what keeps me from leaving that one dish in the sink to go check my email for the thousandth time? It's the thought: I hate it when my housemates do this.

So what would it look like to inspire this vision, if you will, in my housemates? Because if you think about it...I probably would have left that dish there had it not been for the fact that I hate when other people leave their sticky things behind. Maybe inspiring others to clean up after themselves requires a certain level of frustration and exposure to the messes others might leave. If you are frustrated when people do it to you, you won't want to do it to them. If you don't care when people do it to you, you'll probably do it to them. And if no one ever does it to you, you don't know how it feels to live in someone else's mess, so you may never even get the opportunity to "not want to do it to them."

Family

I remember the first time I attended a summer program. It was junior year of High School, and for the first time, I felt loved. Sure, I felt nostalgia for the people that knew me best. But, to be honest, those people who "knew me best" didn't always love me best--doesn't mean they didn't love me as best they could.

That month in the program, however, made me feel belonging for the first time in my life. I ate with these people, woke up with these people, slept in bunk beds and sleeping bags next to, read and joked with these people. We spent 24 hours a day together and they soon became my family. We experienced life changing moments together-like when we hiked up Giant Mountain in the Adirondacks and I was tired to the point of fatigue, we encouraged each other through.

This experience had taught me that the thing I had longed for all of my life was possible: family. And not just any family, but a family that embraced me, encouraged me and was present on a constant basis.
When the program was over I cried. I cried as I walked to the car, and reluctantly placed my bags in the trunk. I was depressed for weeks, and when I hiked Mount Monadnock a month later with "the people who knew me best" I cried-we bickered all the way up the mountain, and it just wasn't the same.

And I guess living in the commune is kind of like this. I have lived here for a year already and these people have become like my family. But I must admit, there is a level of mistrust here--like I don't actually feel like they can replace the stability that a family provides.
A family is committed to you no matter where in the world you are. Your primary allegiance and devotion is to the people who reared you. When you don't have this, how might this affect how you see yourself?

Whenever I see fathers walking their daughters down the isle, I cry.
I get knots in my throat when I see families-dads and moms and sisters and brothers-going out to dinner together.
I look over attentively when my roommate calls her parent for advise in a desperate situation.
And these tears come from a different place than the ones that come out when I am frustrated with work or with achievement-related things. These tears come from a place of deep fear- that I lay on no real foundation; that family is not something that exists for me, in the typical sense of the word.

According to Urban Dictionary....

	Apparently, my name is meant to occupy the silence of a stupid mumbling comment.  Awesome.  Annerythinlikat
	buy annerythinlikat mugs, tshirts and magnets Used in conjunction with a sentence during a pause in which you are deciding what to say next or ending a sentence to occupy the silence of your stupid mumbling comment or story. (and-every-thing-like-that) I was going to a meeting where I was going to be instructed on how to instruct, annerythinlikat. andevrythinglikat likat harrydeadcat likiss annerything by Jerett Aug 20, 2006 share this http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Annerythinlikat

Cultural Capital

A kid at my job was sitting behind me earlier this week. And after messing up his computer clean up by accidentally pulling a plug, I tried engaging what seemed like an otherwise friendly dude in conversation. For some reason, my code switching kicked in, and this reason is not unknown to me. I tend to code switch depending on who I am talking to. But, often, when the actual switching of codes happens in front of the person I'm speaking differently to, the results are usually relatively awkward.

[Like the time I was saying good-bye to a friend by over-pronouncing all of my r's as I would speak to most of my college friends, and my proper good-bye got intercepted by a dude in Central Square saying,  'Ey yo, what up,'
And I, in my many years of experience with getting hit on in Central Square, just said,
'Wud up,'  which, in turn, elicited an awkward response:  'Why you talkin' like that all the sudden?'
 Ah! Cuz I adapt how I sound to who I'm talking to and I'm a confused bi-product of a multicultural context.]

So my slang kicked in at the office and the computer kid said,

                "Please don't use that word ever again."

 He says this with a sense of authority, as if he is the slang-keeper, holding the authority to approve or deny the use of slang terms to anyone he deems incompetent. And worst of all, he says this to me as if I'm some suburban white person trying to impress him or something.  No offense to suburban white people, but that's just not who I am. And if I was, I would be writing a whole other post about the socially acceptable uses of certain terms and how who one is affects how well these terms are received.

      Well, the conversation doesn't end here. He proceeds to challenge how Dominican I am, asking me to "say something in Spanish."
"You were born here?"
"Yes," I respond.
"Then you're American. Say something in Spanish, you probably can't speak it."

And here I am sitting in my cubicle with my pencil skirt and button down blouse, with client files stacked next to me, listening to this kid in baggy jeans with a modern day jerry curl challenge me to a cultural match, reminiscent of High School "yo' mama battles.'

        I ignore it because...why wouldn't I? I'm done with my friendly attempt at conversation. This has now stepped into a realm I am not willing to engage.

        My coworker happens to pass by, addressing me in Spanish, to which I respond in Spanish. And of course, he says: "See, you're not Dominican. You don't speak Spanish."
Ummm ok.... I ignore.

He proceeds to educate me about said Dominican spanish and explains, "See, you have to know about el tigeraje..." Now, tigeraje is actually not used correctly in this sentence. Tigeraje refers to street smarts, which he meant to use in order to explain that if I did not speak with Dominican slang I surely wasn't Dominican.

      Although the encounter is laughable, it left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and with questions about our perceptions of people. Granted, I was born in the United States and went to a private college. But had he known my background, would he have treated me this way and questioned me so intensely? Had he seen me in a context other than my work environment where my language sounds different, would he have received my switch into slang as defensively as he did?

     Of course I was not going to speak Dominican slang in the office, because 1. I'm in an office setting, which requires a certain degree of professionalism.2. I was not born in a rural town outside of the city in Dominican Republic, I was born in Cambridge.  And 3.  The Spanish I know as my first language comes from a family that is relatively proper.

    Had he known that our backgrounds were probably not that different-that my mom was a single parent, that I grew up in project housing, that graffiti intrigued me as a 14 year old and that I was part of a rap group throughout my adolescence, known as the girl that raps; that I read Source magazine and followed the East Coast-West coast battle long before he was born (represented by Tupac and Biggie); that I cried when The Lox and Faith Evans sang We'll Always Love Big Papa--would this encounter have panned out differently? But listing my credentials is a waste of breath in this situation. The only reason I list them here is to get at a larger point: We assume things about people, especially when it has to do with culture. We use our "cultural capital" to lord over others sometimes, like-

"I grew up in the projects, my big brother is in the Latin Kings, my cousin snorts coke and my mother left me when I was two, what about you?"

Someone in this situation is not lamenting their childhood nor projecting their feelings of brokenness here. They are, in fact, gloating in a self-aggrandizing manner because the culture affirms this kind of background as evidence of cultural badges of honor.
     And this attitude is not limited to people growing up in an urban context. I see this in suburbia all the time. Take the all too familiar post-Gordon party, for instance, I hear conversations like this often:

-"I went to community college for six months, so I was totally in shock when I went to Gordon," says the blonde kid from New Hampshire whose family is Republican, as he ostentatiously smokes a cigarette and blurts out the word "sex" every five minutes.
-"Six months!" Cries the other. "I went for two years before I transfered to Gordon! Ha! Take that, you ignorant fool!"

Well, friends, guess what? There are people in the world with even greater exposure to all things un-Gordon than you! Who have no clue what evangelical even means and who have never seen so many look alikes together in one place in their lives.

    And the same goes for homeboy who was so proud of his knowledge of street Spanish. Listing my 10 years of bilingual schooling, my experience providing interpretation services and my experience tutoring Spanish is probably irrelevant here. Never-mind the fact that Spanish is my first language and it's the only thing I've ever spoken with my mother. I would be just like him if I began to engage him in his world of laying claims to cultural capital. Because in the end, there is someone who speaks even better Spanish, who is more Dominican than the both of us combined; namely, people who live in DR. So our cultural battle here would be nothing more than trying to prove one of us is more clueless than the other. So that it doesn't have to do with culture at all, but with pride.

Friday night

It's Friday night. 9:10 p.m. to be exact.
I'm sitting in my room listening to Erykah Badu, and I don't feel bored.
I don't even feel that eerie feeling that grips me when I've spent too much time inside my own head.
I don't need to go out tonight. Just ask Brad how surprising that is-in contrast to every other previous weekend where I complain about being a 23 year old locked up in suburban hippidom, oppressed by bonfires and blocked from going out- I'm totally ok tonight; just sitting here, chillin' with my girl, Erykah Badu; listening to her advice, her words and soaking up her soulful voice. And not only is this impressive in of itself, but listen to this: Up until 5 minutes ago I was without internet. Without internet! And although I was sure that my life would be exponentially better tonight if my wireless started working, I was ok.
I don't have a date. I'm not in New York City, caught up in a cloud of aesthetic bliss, surrounded by tons of other good looking people walking to vegan restaurants, jazz venues and getting hit on by the cute guy standing on the other side of the room. I'm not at a salsa club with pretty makeup and in my favorite cocktail dress. Not tonight.
And here's the realization: Whenever I am bored, anxious or unsatisfied on a given uneventful Friday night, it's only because of my expectations. I expect to constantly be surrounded by Monica, Rachel, Joey, Ross and Chandler; to always have Central Perk to go to and to always have a date lined up. So that whenever these things don't come to fruition I am let down and frustrated.
So, it must be that the reason I am content tonight is because I've abandoned those expectations. Tonight I'm thinking about the fact that every moment does not have to be filled with stimulation. Not every moment has to reach the peak of excitement. Not every Friday night has to be filled with lots of activity. Those moments are great, but so is this. When those moments are absent, I must take the time to take inventory, rejuvenate. Going on a run/walk, taking out my mat and practicing yoga. Or heck! Not doing a damn thing because how often do you get the chance to sit and do nothing without an assignment in the world hanging over your head?

Sure, it's nice to distract yourself once in a while, but isn't there a problem when we are in a constant state of wanting to escape time with ourselves? I can finally look at myself and answer truthfully: All you got is yourself, m'ija. But that's not all! You have had, and will have moments of fun, of travel, of laughter with friends. Let tonight be mellow and sit with yourself. And even if you do nothing else but lay on your bed, listening to Erykah Badu, that's ok. Chill back, relax and don't you dare call Tyrone's crazy cousin ;)

Compassion for the powerful

You can make me small. You can make me cry. You can make me ball my eyes out. Of course, that wasn't your intention, however. I am your threat. Threatening to the columns that hold up your secure world. So you were just retaliating. Of course.
You expected me to come at you with yells and stones. But once you saw my tears you realized I'm weaker than you thought. And you smiled inside because you regained your power and acquired the ability to say, I can help you.

But once my tears are gone and I regain a sense of perspective. That I, in fact, am not doing poorly. That I, in fact, am not bad at what I do. And that you, in fact, are the very thing I learned about in college and in life: We belittle the people we serve. I get angry once I realize this. And I misunderstand you.
Because see, I was trained to understand the downtrodden. I was trained to understand the oppressed and vulnerable, even as they yell at me. But I don't know how to understand you when you stand over me with your power and make me feel small. How can I be compassionate towards those in power-at the top? They need it too. In fact, they might need it more.
Because the downtrodden know themselves. They know they are downtrodden. But the powerful are deceived: They are addicted to their own status and it fuels their identity. And if you ever told them this, they would roar at you from the well of their need for security. "DON'T YOU DARE CHALLENGE MY IDENTITY."
But how can I not? When the oppressed who are in their hands will be crushed by their need for affirmation? How horrible is it that their affirmation comes from the knowledge that those under them need them to survive?
O powerful one, you can let your guard down. You have value beyond the need others might have for you. Even if no one needed you, you are valuable. People would in fact love you even if they didn't need you. People would be empowered if they learned they didn't need you. And you might be empowered by believing that they can survive on their own. You will be free the second you are comfortable with your strengths and weaknesses and when you remain unthreatened by someone with a different perspective and with a different strength. Resist the temptation to capitulate on their weakness, realize the strength you have that they may not. And share with them, learn from them in a spirit of reciprocity.
I want you to know you can help me. But I want you to know that if I can ever help you, that's Ok and you'll still be amazing at what you do.

Social services

You're so good at what you do.
You even work beyond the hours that are required of you. Time. Efficiency.
You have all of this quantifiable data about how you help people. And you feel great.
But hold on, someone comes along, saying that this job is actually not about you. It's about the clients. Someone comes along and says, 'Oh yea, food stamps are important. But there's something else there that makes them need the food stamps in the first place." You help. But you let them know you are their helper. Without you they could do nothing. These people are disgusting to you. Oh yes they are. These persons with God-given talents and dignity are the ungrateful scum of the earth to you. Why they don't respond to your many calls? You hypothesize: It's because they're lazy. It's because they are ungrateful.

These people are survivors.
Their supposedly disgusting bathrooms are part your imagination and part a reflection of the sexual abuse that happened from the ages of 5-7. Their inability to get up in the morning is not laziness and cannot be explained away with "they just don't want to." It's a reflection of the fact that their mother never got up to take care of them, never made them the breakfasts that you got to enjoy. When you were thinking about Barbie Dolls and your greatest worry was whether you were going to get the toy you wanted at Christmas, they were in bed worrying about whether daddy was going to come wake them from their slumber by slapping them across the face when he came home drunk. You think you are such an expert on their lives? You've been working with "people like them" for a period of a year maybe, maybe two, for the last 5 years or so. They--they have been living their difficult lives for 20 + years. They are experts on themselves. Have you ever thought to ask them, Why? Why are you in shelter? Why are you here instead of in college? Why are you with that abusive boyfriend instead of with a man who will love you? Why are you in shelter instead of living in an apartment like mine? What is the difference between you and I?
You don't ask because you assume the answers to these questions. And they all culminate in theories of laziness and "because they don't want to."
But you're so good at what you do. You manage their lives like they could never imagine managing their own.
But that's part of the system, isn't it? Let's keep tossing them left overs of fish, while never teaching them that they have the potential to fishermen. That they have the potential to be fisherwomen.

I am hoping that someday all of my unconventionality will result in something mindblowingly creative and revolutionary.
In the meantime, lots of people get mad at me.

In theory...

I like many things in theory.
In theory, I like Turkey. And not the country. Just the pictures of the country. I've never been there and today, while looking at these gorgeous photographs of a half moon and a star, reds, vibrant yellows, coffee shops and cool outfits, I decided that I like the hypothetical country. Sure, the controversies over secularism and religiosity in Turkey are fascinating. But let me explain why I hesitate to say I like the country:
In theory, I like Croatia. I like the pictures I took when I was there. I like the Cathedrals, the iron railings, the mustard yellos and the skinny jean modelesque youngsters from Novi Zagreb. But I lived there for six weeks and I only actually liked living there 2 out of the six weeks. These moments of beauty are just that. Moments. They are not sustainable. We don't live in bubbles of beauty. We see glimmers of it.

I like reading. I like seeing the piles of books stack all over my room. I like their colors. I like that you can tell a lot about my interests by their titles, "Book of Hours," "Deep Economy," "Retrato en Sepia," "Cien Años de Soledad." But do I read them? Kind of. I read half of one book, a quarter of another, a chapter of this one, three chapters of that one.
But boy, do I want to read. And boy, do I want to travel to Turkey. But I want to do it in a Palestinian scarf with a coffee cup sipping espresso. In essence, I want the beauty.

Then there are things that I've managed to like both in theory and in practice. I like graffiti, in theory. I love it as a symbol of expression coming from the marginalized in our society; how talent oozes out through the hiss of a spray can from the fingers of those we thought were good for nothings. And I also love the way the spray can feels when I spray it against a wall or a canvas or a wooden slate. Even if I'm not good at it because I haven't had much practice. I like it, and am willing to spend hours practicing and sitting in front of random peaces of wood that I find in my house just so that one day I can proudly put my name on a free wall-beautifully.

Once I got into it, Retrato en Sepia, became my favorite book. I read it all the way from Boston to New York. I lost myself in Allende's pages and in the intricate details of Aurora's life.

In theory, I want to belong to boards, committees, get my voice heard. But, in practice, the work is not always fun. Sometimes it means pushing the envelope, having people get mad at you for doing so, and pushing through their anger anyways just because you believe in this cause. It means feeling bad about the work you do some days. It means researching and praying for connections that may or may not come-with the steadfast hope that one day they will. And even if they don't, all you have is this desire to push the system that keeps a people down; an inner desire to ruffle the feathers of those who maintain it. So even if I never get my connection, I have no other option but to push for them.

This difference between theory and practice is sticking with something through the discomfort. Beautiful pictures of Turkey don't make us uncomfortable. They inspire us. NYTimes articles about poverty, while they may elicit emotion, they mostly satisfy our thirst for knowledge. Again, they inspire us. But as tough as it may be to read the news, it's tougher to take the disappointment from a supervisor, the boredom of the every day. The theoretical helps us to stay inspired. The practice helps us get the job done.
So they're both important, huh?
Beautiful pictures give us perspective and help us see the forest. But the practice is where it's at. Let's keep practicing, people, until we reach the vision that the theoretical provides us with.

Suburbia (Warning: the beginning is slightly angry and it gets happier towards the end)

Sometimes suburbia upsets me, like when people who I know to have very limited experiences try to shun others who they deem "inferior" to themselves.
When cliques of far more "superior" people are formed at the expense of those crowned with middle school titles of "uncool." Like-Oh, I'm sorry. Your skinny jeans and oversized glasses give you an excuse to be rude.
-"No, but I smoke cigarettes and only lived in the suburbs 23 of the 25 years I have lived."
Impressive......
(Sarcasm abounds).

Except no one calls anyone uncool in their twenties, they simply give looks and walk around with an air of superiority.
Little do they know that this is precisely what their fathers and mothers did before them, excluding Blacks, Latinos and others who were not deemed as "superior."
" Oh no!" Cries the hipster. "I voted for Obama."
Obama?
Your previously conservative ass voted for Obama?
Well, don't you get a golden star! Oh, wait! You went on a study abroad trip for two semesters and had a cross cultural experience too?
Wow. Good for you!

And then, there are parts of suburbia that are near to me. Like the beaches and the families and the moms who bake you cookies when you meet them. And the hobbies and the outings.

And then there are the experiences I have in this place (that happens to be in a suburb) with people who are genuine. They transcend every category I might have placed them in, just because we are friends. These people are not 'suburban.' They're not 'White' to me. They're not way too privileged for their own good. And they're not people I resent because I gave up what I had in a cosmopolitan hub to live in a place where no one would understand my experiences. These are lovely people. Compassionate people, who I know by name and as individuals-who may or may not fit into the stereotypes I may have for them. You want to make fun of my occasional accent? Go ahead, because we're cool like that. My defenses are down. Fists are lowered. And we are more similar than any theory or category might deem us to be.

Stereotypes are for people we resent. They are reserved for people we misunderstand or who misunderstand us. When someone offends us we call them "suburban" and remind them of how oppressive they were to our people so that it stings. We speak in grand large scales. We remind them of how provincial and narrow their experiences are. We remind them that they, in fact, are not superior. We unleash the ghetto and scare them with our slang. And it works. Two neck rolls and one finger raise and I get you to crawl back behind the white picket fence you grew up in-fenced from the large, diverse world that you got a peek of on your trip to Uganda your junior of college, but will always remain somewhat clueless as long as you live in the hipster world of rebelling against daddy and mommy (and of course, your Palestinian scarf does not mean that you are a hipster. You are, in fact, not a hipster).


But isn't this the root of many conflicts, small or large scale, in the world? You shun me, I let you know who's boss. You make me feel small, I make you feel small. And suddenly, we draw our guns.
And then, in a whole other realm, friendship happens, where we are given the space to breathe; to get to know the idiosyncrasies, the "weirdness" and the "coolness." Where masks are let go of. And suddenly the "suburban" person you were trying to belittle becomes your best friend. The approach here is different. We come to the table as equals, with nothing to defend. We offer our weapons as gifts and leave them at the irrelevant corner they belong in with crayons and beanie babies.

I see you. With clarity. Because all you are is my brother. All you are is my sister. You are not my attacker. You are not my oppressor. You are not the privileged kid who is trying to pretend he or she knows something about my culture and my demographic that I supposedly do not know just because you heard about it on NPR. You are blood, flesh and bones. Just like me.
I am not your judge, smashing my gavel on the pages of history to make you feel ashamed of your skinny jeans, pretension and escapism. I am your housemate who yells when she's offended, who you get to tell to shut the hell up, because I'm only bullshitting because I'm offended. You call my bluff because we are the same and different. And we revel in it all. Together.

A journey through the eyes of my itunes

I got my old Dell laptop back today. This laptop was the one I got in September of my freshman year of college with the scholarship money the City of Cambridge gave me. It was one of the first larger items of mail I had ever received, and it helped usher in a convoluted chapter of ups and downs.
On it, I downloaded tons of 90's R & B that I would sulk to in my dorm room my first semester in 2004. Monica soon welcomed Switchfoot-"I Dare You to Move" in the Spring of 2005. I remember listening to this and all of the contemporary christian music you could think of. In light of the culture I have come to know of indie-hipsters where turning against daddy's religion is key, this might sound a bit absurd. But at the time, these CCM artists (I learned the acronym recently) helped establish a cultural connection to this new culture I had discovered, of oriental scarves, going to the gym at 6am, sitting in the green grass between classes and sipping lattes at the former Claymore at 12:30 am every night.

Then came Common, John Legend and spoken word artists when I went back home to Cambridge that summer to try to make sense of the new culture I had found and it's relationship to my own context.

But then sophomore year rushed in at the end of August of 2005 and Mercedes Sosa was ready to help me deal with cultural identity. Marx was sitting on my desk-and I didn't just read him for class. My Dominican flag was my security blanket that helped me hang onto my roots as it hung from my dorm wall. Listening to the songs from Latin American revolutionaries singing through the Nueva Cancion Movement served as the soundtrack for my Latin American politics class and my participation in May Day 2006, rallying for immigration reform. The Rock en español that I had discovered in Dominican Republic that year took me through the angry moments that spring.

Junior year brought me Radiohead through an old boyfriend. Sufjan Stevens came flying through to speak to my more culturally heterogenous soul when I worked as a barrista at the small closet they called Claymore "If you have a father or if you haven't one, I'll do anything for you." And it all went downhill from there--or uphill.
Listening to the variety of music on my old itunes takes me back to these places. The smells of my apartment senior year in the basement of Ferrin. Flashbacks to getting ready to go to parties in Beverly, where I was more an observer than anything else-not quite sure if I was a full fledged participant quite yet. The colors of the tiles in the bathroom, the smells of cleaning product during times of extreme motivation-Jarabe de Palo bring me back. Laying in bed thinking about how I was going to get through it all during times of extreme difficulty-Lifehouse was the tear jerker.
The songs from different genres going one after another like a really awkward mixed CD take me to the activism, the optimism, the cultural questioning. It gives weight to my experience and reminds me of how profound these were. Even the Spanish Christian songs take me there-to times when I was more sure, but also to times when I was in tune with changing my bad habits or detrimental character traits. "Cancion de Sanidad": "Ven, saname Senor." These take me back to times of profound prayer, of crying out, to the times of absolute desperation and to times of absolute elation.

They remind me of the incredible transformation that has taken place in the last 5 years. And to top it all off, there's a spoken word piece in there that I had written for my friend's communication class at Emerson College in 2008. It was all about my journey from Dominican chain-wearing days to the whole foods shopping and cafe going days.
Crazy. Cathartic.




It makes me think....
When I look back I feel that I have gained so much, that I am empowered in a way I had never been. I feel that I have climbed a really tall tree or something and now can see that when I was so sure that the world consisted of three roads and 1,000 trees, it might have atleast 300 roads and 10,000 trees, if not more. In fact, I'm sure that I have more trees to climb and that there are more roads and trees to see that I do not have access to now.
It makes me think of this idea that salvation lies in tapping into these universal principles that break us free and help us to transcend our previous limitations or at least to understand them more fully. Now, there a whole new set of limitations and I'm excited to keep climbing.

9 things...

There are things I haven't yet figured out how to do. And, in fact, I wonder if I'll ever figure out:

1. How to make myself eat the vegetables in the plastic bags from the super market without being turned off by them a day or two later and getting fresh vegetables during lunch instead. In other words, how to not waste money.

2. How to keep my room consistently organized for more than a week without having to do a massive clean every Sunday.

3. How to keep avoiding dairy, white flower and things that are bad for me in proportionate amounts throughout the year, so that I'm not going from a size 12 to a size 9 back to a size 11 and then on the verge of a 13, and getting queasy and nauseous in between.

4. How to follow up on those things I always say I want to do, but never get around to; like getting better at riding a bike and being able to use it as a viable means of transportation; like getting fit enough to go hiking with my athletic friends without wanting to have a heart attack 3/4's of the way there; like getting good at the guitar and fighting through my fear of theory through to see new horizons of musicality.

5. How to stop being such a people pleaser! I must admit, I am getting better at saying no and articulating my boundaries, but I still find that I build my thoughts around how happy others might be, especially in my professional life.

6. How to fight the temptation of getting over priced coffee at a coffee shop in the morning before work as part of my daily ritual.

7. How to be a better daughter.

8. How to sift through all the clutter in my head filled with thoughts, ideas, wants, to-do lists without having them all smudge together in one big mush, causing me to take drastic measures to figure it all out, by creating color coded charts and storing a zillion and two calendars, organizers and planners.

9. How to want to take out the trash when I get home from work-I can take it out of the poor over-worked trash can and tie it in a nice knot, but to take it downstairs?! C'mon! Huge task!
Ridiculous.
I know. (I'm also not the only contributor in this scenario)

"Purity of heart is to will one thing"

Is this the case for anyone else?

There's always at least one day a week where all I can get myself to do is stare blankly at my computer at work.
Ok. I'm exaggerating. I can get myself to go on facebook, check my newsfeed 8 times, read NYTimes articles, write journal entries. Oh and Ooo! Ooo! I can get myself to read budgeting articles and material for clients. But anything beyond sitting here and reading becomes incredibly difficult.
This week that day is Monday. I've been sitting here, reading the Budgeting Workbook, slowly but surely. And although I feel lethargic because of the great feast at my family's house yesterday, I have a feeling that this has to do with more than my physical health. It's probably indicative of what I'm meant to be doing.
I'm reluctant to say that I'm meant to be in a work environment where I can be writing, reflecting, reading and conceptualizing. But I'm finding that, in this environment, those activities come the most naturally.
So the question becomes, What to do? Another important question to ask might be, What is the nature of these unproductive days? It it just a case of the Mondays? Is it my job or is it me (i.e. should I be looking to change some sort of thinking pattern or habit that will cause me have a case of the Mondays every week no matter what job I find myself in)?
Perhaps, I'll leave here at the end of my assignment having written a novel about my clients, their stories and anecdotal information on best practices. I'll call it: Poverty and Social Service Agencies: From the Eyes of an Observer on the Inside.

Untitled

It's a funny thing, this guy-girl...romance......weird...hookup-But wait! Let's just be friends...
intimacy...weird-But I want the goods still-no don't touch-but touch me when I want it-haze.

It's weird, quite frankly.

You meet this human being. With dignity and God-given value and shit. You explore their idiosyncrasies and circle around their core, getting to know just enough before any real bond is formed. And you realize: You are fleeting and are only filling a concave hole in a heart for the time being.

And you dance around these feelings. Back and forth between inadequacy and ecstasy and shame-Woops, they know my secret and the thing I'm self conscious about without enough Love to support and contextualize it. Woops-I said the wrong thing at the wrong time, but had it been five minutes ago I would have caught you in the right mood and you would have been all for it. Woops- my buzz is gone and I no longer want you like I did yesterday for the 5 meaningless minutes that served no other purpose but to fulfill my fleeting longings.

You cry sometimes because you're mad. And not mad at them because you have no ground to stand on. But at yourself, for the cards you've been dealt and the lack of lemonade you've made with these seemingly pre-destined lemons and the things you've given over all too quickly and rashly.

It's weird. This getting to know a person.
Not because you have some sort of thing in common that you like to share-like David and I who share insights about spirituality, books and existential crises or how undisciplined I am, and how his funny email about customized doorbells makes my morning and helps me get out of bed. Or like Dave and I who share politics, a love for fashion, laughter and Black comedy and/or occasionally revel in the fact that I once woke him up by taking off his covers which resulted in an awkward surprise for me (yes, they both have the same name). These people-for whom I have an unlimited supply of conversation topics, meaningful silences, news articles, quotes, insights, tears, old memories and jokes for-hold weight in the grand scheme of my life. And this one guy, lightweight floating around in Annery's realm of escape- how much value does it (this rendezvous) actually have?

But, we proceed with getting to know each other, jumping over the awkward hurdles of un-compatibility and marked difference for the sake of fulfilling this concave hole in our souls that longs for another-that longs for intimacy.
And it's not you-the particular shape, hair type, eye color, laugh, smile, dance, sense of humor, interests that bring us together. It's not me-my shape, my eyes, my smile, my movement, my interests, my quirks that draws you to me. It's something more individual that has nothing to with me and nothing to do with you. Me, just a variable standing in place of any other random symbol or co-efficient that was available at the time. You, just a factor close by. Available.

Yet, we explored. Lonely souls explored closeness. Fleeting closeness-but closeness nonetheless.
And it may or may not have made a dent in a broken nervous system that was tired of crying without being held. Being held by another being who needed to be held may not have been a total waste... But there's something wrong here, something inconsistent and mirage-like. I choose reality, please, with three doses of laughter with my closest friends.

"Us" and "them"

When I go about my daily tasks, i.e. chores: ironing, picking up the clothes lying around in my room, cooking, etc. I often think about my mom. I get flashbacks to her daily routines. I think about her urging me to pick out my clothes the night before school or about preparing my lunch the day before instead of waiting to do it half an hour before I walked out of the door the next morning. I think about her ironing on Saturday nights while watching Sabado Gigante or mopping the floors on a sunny Saturday morning instead of running away from chores under the excuse that it's a "nice day outside."
Now, don't get me wrong. I haven't always had these flashbacks and I don't always follow in my mother's footsteps in this way. In fact, I am nowhere near as clean and organized and disciplined as she was during my childhood. But, as I strive to be more organized and disciplined post-college, these memories inspire and motive me.
Going back in this way helps normalize what I'm doing and deters me from sitting down in front of facebook, for instance, or from taking a nap when I know I should be getting ready for the next day. I suppose that for most of us this process is more subconscious. However, for some of us, the households we grew up in do not inspire such actions. For some of us, our childhoods consisted of parents who did not work, suffered from some mental or physical illness and were bed ridden most of the time. Some of our parents did not wake us up for school--we woke ourselves up. Some of our parents did not iron or mop or pick up the clothes on the floor consistently, except for some small bouts of inspired moments when this was the case. And I imagine that for those of us whose parents struggled in this way, inspiration to go about completing daily tasks must come from somewhere else.
I think about these things because of my line of work; because everyday my job reminds me of the lines that are drawn between "us" and "them." My job causes me to think about thinking patterns that shape our behavior or our potential to learn and grow. And often, we are products of the upbringings we had--with the possible exceptions of those outlier children--the Rory Gilmores and the Barak Obama's and the genuises who managed to pull themselves up by the genetic bootstraps they were given. But for most of us, we are direct products of our environments. When we experience this kind of lack, where do we get the tools we were "supposed" to get when we were 5 years old and the foundation for our adult lives was being laid?

Platano-Chocolate chip bread

There is platano-chocolate chip bread sitting in my kitchen and it wasn't made by me.
For those of you who don't know, Dominicans do not make bread out of platano--at least not usually. "Platano is for mofongo, mangu, fritos, tostones and sancocho! Maybe sometimes a pastelon or two!" Shout the purists. But the new generation always has something new to say to the purists and new lines to cross.
I suppose this is what happens when you put people of different backgrounds in the same house, in ways reminiscent of the Arabic sounds found in Flamenco or the accordion used in Merengue borrowed from the Germans who brought it to the Caribbean; or the Catholic churches in Central America incorporating rituals rooted in Mayan spirituality. Syncretism.

So I go about my business frying my platanos and someone says,
"Hey, this is kind of like a banana. I'm making platano-chocolate chip bread." And it appears on my kitchen table as a gift. it's delicious.
But don't be deceived, sometimes mixing isn't that delicious. Like hot sauce and ice cream is still not fun, no matter how exotic it may sound (unless you fancy that kind of thing).
We don't mix for it's own sake. This "platano-chocolate chip bread"-style syncretism is organic, natural. It's not coerced. And organic mixing--when it results from a genuine love for the different items before you--is beautiful. Kinda like my love for the folks I met at Gordon. Cambridge-Latina meets white-suburban crunchy folks and by deafult, makes a concoction of platano-chocolate chip bread, among many other syncretisms.

Musings: A Work in Progress

It's beautiful you. And I'm not talking about smooth pore-less-porcelain skin-shiny -silk-hair-bone-structure-evident-no bulge-everything in its place-no-need-for cashmere-or-makeup-(with the possible exception of some natural looking eye shadow and some clear lip gloss).
Fearful that someone might see those enlarged pores up close? Oh yes.
Bouncing around with ease, can-wear-anything- 'cuz-anything-makes-me-look-like- those-American-apparel-and-Gap-models-in-Glamour-Magazine--Not an option.
But,I'm not talking about them. Not today, I'm not.
I'm talking about the things that pour out of you like streams. Your art and the colors you combine when you dress and the red and orange pastels you know how to mix to create sunsets and the messiness that you make the most out of or the cleanliness that marks your aura. How about that one strand of hair that curls and you just can't straighten or when the afternoon sunlight highlights your face. Or the hips that will serve you well during child birth. Or the thinness that reminds us of a ballerina (raise that chest up high, girl. No need to hunch over).
Or the 10 year old journals with coffee stains and mascara-tainted-tear drops.

I'm talking about the journey that has made you, the scars in your nervous system that make you strong, the breath that has carried you through during panic. Your idiosyncrasies that make you beautiful--
like willows aging over rivers or streams--
like charcoal spread out over paper, dirty paint brushes and oil paint-stained jeans
like the wrinkles on the corner of your eyes
or the laugh lines that are now there to stay
like corrugated wood, now turned into an antique desk
or that snaggle-tooth that presents itself every time you smile..or talk.

like dandelions with their nappy hair blowing in the wind, becoming one with the ground that grew them--
like Peruvian flutes singing over Andes for thousands of years--
like stories your great grandmother used to tell you and passed down to her children and theirs--
like getting ready for the day, 8:00 am smells of coffee against the crisp morning air
like a kiss on your forehead
like waking up next to your beloved as the sun peaks through the curtains
like cute little kids discovering the world with their tiny hands

This is your beauty. Your unshakable beauty--the one that says wrinkles take precedence over perfection. The one that looks like a bloody wound on skin but is, in fact, a rose beneath the surface.
Jasmin scent breaking through when you speak, not directly obvious on your rolls, fat or hair. Porcelain skin subtly glowing when you read. And struggle. And make it. Not directly obvious,
as they see pimples with their eyes instead of beauty with their souls.

A letter to the unproductive

Now, before you start feeling guilty for waking up at 11:30 am and going to sleep at 11:00pm, remember Saturdays are for sleeping. And winters-
for hibernation.
Now, before you start feeling guilty for sitting--
For spending the first half of your day unproductively, remember that there is still a half a day left to go--or three-quarters of a day. These windows of opportunity are there for you to take. And even if you choose not to take it, remember that you, by sheer fact of being you, are valuable.
Give thanks for the ability to breathe, for the gift of wonder, and that you got through the day with your 5 senses in tact.
Take your idle days as opportunities to evaluate what your body is telling you.
Take your messy room as opportunity- to learn lessons about what happens when you start with 1
1 thing at a time.
Take your funk as opportunity- to sit and wrestle with the sources of these feelings and learn about yourself--pushing the walls of your little corner just a little bit further.
A little, that's all, you need.

Scarcity

You've heard it was said *You can be anything you want to be*, but I say unto you, * our world is one of scarce resources and we must recognize limitations in order to be what we want to be.*