"So we have to be idealists in a way.....If you don't recognize a young man's will to meaning, man's search for meaning,  you make him worse, you make him dull, you make frustrated, you add and contribute to his frustration....If you presuppose in this man--in this so-called criminal or juvenile delinquent-- there must be a spark for meaning--let's recognize this, let's presuppose it and then you will elicit it from him and you will make him become what he is principally capable of becoming" 

So it's that time again. 

Every year around this time I write a sappy entry/poem about the crisp air and the earth tone palate of the fall. I usually try to describe the season by talking extensively about the insatiable desire for tea and all things pumpkin around September 21st. I get upset when the cool fall air is delayed by summer-like heat on September 6th. I get angry when the leaves delay turning orange because dammit! It's October, and the season might end before I can go on a few runs in the Gordon woods, host a poetry reading or two, knit, fill the kitchen with the smell of apple cider and cinnamon, go to an Apple Orchard in Ipswich, reminisce about my childhood, read Annie Dillard by a fire (in someone's house with a fire-place) and pretend that I like squash. 

Love, 

Ms. Sap

P.S. I'm so excited that autumn is upon us! 

Welfare Part II

"And what gets me so angry is those people in the welfare office who don't speak any English. Here I am actually needing the services and these people just live off of the system," she told me through tightened lips while punching her fist into her hand.
I searched through my rolodex and sticky notes for landlords that might have an apartment for her and her family.
And yes, I still use a rolodex.

"Well, good news! This landlord has an apartment in Lynn that is opening up in a few weeks."

-Oh, I don't want to live in Lynn.

-Okay....
I stare at her leopard-print bag.

We embark on one of my absolute favorite conversations to have.
"Yeah..," I say. "It's tough." "Some of these families are coming from the Congo, escaping wars, hunger, famine. Or some of the Haitian families escaping the devastation caused by the earthqu"--"Oh, well not them. That's understandable," she interrupts. "Most of them are--"
-"And some of the women fleeing domestic violence. I just saw a woman yesterday who's husband was beating her and she was coming to the welfare office in search of an alternative to the violence at home. She was from Dominican Republic and certainly doesn't speak English."
--Oh, yeah...not--
"And...I work with the Spanish-speaking clients and all of them want to work but can't learn English quickly enough to get a job, so it becomes this perpetual road block to getting a job," I interrupt.
"And of course, I have one client who totally admits to using the system."
--Yeah! It's ridiculous!
"But, you know, she grew up around people who were also on the system and did not know anything beyond livelihood outside of it. So yeah. I hear you. It's hard."

This woman came into our offices after having gone to the welfare office to apply for Emergency Assistance. Her house had been foreclosed on and she, her husband and her kids were living in a tent behind her mother's house. They are over-income for any of the State benefits and are very upset about the fact that they have too much income to benefit from the system. However, they are picky about location, what the apartment might look like--"All of the places we've seen for the past few months are either run down, they won't take us because of our credit, or won't take us because of our dog."

What I wanted to say was, "Well lady, for someone who is upset about living in a tent, your list of requirements for an apartment sure is long. Sounds like you might be a little bit entitled, no?" Secondly, "What part of Annery Miranda didn't you hear?  What did you expect for me to tell you? Yeah, those Spanish speakers really ride the system don't they?"

What actually came out of my mouth is, "Here are five different options for you to explore. I really recommend following through on Mahogany Properties (not the real name). They really take care of their properties and are great landlords. You want to ask for Lucinda (not her real name)"

-Thank you so much for your help. Finally someone helps us!

-Good luck on your search ma'am.

Take "I can't" out of your vocabulary?

This afternoon, after sorting through dozens of pages of repetitive paperwork, I found myself wandering through blogs in search of a motivational quote or two.  One particular blog post stood out, but not because of its motivational qualities, but because I think I disagreed. The blogger said that in order to be happy you must take the words "I can't" out of your vocabulary.

Hm...

The things is that my recent history has taught me that the words "I can't" can actually be powerful vehicles for transformation and self care. This is also coming from a person who heard inspirational phrases like these all of her life. "Never say 'I can't!" "You can be anything you want to be." "Sky is the limit."  My optimistic Cantabridgian teachers sewed seeds of ambition and pushed me to take Intensive Geometry in High School, for example, as opposed to a class I was actually prepared for.  In the name of "I can do anything I set my mind to" I studied for Intensive Geometry, went for additional tutoring in the mornings and sought help from my classmates, but I still got a D. The following year I enrolled in Algebra II & Trig., a class that was way more suitable for my math level. The class looked less impressive on a transcript, but I got an A.

This little math scenario, however, was not enough to dispel the myth that "I can do anything" is a full proof motivational tool. I went on to take even more ambitious classes, to increase my load of extracurricular activities from 6 to 8, to working two jobs while going to school full time and living off campus without a car.  "I can't" was definitely not in my vocabulary. I did all of these things in the name of the very ambition that was instilled in me as a child.

In the last few years I've come to realize very slowly that it is not enough to believe that you can do anything you set your mind to. You must also be aware of what tools you have to work with, what limitations you are up against, the nature of the challenge you are undertaking and what exactly it takes to succeed at whatever it is you plan on setting your mind to. How many of us have failed exams we stayed up all night studying for? Received D's on papers with five page-long bibliographies? If school taught me anything it was that hard work and setting my mind to something was not enough to get me the desired result.

In fact, it was only when I started saying "I can't" and understanding my limitations that I was able to accomplish the things I set out to do. For one, I stopped trying to please everyone around me by saying "yes" to every favor people asked of me. You will never satisfy them. Secondly, I started to tell people "this is what I have the tools to do and this what I need in order to get better at the task you are asking me to complete."  It's not that I was inherently bad at math. The problem was that in addition to my right-brained disposition, I didn't have a lot of rigorous math in grade school. The building blocks were simply not there. To tell me that if I put my mind to it I could understand geometry at an intensive level in one year was impossible. Now if you told me you were going to set me up on a plan to find out the exact places where I was missing vital math concepts, and you told me you were going to tutor me on the side and help me build those blocks in order to undergird my pursuit of an intensive geometry class, that would be a bit more possible. But to tell me that if I put my mind to rocket science I could accomplish it is simply foolish.

Obviously, the cliche exists for a reason. Some people don't know their potential and need to tell themselves "Yes, we can."  But what many of us need is to cultivate the ability to say to the people, activities and things that are screaming for our attention, "No, I can't. But if you really want me to do this you're going to have to provide x, y and z."

So maybe we can modify our equation a little bit, and instead of saying

 "I can do anything I set my mind to"= success

perhaps we can say,

 "I can do anything I set my mind to" + knowledge of what it takes to complete the task + knowledge of my current capacities + resources to get me to the place where I have what it takes even if I don't have it now = success. Or...something like that.

Eh? Eh? What d'ya say?

A Week of Welfare

I've been working at the welfare office for a few days now, conducting pre-eligibility screens for a new program available to homeless families in Massachusetts. The welfare office, as it is commonly known, or the Department of Transitional Assistance (DTA) administers food stamps, TAFDC (the official acronym that describes the benefit people are referring to when they say "you're on welfare") and is responsible for placing families in shelter when they are homeless. It is the haven for many of the benefits we know as "entitlements" and that is exactly where most of the controversy lies, in the thought that these people feel "entitled."

"They come knocking at your door with all of their problems and just lay it on you, expecting someone else to just pick it up for them," says one of the workers.
She goes on to say, "What were you thinking when you had that child? That things would be easy?"

And I hear my colleague's concern: One of the women who came into my office today looking for shelter because she can no longer pay her rent was being very specific about what kind of shelter placement she would like and what part of the state she would like to go.  She does not work and sees her way towards progress as securing a Section 8 voucher, a program that allows low income people to pay 30% of their income towards rent.  Whereas some of us see our way out in terms of employment, she sees it in terms of a benefit the State or the Federal government provides. Upon hearing this, many a "Worker" would at least think, if not say, "You are not in the position of being picky about where you are placed, honey, if you can't pay your rent." Does this woman feel entitled to benefits she does not deserve?

Last week Tea Party senate-candidate compared welfare-recipients to raccoons looking for the easy way to get food "if we let them." Although in-articulately, like many Americans, Jon Bruning takes issue with the fact that welfare programs "do not incentivize people to work."

Here are some thoughts: 1.  Since when do people--poor or rich--intentionally look for the difficult way out? And why should we make it difficult for people to access the most basic of goods? Are Bruning's comments suggesting a sort of masochism--to make getting food stamps hard for the sake of making it hard? Is it the State's job to teach these people a lesson?
In the same week, Warren Buffet accused the United States government of coddling the rich as though they were some sort of endangered species. He reminds us that many wealthy people are also taking the easy way out. Because they can!

If you ask me, I think that the poor are not the only ones who try to get their needs met the easy way. 

2. It's a myth that everyone on welfare is just coasting along easily without a care in the world. The amount people get is hardly enough to live on and there is a time frame in which they are allowed to receive it. Folks cannot be on TAFDC forever. It's simply not allowed. Specifically, you get 24 months.

3. Throughout the hundreds of cases I have seen these last two years, seldom have I come across a person who is just ducky about being a welfare recipient. In fact, people feel a lot of shame around it. So much so, that the first thing many of these families will say to me when they walk into my office has to do with why they are unlike the other people in the waiting room at the DTA.

4. While I agree that we need to incentivize people to work, we talk about it as though welfare-recipients don't want to work. Many of them don't work--not because they are happy sitting around their respective houses all day--but because they are part of a generational cycle of poverty in which opportunities for higher education were not just handed to them. And the mention of "higher education" here is not to be taken lightly. For example, in a study released by Metro Boston Housing Partnership they found that in order for families to be successful in some of these programs that provide rental subsidies education is a huge factor.  . 

Barriers to HPRP Participation

•  The median income of families participating in MBHP’s HPRP 

program is $762 a month, or $9,144 annually. This is only 18 

percent of the income needed to support the average $1,238 

monthly rental and utility payment ($49,520 annually) and  

17 percent of the income needed to support a two-bedroom  

Fair Market Rent of $1,357 ($54,280 annually). 

•  Even if every HPRP participant is able to secure employment, 

only those with at least a bachelor’s degree can expect to afford 

the $54,280 in annual income necessary to support a $1,357 

fair market rent, as median annual earnings in the Boston- 

Cambridge-Quincy MSA for someone who has completed a 

bachelor’s degree was $53,495 in 2009, compared to $30,518 

for someone who had only completed high school.14 Only  

9 percent of HPRP participants had completed a bachelor’s 

degree, while 29 percent had completed some college,  

50 percent have completed high school only or have earned  

a GED, and 12 percent had not completed high school. 

Now, don't get me wrong, I agree that we are doing people a disservice when we give them fish instead of teaching them how to fish. I have witnessed how disempowering it can be and how it weakens their abilities over time. And I do think we need programs that help low income people access educational and career opportunities (something we're not really investing all of that much money, time or energy into). But the issue I'm taking up in this particular post is that welfare-recipients don't seem to me like a different class of people. They seem to be acting logically to illogical circumstances.

Furthermore, this week has made me think about other ways in which all of us feel entitled. Is it far fetch to diagnose our bitter rants in which we covet what others have as entitlement?   Welfare-recipients might feel entitled to food and to a few hundred dollars a month provided by the state, but what do we, folks with college degrees, job security and parents who gave us resources feel entitled to? What do we complain about not having that we think we should have?  

Research

"When I was a child, all the kids in my elementary-school class had been part of an ongoing psychological study. We got used to being subjects in a room with a one-way mirror, although unknown to our observers we could sometimes see their shadows through the glass. Once that awareness took hold, there was nothing for us to do but play to the audience." 


I remember working with DYS-involved youth a few years ago, asking many questions about social services, after-care, re-entry, recidivism and research--mostly research. I followed my time at this organization by interning for a small think-tank in Roxbury that was taking on youth in Boston as its primary subject. Simultaneously, I was taking a course in Research Methods at BU and had a deep suspicion that our subjects were often tempted "to play to the audience." Whether sub-consciously or consciously, it would only make sense that if people were always studying you--sometimes for years on end--you were going to develop an identity around this. 


I remembered the kids I worked with, the questionnaires they filled out and how familiar they were with the questions. Once I asked one of the kids, "Are you going to the Part of the Solution meeting tonight?" He responded, "I'm not part of the solution, I'm part of the problem." I chuckled because I knew he had been prepped to answer that way. 


What would happen if we turned the tables around and selected those who are always the subjects of research and made them the researchers? What if we took these DYS-involved kids and gave them the tools to research suburban non-DYS involved kids? Or urban non-DYS involved kids? What if we helped them to answer questions about what suburban non-DYS involved kids fear, how they use their time? Do they get in trouble with the authorities? What does drug use and possession look like in these areas? Is the illegal activity matched by court involvement or is the illegal activity disproportionate to the amount of court involvement and imprisonment? 


What would happen if instead of being the (loyal) subjects of research, the became the ones with the power? 

TOHU WA-BOHU AND TEHOM

While Caputo is dissecting Genesis 1:1, providing an interpretation of the events, I start to feel stirred and see the reality of what he is saying present in another human phenomenon aside from Scripture.

I'm going to quote him at length here, because it's simply beautifully written and powerfully conveyed. Here is an excerpt from Dr. John Caputo's book, The Weakness of God, a Theology of the Event.



"Elohim begins where he finds himself, with co-everlasting but mute companions: a barren earth, lifeless waters, and a sweeping wind.  Elohim has to play the cards he is given, to work with the materials at hand, after which it will turn out he will even need a rest.  He must work with these elements, with wind and water and wilderness, first to differentiate and then to populate them...The beginning had already begun, before the first verse of Genesis began....
Let us try to imagine the mythopoetic scene.  In the beginning, they are there, wind and waters and land, barren and lifeless, the wind sweeping over the deep, everywhere darkness, like the dark side of some distant desolate planet.  There they are, just there, without a word, the only noise being the heaving of the seas, the blowing of the wind. It is almost as if they are sleeping, as if they are laid out like some great giant, some massive body whose only sounds and movements are the heaving and sighing of a sleeper, and Elohim seems to be just watching them sleep.  Then Elohim was moved to speak to them, and by addressing them to bring them to life, to awaken life in them, to make life stir through their massive limbs the way one calls a sleeper to awake.  He calls them into life; he does not bring them into being, for the whole point is that they were there all along, from time out of mind, in a somnolence deeper and more dreamless than any sleep we can imagine..." 

In the beginning, they are there, as little children at 3 years old. Maybe waking to the sensual touch of someone they were supposed to trust. In the beginning, their small bellies were met by hunger and a mother who was too high to see the multi-colored crayon-based drawings they made for mommy in school earlier that day. In the beginning, this little wide eyed child, maybe two feet tall, had every inch of innocence shattered before her small face in that dark room at night. Every night. Maybe. Fearing these drunk fingers that could show up at any time and do the unexpected to her, as he pleased.  In the beginning, a shell begins to form around her little heart; a dark gaze over his little body.

 In the beginning this child starts a fire in the lawn and gets their first criminal offense on record. This little girl gets pregnant at 16, opening her legs to love and touch and inviting the chance to be held. This little boy fights another, in the beginning, and sits in a juvenile correctional facility with other boys inside their shells, comparing notes and learning about how to start a revolution against the world that so betrayed them; creating a world for themselves in which they take back the power that was usurped from them as little boys in their respective bedrooms or kitchens.

 In the beginning this child becomes a shelter-client and tells the worker to "fuck off." In the beginning, she dodges the case manager's phone calls. In the beginning, "she's lazy." "Can't get it together." In the beginning, everyone knows the consequences of trauma but take it fairly lightly; still standing with their stones in hand ready to accuse these sinners before them.

"I've tried to help you," they charge, "but you need to do something for yourself!"

He's heard this prescription before. She's heard it. Nothing works. Heroine numbs it all. And now a new little boy is in the household, watching officers come in and out of the house. Investigations. Social workers. DCF. DYS. Fights around the corner. This neighbor accuses that neighbor of neglect. Files a 51-A in retaliation for taking her man. Condoms taken off in the middle of sex. Birth control intentionally discarded down the toilet. Mixed desires. For sex and love and lust and children and family. And maybe if she gets pregnant they can do the family thing right this time.

In the beginning.

It is almost as if they are sleeping, as if they are laid out like some great giant, some massive body whose only sounds and movements are the heaving and sighing of a sleeper, and Elohim seems to be just watching them sleep. 


Then Elohim was moved to speak to them, and by addressing them to bring them to life, to awaken life in them, to make life stir through their massive limbs the way one calls a sleeper to awake.  He calls them into life; he does not bring them into being, for the whole point is that they were there all along, from time out of mind, in a somnolence deeper and more dreamless than any sleep we can imagine...


This little boy doesn't need your saving, he was there all along. This little girl doesn't need to be anyone she is not, she is there all along. Halt your prescriptions, diagnoses. Bipolar at 5 years old. Schizophrenic with ADHD. Prescriptions of acronyms--SSI, TAFDC--send the message: "You can't work." "You can't contribute." "You are needy." "You are poor." "You are a victim." "You need me."


The astonishing thing is that God bring being to life.  That is the wonder, and that life that God breathes in them, is what God calls "good,"  which goes a step beyond being.

 What does it take to make life stir through your massive limbs? What does it take for God to breathe in you, to bring being to life, to be called "good," which goes a step beyond merely being? Merely subsisting, succumbing to every new iphone and ipad at the behest of large corporations and in return for slavery to utility arrears and back-rents, and always at the brink of getting evicted, shut off, reported to creditors, taken to court. What does it look like to breathe life into you?

Sochany Seng (not his real name), former gang banger. Life was stirred through his massive limbs when an attorney, an ethnographer and a Reverend asked him to join them on a trip to Cambodia. Nothing was asked of him. No one asked him to be different than he is. An invitation was extended. Someone with prophetic eyes saw a leader in him and a kid with mind-blowing insight and skill. They called it out of him and took him a step beyond being. He never looked back.

Maria DelValle (not her real name). Crossed the border into to the United States with her family's life savings and only a 3rd grade education. No English. No status. No papers. Just needing to feed her children. Someone asked her to be an usher at a church; to lead the prayer group because she prays powerfully; to arrange the flowers because she has an eye for it. No one asked her to get a degree. No one asked her to attend a class. No one asked her to change. They saw her beauty and invited her to practice it. Life was stirred into her, as evidenced by her glowing face. Former slave to a system now a contributor to society.

Elohim begins where he finds himself, with co-everlasting but mute companions: a barren earth, lifeless waters, and a sweeping wind.  Elohim has to play the cards he is given, to work with the materials at hand, after which it will turn out he will even need a rest.  He must work with these elements, with wind and water and wilderness, first to differentiate and then to populate them...The beginning had already begun, before the first verse of Genesis began....

SEX!

Ok this post isn't really about sex, but I couldn't think of a title that would compel folks to read this.
I've wrestled pretty fiercely with the topic I'm about to write about today. I've been on various sides of the issue; I've had days worth of conversations about the issue; I've mistakenly blogged about the issue while my anger or sadness or frustration was still fresh; I've backed down and fired back. I've cried without knowing why over this issue, have been extremely sure of myself at times and extremely confused at others. And even during other moments, I considered myself to be very Zen-like in my "third way" approach.  Here's another perspective.

I entered college with a chip on my shoulder, fueled by the voices of my elementary school teachers who prepared me for this moment:

You will face many obstacles and people will try to hold you back, but you need to look "them" in the face and overcome. 

The problem with this statement is that they never specified who exactly "they" were. We all conjured up images of other white men and women uttering racist things to us. And oh, we knew about systems and how we got the short end of the stick.

However, as appreciative as I was of the warning and as beautiful as it is that these teachers--sometimes white, sometimes not--were empathic and cared about our struggle and success, many of them were uttering an old doctrine of race, class and gender theory without making room for the fact that they too could fall prey to standing in our way, as more than a handful of professors and teachers of color stood in mine.

Sometimes more was expected of me because of my cultural/ethnic identification, sometimes not enough was expected of me. Sometimes what they expected was exactly right, sadly, and it was still not enough. Often my voice was given too much credence and spoiled me rotten. Other times my voice was not given enough space or acknowledged. There were times when only the racial part of me was allowed to speak, but not the gendered part, not the depressed part, not the adolescent part, not the Christian part and not the agnostic part.  Sometimes it was the reverse.

I entered college with a chip on my shoulder, exhibiting every symptom of a kid who feels isolated. I burst in Gordon's doors with a fitted cap, baggy sweats and airforces, practically wearing a fruit-basket on my head to let you know that I am Dominican. I blasted my Hip Hop and salsa music through Gordon's silence and pumped it up extra loud if we were ever driving through the campus. I hid in the cafeteria behind the hysterical laughs of every student of color who sat on the Sunny Side of Lane. And oh yes, I played the race card once or twice--accusing fellow students of making assumptions about Black people when they were merely making fun of the stereotype; accusing a Black kid with a suburban upbringing of portraying "us" poorly.

Oh we played the race police at that table in Lane and added fuel to the fire by talking and laughing and "Ooooh  Noo-"ing and "No he didn't"-ing.  Was I being genuine? Kind of. I believed what I was saying at the time. But I had little time for reflection or perspective because I was immersed in the side of the cafeteria that both gave me a home and a whole lot of bitterness.

And then I decided that this environment was making me miserable and that it didn't feel true, and that I was actually lonelier than ever. I turned to organizations on campus and tried making friends with regular Gordon. In retrospect, this was not as easy as I made it out to be during my Mandela phase. It was not until I moved to Gordon in Lynn that I found my friends.

At the end of the year, we enter Annery's White-sympathy phase. I decided that the conversation around race was unfair and one sided; that white kids could not speak their minds and engage in true discussion because they were constantly haunted by offended participants and peers who would "OH NO" any thought or experience they might express.  I also decided that we ignored the race card and condemned the race card, but did not talk about its reality. Even more so, we did not talk about the complexity of the race card, why folks (particularly first year college students from urban areas who feel isolated) feel compelled to play in the first place and why it's allowed at all. Let's talk about the origins of the race card, people!

I even mentioned this to Dr. Cornell West himself during a panel discussion on "Democracy Matters."

"Dr. West, we talk a lot about the oppression folks of color undergo but do you feel that there is room to legitimize and deal with the pain of White guilt?" In short, his answer was that White guilt was an excuse. I don't know that I agree with him. I still maintain that this is a real phenomenon and tend to side with Tutu and Mandela on this question.

Anywayz....

Towards the end of college I was a champion of what I called "the reconciliation" perspective. But there was still a small part of me that was concerned when folks of color also became sympathetic towards their White peers, but no longer thought that the particularities of their experience as people of color in the United States was relevant or important. We got so used to students who refused to go to "race chapels" to be lectured that we didn't want to be seen as the lecturers. So we stopped talking about what was important to us.

After college I moved to a house with the loveliest people in the world. I had so much fun, felt so much love and I hope that we will continue to be friends for a long-ass time. I can't say the isolation wasn't felt, though. I tried to engage it, find out its significance and meaning through conversation and I talked about it often, but I started to hush my feelings around the issue even further than I already had previously. My feelings were offensive to people. Plain and simple. And there was no foreseeable way around it. When I expressed my feelings about the minority achievement gap and how I was its product, I was met with skepticism and was asked to stop "playing the card"--indirectly, of course. Mostly, through the grapevine.
During this time I thought long and hard about "the stories we tell ourselves" and how some of these might not even be real. I thought about the stories of race I had been told all of my life. The way I was told I was a victim of a scary system of oppression that maybe, in the end, wasn't actually all that scary. Hang on, Cantabridgians...there's more to come. I heard one of my yoga instructors say something very wise, "The mind internalizes and creates stories. Yoga is about reconnecting with the heart." And if late night college conversations taught me anything, it's that when people start using "I" statements and saying "I feel" or "In my experience" I better shut the hell up and listen to this person's story (even in light of the overuse of the phrase "I just feel" in college).

[P.S.When people tell their stories they are typically speaking from the heart and being the most real with you. It's a sacred moment that no argument can trump. You can quote theologians, politicians, theorists and philosophers all day, but when someone says that they experienced x,y and z you better make room for the possibility of their truth, even if it contradicts the version you've heard and/or studied].

And here it was. I was so busy trying to see the issue from the other side (which was immeasurably important and still is), that I ignored my voice in the process. So that when people would accuse me of "playing the card" or "overusing my experience" I would find where I had been wrong. So much so that I didn't feel like I could stand up for myself when my story felt right.

But in order to do this I needed to know the difference between the stories I was told and the story i lived and felt and still feel and breathe.

Yes, I have played the card. But I've also been watching experts and teachers address me all of my life instead of my mother, the real parent and authority in the situation. Although some might disagree, this actually creates a dent in your development. Watching her feel ashamed that she cannot speak the language of her child stirs something in you. Not talking about the New York Times at the dinner table makes a difference.
And the subtle stuff causes huge ripple effects--the expectations authorities may or may not have of you, the projections they put onto you, the images you see as the only ones you can identify with in the media. And the subtle idea that your story is not the predominant one, and therefore invalid. All of the conversations in which the theorist was more right than you were, even though he or she failed to include you in the history books. There were no studies on you and the ones that exist are about incarceration and poverty and language acquisition. When we read about Latinos in college it was in the context of disenfranchisement--so that even the liberals were a part of this system.

The part of me that cries at the scene in "In the Heights" when the grandma sings, "Paciencia y Fe" as all the suited men point and yell, "Learn English!" The way the Indian dad, the Nicaraguan mom, the Dominican famiy look at their children during college graduation, with flashbacks in their eyes to wars and dictators and homes they fled and families they left behind, that cause my eyes to become pools and stirs the pit of my heart, filling it to the brim with feeling. This is that part of me that feels.

And let's not even talk about the Black experience in America.....
Ok. let's talk about it. But we might need a heck of a lot more web space and three or four more voices--since I myself am not Black.

WORKING CONCLUSION
The working draft of my 7/7/2011 conclusion on race (to be continued) is all of the above. It's all true. All the stages. But tonight, I'm correcting slightly. What I've experienced is true. I've felt bad that certain people were put off by it in the past, but today I am compelled to say, "I want to discuss it with you and I can be wrong and you can be right. But if in the end you are compelled to tell me that my version of this story is wrong, I am going to have to say I'm sorry I'm holding on to what's true to me."

And why is this relevant on a larger scale?
It seems that this conversation is all the more appropriate in 2011, three years into Obama's presidency. He has tried to make concessions to those outside of his party, but is still being accused of being inflexible. He has made immigration laws more stringent than ever at the behest of the Republican side. He has offered to make significant cuts on social costs despite the protests of members of his own party in the name of bipartisanship. And boy, am I a believer in bipartisanship.

 I believe in the wisdom that everyone possesses no matter what affiliation, social status, ethnicity, etc. But I'm starting to see that sometimes people will be attached to their personal ideas that are local and indigenous to them without openness to compromise. Both this national and personal phenomenon has me thinking that it is important to concede to those whose experiences are different from your own, but sometimes they won't be willing to give in or see things from your side. And in that case, you might have to say, "I know you think that my story is in-valid and that's ok. But I'm going to take your recommendations, apply the ones that work and walk right on." So Mr. Obama, even though I love your bipartisanship efforts, if you don't believe that deportations should be at record levels under your presidency and that we need more nuance in immigration policy, I support you."

Note: I say all of the above from the bottom of my heart in a sort of Rortian way of coming to the table with your truth in order to encounter someone else with their truth to then have genuine discussion about it.  If you've read this, please comment; especially, if you disagree.

Un Homenaje a Juan Luis Guerra: If you're wanting to learn about Latin music here's a start

Juan Luis Guerra, if you haven't heard of him, is a musical giant in Latin America.  He might even possibly be equal to what Michael Jackson meant to pop. His concerts are replete with adoring fans--from the smallest of dancing three year olds to the oldest of grandparents.  At Jet Set, a club I went to on my last trip to Dominican Republic, at the mere sound of one of his hits the dance floor overflowed with excited people, loosing themselves in collective memories while singing the lyrics.

Whenever his name comes up I'm ashamed to admit that I always include the story about the time an old friend Uziel Colon played with him at Berklee College of Music. Hey. Don't judge, it's my distant claim to fame. That someone I knew played with this man who represents so much to so many of us.

His  music brings me close to the heart of Dominican Republic, even when I'm an ocean, an entire adolescence and an upbringing away.  Even when I'm tempted to think I am not all that Dominican, he reports what is going on at the other side of my mother's journey. His music covers everything from immigration to love to the desire to come to the United States to poverty to lack of democracy to Dominican patriotism. When I hear, "Ojala que llueva cafe en el campo,"I imagine that its safe to assume that thousands of other Dominicans/Dominican-Americans are singing it with me; conjuring up images of the poor Dominican Republic's outskirts and their desire for the most basic of Dominican goods--or not--maybe just enjoying the sound and remembering the early 1990's.

  I image that he might elicit the same feeling for me as Johnny Cash might for some or Nas or Nirvana might for others. Just as the mention of truly American themes or urban-American themes elicit a sort of catharsis and nostalgia for one's country, one's experience, identity and brings us back to the core of our childhood.

I, for instance, remember the checkered drape that covered the table our TV sat on in the living room. And myself, dancing around the living room in my underwear at five or so, listening to Juan Luis Guerra on Univision*. 

 In similar ways to when Johnny Cash mentions "trains" or boxcars" or "railroads" and cigarettes or as The Arcade Fire might help others recall memories of a suburban adolescence through mention of milestones such as learning to drive ("In the suburbs I learned to drive/ And you told me we'd never survive/Grab your mother's keys we're leavin' ). In ways similar to when Nas utters the words "freedom" or talks about the streets and ponders, "If I ruled the world, I'd free all my sons." At the mention of food stamps and watching parents struggle, some of us remember our parents together with Eminem in "Loose Yourself." 

When Juan Luis Guerra prays that "cafe" and "yucca" and "te" would rain, and especially when he prays that all the children in the "campos" could sing that coffee, yucca and tea would grow from the ground, I am stirred. 

 His songs are political in nature and he has written some of the most beautiful romantic ballads I've ever heard. In Burbujas de Amor Juan Luis Guerra uses aquatic themes, as he expresses desire to decorate her waist with shells and make silhouettes of love under the moon. In Visa Para un Suen~o he describes the desperation of wanting a "visa" to make our dreams come true, telling of the perspective of the United States that exists in DR. In El Niagara en Bicicleta, Guerra tells of the kind of treatment he received in the hospital and, in doing so, criticizes the Dominican medical system:

They sent me to a hospital for people, supposedly

Don't tell me that the doctors left, don't tell me that you don't have an anesthesia, that the alcohol was consumed and that the thread for surgery was used for a mantel. Don't tell me that the stethoscopes are having a party and that the x-rays rotted away.

A few years ago, with the release of Para Ti, Juan Luis shows a more spiritual side as he sings Cancion de Sanidad,

And most recently, he tells of world travels to Paris and to Africa where he brings this "Bachata" just to dance with you. 

A man after my own heart, studied philosophy and literature at the Universidad Autonoma de Santo Domingo, has performed and composed songs with dozens of artists, has won dozens of awards from five Latin Grammy's in one night in 2007 to Grammy's to Billboard Music Awards. A guitarist, singer, composer; a man of wisdom and insight, who represents our country well. Juan Luis Guerra, te queremos. 

By the way, for those of us States-side who have been wondering all of our lives but singing along anyway, What exactly is la bilirrubina que le sube a Juan Luis Guerra when he sees her*? La Bilirrubina de Juan Luis Guerra.  It's kind of scary....

*Univision: The main Spanish TV station that every Latin person in America relied upon for news, soap opera's, music and counsel. Univision, as in, "Annery, on Univision I heard that you have to wash the lettuce thoroughly, maybe even with soap because there's bacteria in it that can make you sick."

*Juan Luis Guerra sings a song about how his bilirubin goes up everytime he sees her. I think most of us sang along to the catchy and beautiful song, but never really knew what it was. Apparently it's a heavy medical term. 

For the pluri-etnicos out there

They say that to be successful you must choose one thing.
I've heard this phrase or something like it at least three times this week. I heard it through blogs and through TED and through Zen Habits and through the podcast my housemate was listening to this afternoon.
I've been searching for that one thing for a while now, and every time I try to boil down my many interests--in philosophy, in psychology, in empowering the disenfranchised, in art, in dance, in yoga, in writing---to one thing, I conclude that for Annery Miranda this task is impossible.
But then tonight I had a thought: Maybe my spastic personality, my many thoughts and my looong list of interests is actually rooted, not in a learning disability (maybe), but in something very essential to my development. And this variable is, as the couchsurfer I met in DR called it, "es que tu eres multi-etnica."
After reading through many blogs written by Americans; after thinking about achievement and personal growth, I stumbled upon "Hispanic New York Project" and immediately remembered another interest of mine.
Herein lies the problem! I am extremely multi-faceted. I learned to navigate various communities and people groups and cultures from a young age, causing me to almost always lean towards the bird's eye-view and missing the trees for the forest. But maybe I'm wired to see the forest and it's many colors and how it lies next to rivers and mountains. Maybe I don't have to choose to focus on the mountain or to focus on the forest or to focus on the river alone. Maybe I can keep learning about what it means to see them all at the same time, and maybe that means I'll never understand the mountain's ridges or the makeup of a tree or how to extract maple or how the current in the river works, but maybe there is a gift in seeing the juxtaposition of the different wonders of the world. Maybe that's the gift of being pluri-etnica. 

An experiment in spinning

As I was blog-browsing today, I stumbled on the following words, 

"We'll spend months thinking about and arguing about a product supposedly doing nothing (even for just a speed bump of a Mac.) and then start spinning." 

How many times do I find myself paralyzed by perfectionism? How often to I give myself the space to "think and argue about ______, supposedly doing nothing?" And it seems as though I'm missing out! Because in my search for results I end up doing a heck of a lot of nothing anyway. So what would happen if I took an idea, wrote "shitty first drafts"--as Anne Lammott likes to say-- and second and third shitty drafts on it? What if I let myself spend hours listing questions I have about how this idea might turn into something? 

To come to think of it, a lot in my life that has worked for me has involved a similar process; of just knocking on doors until one opens and avoiding paralyzing discouragement when two or three or five close. I kept knocking and breathing and reaching until I got into that yoga pose; until I get the community I longed for; until I get the job. 

Maybe judging our "non results" is where we make our first mistake. Maybe if we dwell in the "non results" phases enough we too will start spinning. 

Stringing Together Pieces of You

I've gathered pieces of information here and there, stringing them together like an awkward collage of newspaper, opinion, anecdote and coffee: I interviewed my father's old friend over coffee, read El Listin Diario on my way to Puerto Plata. I asked my cousin questions about Dominican universities under the loud TGI Friday's sign--the hang-out spot for people our age in Santo Domingo. Mmmmm.....Dominican versions of American food--not what I came to Dominican Republic for. I saw extensions of his blood line in Dominican churches, in the boulevard he must have walked through in the afternoons, in the small house that punished him for being so tall, where he would repeatedly hit his head. I saw him in the museums and in the painting my uncle painted which hangs in the Museo Bellapart in Santo Domingo. I searched for him in the Zona Colonial and in the streets of his home town.  I asked all of those who knew him--What was he like?

Augusto Jesus Miranda. Born on December 24, 1925.
I think....
Augusto Jesus Miranda, member of the Catorce de Junio, an anti-Trujillo movement, for which he was arrested.
Was he tortured? 
His brother was.
And I am his daughter.
Augusto Jesus Miranda was saved by his American citizenship, so as to not call too much attention to the international community about the atrocities that were being committed in Dominican Republic in the mid-1900's. So he fled. He fled to the United States to preserve his life.
From what I understand and have heard....


Where can I get information that will help me know for sure who this man was; this man who's eyes and forehead I carry? Is it possible to know for sure whether my father was as justice oriented as I try to be or just caught up in the crew his friends hung out in?
 And is it true what the man on the airplane told me? That sometimes when the older generation passes away and their dreams and visions die with them, these dreams are resurrected in the next generation. 
He told me that I carry my father's dream for a just Dominican Republic.

I wandered the halls of the "Sala Memorial A Los Heroes" and read a loud to myself,

"No puede haber tirania en una sociedad donde la mayor parte de los ciudadanos conoce sus derechos, respeta los ajenos y esta siempre lista a defender los unos y los otros."
("There cannot be tirany in a society where the greater part of the citizens know their right, respect those of others and are always ready to defend one another")

I stood beneath the Hermanas Mirabal monument and looked up at them in admiration. I stared at their faces in the billete of 200 pesos. 

 I bought "El Golpe Del Estado" by journalist, Miguel Guerrero, to search through the pages of history for Dominican Republic's democratic and revolutionary spirit.

As an onlooker-- as an outsider looking in-- I see widespread corruption and worse, complacency, in the land of my parents. Where are the politically-active university students? Where are the spinning wheels of the thinkers in the country? 


Balaguer killed many of them, following Trujillo's example.

Could it be that the Dominican people are traumatized by the suppression of their speech and inalienable right to critically think? Or am I perceiving the situation ignorantly? 


I only have a few pieces of information.

Do I get this from you, dad? This burning in me that doesn't let me succumb to the cynical suggestions of my elders, "Don't worry, you'll become cynical too. This is just your youthful idealism." Do I get my stubborn insistence to climb the structural ladders for answers to structural problems that affect the poor, from you? 

I want to know you. Where have you left the remnants of your soul?

Se Fue la Luz (part 2)

From the U.S Department of State 

Electricity
"An ongoing concern in the Dominican Republic is the inability of participants in the electricity sector to establish financial viability for the system. Three regional electricity distribution systems were privatized in 1998 via sale of 50% of shares to foreign operators; the Mejía administration repurchased all foreign-owned shares in two of these systems in late 2003. The Fernández administration purchased the third distributor, which serves the eastern provinces, in June 2009. In 2010, the current head of the state electricity company called for the re-privatization of the electricity distributors. The World Bank records that electricity distribution losses for 2009 totaled about 40%, a rate of losses exceeded in only two other countries. Due to low collection rates, theft, infrastructure problems, and corruption, distribution losses remain high. Subsidies to the electricity sector exceeded U.S. $1 billion in 2008. Congress passed a law in 2007 that criminalized the act of stealing electricity; it entered into force in February 2009. The 2009 IMF standby specifically targets six areas of improvement for the electricity sector. Debts in the sector, including government debt, amount to close to U.S. $500 million. Some generating companies are undercapitalized and at times unable to purchase adequate fuel supplies."

Goodbye

While Thursday was a fake-out. The cosmos said, "You thought you were leaving Thursday, but Saturday it is!" It's Saturday and it's time to go back to Massachusetts.
In many ways I feel like I'm walking a plank, back to a life of stress and the constant feeling that everything is out of balance. Draggin myself out of bed in the morning, feeling gross on the car ride to work, drinking two cups of coffee at my desk to wake up, gathering papers together to run out of the office to see a client or fearing that someone is going to chew my head off for doing something wrong. The peer pressure to skip lunch because there's just too much to do--What a contrast! Everyone here, no matter how hard working, takes a two hour break during the day to nap--college students, my aunt who is an executive secretary at a large company, my other aunt who is a supervisor at a pharmaceutical company, my uncle who is a bus driver. Everyone takes a nap.
What does it mean to take this sense of balance and peace with me into the workweek that awaits me? Dominican Republic, has my stay with you only been a tease or did you actually teach me something that I can take back with me?

Serious examination of the explanations for why we shout: Se Fue La Luz!

In the United States I can always take a warm bath, so I take hot showers that last a while without thinking about it twice. I let the water run while I brush my teeth all the while hearing the voice of my environmentally conscious roommate in the back of my head. Since I'm paying for it, I have gotten better about turning lights off, but I still expect there to be electricity whenever I want it.
I remember Dominican Republic when I was a child. When, at 8pm, people would run around screaming, "Se fue la luz!" This was especially scary for me when I was already making my bed at night and all of the lights would go out without any consideration for my fear of the dark.
This was always a mystery to me. I knew that in DR la luz se va*, but I never knew the cause. It was a supernatural phenomenon for me that I left unquestioned, kind of like El Cuco--the Dominican equivalent of the Boogie Man which your parents would threaten you with when you disobeyed them. "You better wash that plate or the Cuco is going to get you." "If you don't come here right now, the Cuco is going to get to you."
When I was a teenager I began to hear rumors that the lights went out frequently because DR owed a German power plant money. But this trip, I wanted to know for reals.
My uncle who is an engineer and worked for the government during the Balaguer years, supervising the construction of aqueducts and such, explained that the problem is a very basic supply and demand problem. As rural-urban migration occurs; i.e. more people move from the campos to the cities (which is evident when you drive past Villa Mella and see the hill filled with little houses made of tin that look like cardboard boxes), the demand for electricity and water and other energy sources increases. Dominican Republic has not been able to meet this demand. This alone doesn't factor in the tourists who come and consume the islands resources, creating an even greater demand. Many folks have found ways to access electricity and water for free and use it inefficiently, leaving the light on for hours because they're not paying for it. No incentive.
So while my aunts and uncles in Dominican Republic always have running water and electricity because they have inversores, others who do not have the money to purchase these additional energy supplies are often without the ability to flush the toilet or to take a shower or to read at night. So what do they do? Like good Dominicans they get around it. They save tubs and buckets of water and use them to shower; they flush the toilet with this same accumulated water supply, often leaving little jugs in the bathroom to scoop the water with and to pour on your hands for washing. As you can imagine, hand sanitizer is popular in the poorer areas.
"Pero tio, I asked, are you saying that the problem is a statistical one? Knowing that population growth in cities is occuring, why not build more aqueducts to increase water supply?"
-That's precisely the problem, m'ija. The projections are inaccurate and the problem is governmental.
Seems simple, right? So why is it still a problem? Why are there not more intitiatives to get the numbers straight?
Or, once again, is this particular explanation also akin to the rumors I heard about the origins of this phenomenon when I was a teen?


*Se fue la luz: The lights left.
La luz se va: The light goes.

A Familiar Smell, Like Fosforo

The sound of the gentle breeze, the chriping birds, the flowing curtains, the waving palm trees have all replaced my usual morning sountrack on Pandora's Feist Radio--which, by the way, I highly recommend.  Things feel peaceful in the morning here. I wake up briefly to the sound of the gallo crowing and then to my itchy feet and arms because the mosquitos love me. And then I go back to sleep.
"AAaaaguacate, guineo maduro, zapote." "AAAAaaguacate, guineo maduro, zapote."*  A familiar sound for me that I hadn't heard in a whiiille.
Familiar. Yes, Boston and it's skyscrapers and it's large avenues and it's many cafe's is familiar. But this smell, this breeze, these people are familiar in a different way. I didn't realize how connected to this place I actually am until I looked over the island from the plane-window and was filled with emotion because I was seeing MY country. I was filled with a child-like emotion, as though I was seeing my father again after 15 years or like I was seeing into my mother's soul. Then, when I stepped off of the plane and I smelled that familiar smell of something burning. Ha ha. Believe me, it's not a bad smell! DR just smells like fósforo (matches) or something, all the time. And yes, Bekah, the plane roared in clapping when the aircraft hit the ground, soaring into el Aeropuerto de las Americas.
Although I hate to admit it, there are aspects of this culture I do not connect with, like the screaming policeman yelling, "Hijo de tu maldita madre!"*  to the oncoming traffick.
--Que policía mas malcria'o, responded my aunt.*
The traffick. Oh the traffick! People swerving in and out, driving through red lights, honking--Beeee bee-bee beep-- like crazy, yelling. What a fiasco! So glad I'm not the one driving.
It's a shame that for as much as I want to say that I love Dominican Republic for all that it is, I really enjoy the Colonial Zone the most--the most European looking and most reminiscent of Spanish colonization. The park where Christopher Columbus' statue resides is one of the more gorgeous places I've ventured through so far. I'm a sucker for those parks found in most cities in Latin America. In contrast, I'm not such a fan of the little barrio at the entrance of the community where my aunt lives: poverty to wealth right there in your face. The little barrio is filled with stores named after American boutiques with mis-spelled phrases like, "Fashion Butike" or something. And then just 3 minutes down the road you see the huge seminary marking the entrance of a more affluent place with huge gates and backyards and very well decorated houses.
That's Latin America, for you. Huge inequality, a gigantic gap between the rich and the poor. Not that the United States is exempt from this phenomenon either. However, the very marked contrast between the Mercedes Benzes and the charritos makes it more obvious. The little kids in rags asking you, "Regalame un peso*" show the desperation of poverty in this place.
But I am loving my mornings. And yes, to my housemates, I have done yoga in the large balcony area overlooking the patio in my aunt's house. I'll upload pictures. It's gorgeous. Hopefully, the neighbors haven't seen me or they'll think I'm weird. As the couchsurfer reminded me, "Here, people don't hike or ride bikes. A two hour hike is like really adventurous and you climb Pico Duarte with a tour guide and a mule who carries your stuff."  People seem to prefer being in their houses with their families, generally speaking. When I told my little cousin about the couch surfer who biked through the forrests of Venezuela she asked, Why would he do that? And when I told her I was going to La Zona Colonial she warned, "Lo unico es que alli se camina mucho."* These are all generalizations, my friends, from where I see the island; as a Dominican-York, second generation Dominican, who has not lived here and has not been here for 5 years. Afterall, my cousin is in the girl scouts and is going camping this weekend. So maybe there are some adventurous Dominicans.
All in all, I'm enjoying this peace, this sun, these roots and this people. I'm letting this breeze, the ocean and my family help connect a severed part of my identity that really only finds itself truly somewhere in the Atlantic ocean, sustained in the air between the two places that I am from.

*Aaavacado. Ripe banana. Sapote (a soft fruit, grown in DR)

*Son of your f-ing mother!
*What a fresh cop!
*Give me a peso (Dominican currency: 1 American dollar = 37 Dominican pesos)
*The only thing is that, over there (you have to) walk a lot

Bon Voyage (Or Should I Say: Buen Viaje!)

While the highlight of my night was spending an hour trying to get the God-forsaken #$!* wax off of my legs, the highlight of my morning was burning my tongue with a mouthfull of my re-heated coffee. It's the morning of my travel day and I'm filled with questions; like, would my vacation have been better spent or more relaxing if I just stayed in this city that I so love? I mean, my morning was wonderful--beside the coffee fiasco and the wax-trauma, I was greeted by the sun that shone on all of the pretty brick houses behind all of the young couples and singles going to work and walking their dogs. Not going to work and being able to take my time in the morning is enough of a vacation for me.  I got into my car and drove down Mass. Ave, past tall buildings and people who remind me that the public square exists, something I often forget in the suburbs. Relaxing. Re-assuring. MIT students walk across the Harvard Bridge as Alexi Murdoch reminds me to "just breathe". I stared at the skyline and parked near Berklee College of Music, went to my beloved Trident Bookstore Cafe. Familiar. The people that work at the bookstore know exactly the kind of books I like and the kind of person I am. For as much as we talk trash about our country, we're Americans. I'm Latin-(North) American and they, maybe African American or Anglo American. They are familiar with the classification I fall under: college grad.-looking to enrich her life after college. looking for meaningful read. wears skinny jeans.
In DR. my identity is not so black and white. I'm a lightskinned Dominincan who should belong in the Northern part of the country, but who grew up elsewhere. I'm a Dominican-York there, who is both admired and viewed as just a little ridiculous.
What will my vacation be like at a place I'm not so familiar with; where I could easily be identified as a money sign or a green card opportunity? A place whose routes and streets I do not know like the back of my hand and I could very well spend the entirety of my day on some small bus with chickens sticking out of the side in order to find a coffee shop or a beach. And here's the thing, if I were going on vacation to Chile or Argentina I'd totally be ok with traveling around in the chicken-filled sardine-bus, but in DR it's different. My mother reminded me between 8-17 times this morning that its dangerous to travel by myself. I'll have to be careful to tell my aunts where I'm going and when I'm coming home, something I don't have to do here.

But there are things to look forward to; like meeting my dad's close friend who will hopefully provide clues about his life for me and explanations about his political passion. I'm equipped with a book about a Dominican-York, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, to accompany me on this brief journey back to my roots. Maybe I'll have a lot to write about when I come back and maybe I won't. Maybe I'll relax and get a fabulous tan. Or maybe I'll be stressed by the end with a horrible sun burn. Maybe I'll loose a bunch of important items or maybe I'll realize that I actually have the potential to keep track of my things. Here's to a week of discovery. And I'm off to the airport.

Vacation time?

So I'm thinking of embarking on a journey to Dominican Republic. In my head, I'll spend a week painting with one of my aunt's who is a painter, discovering a coffee shop that I don't know-ex pats go to or students or artists or something--where I'll bump into an old friend of my dad's who will tell me all about my father's social and political involvements. This encounter will, then, turn into a book or a video which I will end up recording with the recording advice that I do not (yet) own. I will go to the museum of art in the capital and will find paintings of the painter/uncle I never met, and somehow, staring at this painting will infuse me with meaning and purpose. 

I will travel to Puerto Plata--and it will be sunny every day during my stay---I will meet all of these really cool artists and musicians, who will take me out every night. And not only will we be out dancing, but we will definitely have the time of our lives!  And these won't just be any old people; they will be kindred spirits who I will be in touch with via facebook for a very long time after. Heck! Maybe even email!  I will be so inspired and write poetry that someone will deem worth publishing some day. I will travel to a coffee-farm (is that what you call it? the place where they harvest coffee?) and this will make my trip meaningful. You know what else I'll do? I'll set up a meeting with one of the Universities and I'll learn about the initiatives they are embarking on and this, too, will make me feel like my vacation has a purpose. Of course, I'll sit on the beach and read all of Julia Alvarez's books and everything that talks about being a Dominican-American that I can get my hands on during this trip. 
Ok. these are the ridiculous thoughts that are in my head. Now that they're down on paper and in the cyber world and now that I have confirmed how stupidly ambitious and crazy my one week-dream-trip to the motherland sounds, I can commence my real plans for requesting a vacation. Let's see what I actually end up doing. Most likely, it will mean me staying home in Beverly, sleeping in and going to a yoga class every day.
Hhhmm...

A Flashback

House on Mango Street and Julia Alvarez-books filled the shelves, and these things are only noticeable to me now because no one around me, these days, knows what these books might represent--except for maybe those who were Spanish majors or who, by some accidental encounter, found out about this author or that book. 

I remember Maria Gonzalez's classroom, filled with bright colors and many books about who we were then.  Us. 

This memory of my childhood may be tainted by wishful thinking--wishful thinking of a world in which I am understood and do not have to constantly explain who I am, let alone wonder why I am this way; e.g. why I talk with my hands, why I'm a little loud, why I always have to talk about my experience and raise it as an important point in conversation.  But it may also be true that I was a part of something then; that my experiences were similar to those next to me even while the random scatterings of American children whose parents wanted them to learn Spanish partook in our classroom.

I remember dancing to Moviendo La Cadera in 4th grade, a dancing act that was led by Ms. Matos, our Puerto Rican teacher's assistant and confidant. She sewed colorful headbands for us and matching skirts. She taught us to cook locrio de pollo  in what used to be the home-making class at the Kennedy School. We partook in a play in which we were Puerto Rican, and Melissa, instead of saying Jayuya, shouted proudly, "Juyaya!" despite all of the practicing. 

I remember these mothers, who provide counter-examples for me when I am tempted to say that no one understands my particular family situation. I remember the Pentecostal Puerto Rican, parent of the class heart-throb, who did not necessarily fulfill the cool Latin-mom persona and looked more like my mother than Salma Hayek's character in Spanglish.

We learned about immigration in 8th grade and Emma Lazarus' poem inviting the "sedientos" (the thirsty) to the land of the free. And the history book became alive with our parents' respective journeys. We lost ourselves in stories of who we could be, female heros with last names that sounded like our own--Perez, Gonzalez, Miranda, Vasquez, Mirabal. We dreamed of possibilities. 

We were understood then. Maybe. 

Carta de corazon

I guess we're all struggling, aren't we? And when we're struggling we get pulled into a vortex of mis-matched expectations that each of us fail to keep for each other. We utter these desires to be held, understood, loved, supported and, hell, to just rest-- under the breath of our respective subconscious(es).
But as I allow manifestations of my own pain, fears, anxieties and exhaustion to flow out of the cages they dwell in, I realize that you, my beautiful friends, cannot always see their ugly origins.
You, in your struggle to hold on, are just asking to be held, and you are sometimes met with the manifestations of my inner demons in response.  But know that I want to honor your request with all of my heart. You, who have been so supportive and a force of healing for me, I want to give you all of the understanding, love and support. I want to put myself aside to hear you and give you words of affirmation. And know that when I fall short it's because I'm not thinking; it's because I loose touch with the ability to help, because I am still hurting.
What will we do, my dears? With all of this pain made of flesh, blood and bone? What will we do with all of this death and darkness? What will we do with the temptation to create hierarchies of pain, determining who suffers more and who should get the comfort award at the end of the day?
I will hold you in my mind as you cry inside the cages I can't always see. And even if I don't think you are doing the same for me, I will fall back like a cheesy-trust exercise with the faith that you'll catch me too.

On the Lucky Star

1. I think that the Lucky Star Bus could really use some cup-holders. I came to this realization while I was trying to simultaneously write and drink my coffee. There was no where to put my cup down, so I cleverly put the half-filled coffee cup in those little trash bags that are tied at the end of the seats. But then I realized that my clever idea was not so clever because, not only was I out of coffee, but now I faced the potential liquid-in-bag-disaster. So let's hope that my coffee doesn't fall over the Lucky Star floor when we hit a speed bump. And c'mon, it is the Lucky Star afterall and we, most likely, will hit more than a few speed bumps as we speed down the highway towards  to New York.

2. CONFESSIONS OF A MESSY PERSON
 I've always been kind of messy in my appearance. In 6th grade, for example, it was not uncommon to find my shoelaces untied, my backpack practically falling off my shoulders and hanging awkwardly on my arms at elbow length. In fact, I received all sorts of advise about my haphazard appearance.  Patti Noriega would say to me, "God, Annery. pick yourself up. You look so messy." My pastor would gently point out, "Annery, you're shoelaces are untied,"  but he and everyone else knew that they were almost always untied. In kindergarten, my dad didn't know how to do my hair while my mother was working so I would come into class with tangled hair causing teachers to think I was a neglected child. Nope. I just had a dad who did not know how to use a comb.
So these days I'm trying to learn not to carry 10 research books in my backpack when I'm headed to the library to work on a project. I'm learning that the ache in my back can actually go away pretty easily if I decide to only bring three books instead of 10. I am learning that when my shoelaces are untied it only takes 4 seconds to tie them and that big briefcase-type bags exist in order to comfortably store your laptop and files in each compartment as opposed to stuffing them anxiously in a backpack or small purse.
The $40 is worth the investment.
I can just see your face now, my dear reader. You must be thinking, "This is common sense! What is wrong with this girl?" Well, there are some things that were taught to us that we take for granted and other things that were taught to other people that we never learned--even the most common sensical lesson might not be as common sense to the person next to you, right?
So now, as I'm riding the bus to New York with my suitcase that holds my hair brush, body wash, makeup and clothes in nice compartments, I am sensitive to the other passengers who might not have their things so neatly stored. The earphone chord to their ipod might be wrapped around their purse and arm, for instance, while they try to balance two bags and their breakfast. I look at them and say, "Hey, my friend, I know what that's like. You can take a second to put your food in your purse and untangle yourself from this oppressive ipod chord! Don't worry. I've been there. Trust me. It's worth the effort."  But had I never been a sloppy a kid, I would have never understood why this is not common sense to all.

Now, don't get me wrong: You can take the girl out of the hot-mess, but you can't always take the hot-mess out of the girl--Ok. Maybe that doesn't quite work here. But what I mean is that I'm still learning about the wonders of tupper-wear whose lids are not hanging out somewhere underneath the sink--tupper-wear that you can easily find. Just the other day I found out that zip lock bags were my best friend and I had to train myself to get over the guilt of using too many of them (because I might be hurting the environment or I might not have enough money to get more--but wait! I have a salary...I can surely afford zip lock bags!)  Every day a new discovery on how to become neater and cleaner.
I guess we'll leave the psycho-analysis for another entry. It'll be called "Why messy people are anxious people." Maybe. Or maybe I'll never get around to writing it. We'll see....