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.