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.*

meh...

Do you ever wonder if anyone else ignores the cat poop in the bathroom because you somehow convince yourself that if you pretend it's not there, it will magically disappear?
Does anyone ever feel like there are not enough hours in the day to clean this cat poop so you, instead, proceed sit in front of your computer, doing mindless things for 4 hours?
Do you wonder if anyone else approaches practically everything in life this way:
Bills, homework, the trash, calling your mom.

Do you ever wonder if other people are hypochondriacs too?
What they do when they start feeling brain fog
Or how in the world they get themselves to start doing work when their head is pounding and they're stressed?
Does anyone else get overwhelmed about 3 months into doing any type of work, feeling like they can start things very well, wow everyone at an interview and give great first impressions and then slowly begin to wither and let people down---
Oh, and letting people down. Is there anyone else who's consistently under the impression that everyone's mad at you, frustrated with you and deems you generally incompetent to then let an overwhelming sense of defeat paralyze you, making this cycle a self-fulfilling prophesy?

I'm such a mess.

But I've realized that all it takes to get that spotless bathroom you've always wanted is precisely to clean things when they happen so that in a week you won't be running away from it even faster when it gets even more gross.
And to get that spotless credit report you never thought possible means paying the bill right when you remember to and not putting it off.
And to write that paper you're so overwhelmed by means that you need to start it now, just look at it, start reading, do something about it because the overwhelming stress will not magically disappear, nor will the cat poop, nor will the bills that are due. Just do it.

Reflections on travel

I was looking through my pictures today of Croatia and Budapest--beautiful pictures. One of my favorites is of Gornji Grad, where I had lots of time to reflect, meditate, pray, and make meaningful observations and connections. The intricate iron gates, the dim lit candles next to the cobble stone road, the many passers-by from all of the world. Many friends later told me, "I'm so jealous you got to travel to Eastern Europe."
But, the truth is, that while I spent many beautiful moments and meaningful moments in Eastern Europe this summer, I also spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to actually make my time there meaningful--arguably, more time trying to figure out how to make it meaningful than actually partaking in meaningful activities. I spent a lot of time trying to make sense of why exactly I was in a foreign city with little connection to the culture. The truth is that the words "Eastern Europe" and "cathedrals" sound cooler than the actual act of being there; that the whole time I was there I was thinking about how I could find meaning in a place I had little understanding of, I spent many nights missing family, many days doing nothing, many Saturdays waking up at 11am, aimlessly traveling on the tram, searching for things to do on a tight budget and mustering up the guts to talk to people I would probably never see again. Although the experience seemed way cool, a lot of the "coolness" of it came after-wards, when I was home in Boston, away from Ilica street and away from Novi Zagreb, when I was able to make sense of how pushing myself in this way had made a difference--how it had left a tiny mark on my journey. My travel this summer was a seed and I am only now seeing some of it's fruit. I imagine I won't fully reap the "coolness" of this experience until I am able to compare it to future travel and future experiences.

Homogeneity makes me uncomfortable

So I'm living in the North Shore and kinda...
loving it. And not "loving it" like the honeymoon stage everyone undergoes when they're in a new situation. Not "loving it" like two week Gordon College trips to Guatemala, where exposure to Mayan weaving, art craft, the view of lake Atitlan and those cute little brown children makes students start feeling like they want an identity change; saying things rooted in transcendent feeling, "I know I'm white, but I'm Latino at heart"---Or what would be in my case: "I know I'm Latina, but I'm White at heart." Not "loving it" like I'm overjoyed and don't know what to do with myself--like when I watch "So You Think You Can Dance" and feel like my soul wants to crawl out of my body.
I'm loving it like....rest. Like sleep at the end of a hard day. Natural. Like your favorite sweater--that you may or may not get tired of in a couple of months when you go to Forever 21 and see something better.

But, I must admit, the homogeneity of the North Shore makes me feel uncomfortable. The sight of it arouses my senses. I'm aware of it--when I see too much sameness for too long a period. I work in Gloucester and I love learning about the fishermen and clamming and sea shanties and cool little local shops, but I keep thinking, "Where are the Black people?" And not just the color skin... I miss the Shante's and Shaniquas and Lonell's, to be honest. I miss trips into Dorchester on bus 23 to interrupt my "up-ity" morning in a cafe near Copley Square. I miss the realness, the rawness of it.

I miss seeing different colors, different ways of speaking. Boston accents in the North Shore make me long for some ebonics. Gloucester homes by the sea make me long for barbeque's and blasting salsa music outside. Pleasant Street Tea Company makes me long for the Harvard professors at 1369 sitting next to the homeless guy who just learned to read six months ago--I guess it must be more like a year ago by now. Difference sitting together is my culture, so much so, that homogeneity will take some getting used to.

And I guess it's not fair to say that the North Shore is entirely homogenous. In other ways, it is incredibly diverse, different and dynamic. I guess, I just have to adjust my eyes a little better and learn to see diversity in different ways. It is, however, fair to say (I think) that it's easier to see and experience sameness here than it is in Boston. And the fact that I can so easily blend into this picture also makes me uncomfortable.

Tonight

Part A:

I felt...normal. Curvy women in flowy dresses. Yes. Curves. Undulating waves, beginning at the top, closing in the middle and exploding at the bottom. Extra stands proudly. It is the subject. It is the initiator. It is the norm tonight.
Huge circular wooden earings. And colors. Yes-colors. Curly hair let loose. Africa. In my hips.

Shame. At the North Shore. Next to skinny frames. Where curves are on the fringes? Or my perception is skewed?

But I'm normal tonight. With certainty. Unquestioned. Looking like you, beautiful you. And basking in an air of wordless affirmation.

Part B:

Spanish. I'm overly excited. Hearing tongues utter erres, saying "vale" and "disque." A collage, really. A collage of Latin American accents, helping me travel to Venezuela and Spain in the course of a phrase. And these erres and eses and a e i o u pronounced ah eh ee...takes me to contemporary Latin America, providing me with updates. "What happened since I left?"
Answer: erres, eses y a e i o u. Spanish sounds.

Part C:

Excitement. They're loud. We're loud. And overly excited. Our faces transform. The volume in their voice increases, repeating the same thing: "Que increíble. Que bello." As if I didn't hear them the first time--As if everybody didn't hear them the first time. But you can tell words are insufficient and cannot adequately convey nostalgia and pride and feeling home, and heck....just feeling good and impressed about a good performance. And he was a Dominican performer--so of course it was extra special.

Tucki tac-túk-tac Tucki tac-túk-tac

Sitting next to my mom at a unique concert tonight was a special occurence. I don't think she knows how much I value where we come from--where she comes from; how much I value her heritage that she's passed down to me. But seeing her face tonight, I could tell she was being taken far beyond 136 Mass Ave. into dance halls of the 1960s in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic.
What a beautiful memory to have... Cheerfully walking in groups to the town dance; girls patiently waiting for young gentlemen--or not-so-gentle-men to ask them to dance. Tucki tac-túk-tac--Tucki-tac-túk-tac, the congas she knew sang to her. These congas are not your wanna-be Latin music-immitations on American radio stations. These congas were accompanied by guiros and accordians. This was classic merengue, played to the sound of seashores and not-so-distant memories of a struggle for freedom from "El Jefe." Mami lived in the Time of the Butterflies, next to the Boulevard.
She was probably taken back to the alto of her house, where her windows flew open and closed by the wind of the near-by sea---a place I've had the opportunity and privilege to witness.
When the young 20-year old Dominican led that orchestra in a classic merengue tune, and sang about salchicón and café con leche, we all joined him together in Santo Domingo, remembering Juán Luis Guerra's "Niagara En Bicicleta" and those Dominican commercials about Induveca salami.
Mami was the expert tonight in Nueva York. Cambridge Housing Authority and all of those who offer subsidized services to her lost their power between 8:15 and 10:00pm tonight. Mami knows best when it comes to home.

Mornings in Boston

I miss the early morning rush of men and women in suits, flooding the red line with their New York Times papers and briefcases. Determined. "And how is this different from the North Shore?" you might ask. Well, there's something cosmopolitan about mornings in Boston--something worldly about it...Like we're part of something larger than ourselves. Mornings in Boston make me a feel like a world citizen. Newspapers make me feel like the entire globe is united for those first couple of hours. I imagine that our thoughts are one at 9:00am as all three hundred and fifty of us on the red line think about our lattes, affairs in Iran, laundry, and then find our thoughts interrupted by the beautiful Boston skyline as the train approaches Charles MGH. Focused eyes all turn to the window and glare: The sun highlighting the river on a backdrop of skyscrapers, brownstones and that Citgo sign that has faithfully provided every Bostonian comfort for the past 22 + years. Familiar. The cityscape is dotted with runners from MIT, college students preoccuppied with jobs and exams in the fall. Movement. Workforce solidarity. Whatever feelings the night before elicited in us, subdued by the Harvard bridge at a distance. You feel purposeful at 9am, causing you to want to read, run and work. Causing you to feel connected to that person trying very hard not to smother your personal bubble before riding past Downtown Crossing. And the solidarity with he who gets off at the same stop as you--every day.