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.*

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.