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....

Sophie plays with the flowers

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

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

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

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

A Lesson from a Barrista During a Sunday Morning in Cambridge

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


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

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

Family

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