A word on mosquito bites, plantations, and family as a way to sum up the Mayan Empire.

It is my fourth day back in the states and I woke up hella early today. I figured it was my bodies way of telling me it was time to write. The non-pen and paper kind of writing, but I digress. I've been reaching for a summation of my trip, a way of wrapping myself in the love that it gave me and using it to shawl me from the world I am about to step back into. But rather than trying to combine several stories from the trip, I thought I would tell just one, and see where I go from there.

About four days into my trip, I went to a "Finca", now I have no idea what a finca is when my family tells me where we are going. I am wearing a purple tank top and comfortable cotton skirt, we are in Barrios at this point in time and it is hot as a mofo in Barrios (though I hear I got off easy). I see no reason to change. I ask what a Finca is and all anyone can tell me is that there are lots of fields. So I say, what the hell, and head on out with a few cousins. Before I know it, I am in the most beautiful terrain I have ever seen. A mix between jungle and forest, depending on the stretch you are driving through. At some point my cousin in-law stops the car in what can only be described as a Lychee Forest. Huge mama jamma lychee everywhere in tons of different colors, lots of yellows, reds, red with green spindles, oranges, etc.



Now I'm hard headed, so when I'm told that it probably wouldn't be good to climb around in all of it, that there are many insects and mosquitoes and I may pay consequences, my response is "It will be worth it" (which I still believe). And so hiking through I go, parrots flying past me, mammoth butterflys the size of your hand, and the faint buzz of insects. I pick fruit and taste, and laugh as a chicken follows my dad.



The rest of it is an interesting experience, where as beautiful as the finca is, I cannot get over how the indigenous people in the fields are being treated. Young Mayan's seem to be working the land in a way my American ass can only interpret as "plantation". Which as beautiful as it is, makes it hard for me to see it as anything but that. Which I know isn't very culturally open, but on another post I can describe this in further detail. It made me a little heartsick. I did my best to not let it read to my family, who was really trying to show me everything beautiful in Guatemala. By the time my father told me that he had worked on a Finca as a young boy and so had many of our family members, I was ready to leave.

I get home and realize that I have in fact been highly bitten by mosquitoes. Only, these bites are larger and more swollen than I have ever had mosquito bites ever. One of my aunts says that if I was bitten by mosquitoes then they were of the mafioso variety. haha. My aunt who is a nurse there looks at them to be certain I have gotten no other dangerous insect bite and deems me fine but in for a lot of itching.

Now I'm not trying to be obnoxious, but I've traveled a lot, so a few mosquito bites, even bad ones, is a blip on my travel radar. My father on the other hand looks obscenely worried. For the remainder of the day he continues to look at me in duress as if watching the mosquito bites on my legs is painful. Now to his credit, it does look bad, evidenced below.



But his reaction surprises me. The father that I have known has always been ornery and slightly apathetic (I say this in the most loving way possible). After a day of trying to find things to calm the itching, Mama Mirta (my dad's aunt/oldest living relative I have/pseudo-grandmother/all around gutsy lady) says we should put menthol on my bites. This sounds like a good idea to me, I figure the menthol will cool the bites and I had been putting ice cubes on them when no one was watching to get some relief until then.

I put on the menthol all the way across my legs and my dad watches, grunts mildly at me, but says nothing. It takes me 5 minutes max to slap it on and provides me minimal but definite calm.

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, I was up writing in my journal and about to slather on some more menthol. My dad comes in the room and says "Ay mija, look at what they did to you. Your mother would kill me." I laugh and agree, but tell him I'm fine. But he asks me if he can put the menthol on my legs for me. I am so ready in that moment to say "No dad, I can do it, I can take care of myself, its only mosquito bites, I'm not a princess." But instead, I look at the worry lines creasing his forehead and ease myself back on my uncles couch and make room for him to sit as I think "don't let him not be your dad right now". And for the next 30 minutes my dad sits on the couch and one by one rubs menthol on each of my mosquito bites. He shakes his head in what can only be described as sadness as he looks at each one a throughly rubs the menthol into each as if he were preforming an important surgery. And it dawns on me then, 1 am, sitting on the couch of an uncle I've only known for days, in a tiny tiny tropical and rural port town in the south east of Guatemala, just how much my dad really does love me. It hurts him to see me with mosquito bites. And where as I was fully willing to brush them off as inconvenience and take a minimal 5 minutes to take care of them, my dad thinks its worth 30 minutes of his time to try and make it better. Now for those of you who are familiar with my father, haha, you know he isn't the most expressive man. He has a gruff exterior and its tough for him to say I love you unless severely prompted and it takes him years to allow any new people in his life, his expression in the states is usually one that verges on scowl. So you can see, how a girl as emotional and expressive as I am, was a toughy for him to handle. But that night, and many other moments on the trip, I was struck by how in our baggage as father and daughter, I had not ever truly understood just how much my dad loves me, even if its hard for him to say it. I am loved.

Family in Guatemala is just different than in the states. There is a different way that family relates to each other. They talk and become friends and rely on each other. When one family member hurts the whole family does and when one family member has joy the whole family rejoices. Older people are treated differently. They are spoken to with a different regard and importance. Like you know your time with them is limited and you are blessed to learn whatever you can. It is not rare to see a group of people in conversation that spans at least 3 generations. In a household where there is no father, there is almost certainly an uncle that guides a boy into manhood. And at very least in my family, they go from being Tio to Papa. It is not rare that a family overwhelmed with children has one child raised in the grandparents home.

All of this is necessary to even get by in Guate. Because really, you can be a doctor, lawyer, nurse and still be absolutely poor. The pooling of resources both emotional and economic within the family becomes a way of surviving as much as a way of life. For sometime, they need each other, and in needing each other, they begin to want each other around too. And though my dad was pulled from all this love and support at a very young age and put in homes and orphanages until coming to the United States, this is where his base was created. Everything he learned about being a dad got packed into the first 8 to 9 years of his life. It is heartbreaking but important for me to remember that. Because the knowledge that that nine year old boy soaked in about family and all the bruises and trauma that followed created the man who sat at my legs and dedicated 30 minutes every night for 5 nights to provide his daughter with comfort.

There are so many stories I have been privy to in the last three weeks. So many. Rich and beautiful stories. Stories about my revolutionary great-grandmother "La Abuela", that hid propaganda in tortillas to help Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolutionary, spread the gospel of the need for change for the poor. Stories about her exile and escape from her mother country. Stories about the loss of her 13 children and her immediate jump to raise all her grandchildren in their absence. Stories about my 10 aunts and uncles and their upbringing in steep poverty but rich experiences. Stories that are full of immense pain and tremendous pride at what each of them had to do to guarantee survival for the rest. And how they always always minded the rest.

No doubt, I'm American. I have the optimism, idealism, and privilege that defines my ability to really embrace and take on the world. My sense of justice was created here because justice can prevail in our society, even if present governance tells us otherwise from time to time. It is nowhere near what we see in other countries.

I understand now, perhaps better than at any time in my life, that I am Guatemalan and Mexican. I am fundamentally tied to my culture. To a people whose ruins remain more amazing than any modern day building I have seen. Linked to traditions and values created out of struggle and hope. I am loved by them. I was loved by them before I ever was even born. And they fought for themselves, each other and my future. And now I get the distinct honor of being their historian. Making sure that my kids, my students, and my friends know where they come from.

Crazy Thoughts

I had a someone ask me how I felt about forgiveness. I immediately answered "good, uh, most of the time, uh, it depends." And now, weeks after the question, I sit here and fully get that that particular response means that I'm pretty crappy with it. The good news for all those concerned, very rarely do I think people do things so bad, that forgiveness is necessary. I leave room for people's humanity, the mistakes they make just because we make mistakes as people. I love the utterly flawed and aware. My ability for empathy is so big, I think a key to it, is really accepting other people for what they are.

I chose to take a few days before my vacation to sit and mentally prep myself for what it looks like to be with my extended family in Guatemala, what 2 weeks with my father looks like, thinking about what I want to gain from really 3 weeks without the constant pressure of work.

Here is the thing about sitting and thinking. You get all sorts of crazy thoughts. Left to my own devices, thats what happens, crazy thoughts. I somehow manage to blame myself for every mildly inconvenient to traumatic thing that has happened to myself, my friends, and my family.

This of course brings me back to thought number one, I'm crap at forgiveness. I wonder if the people who live life good, I mean real good, thats what they get a handle on. How to forgive themselves for their humanity. How you take the pieces and look at yourself as utterly flawed and incredibly beautiful is a mystery worth solving. I can do it for others, I'm just puzzled as to how. If I could crack that, how I do that, I might have a shot at turning the same kindness around for me. This way, on the first Monday morning off I can remember, prepping myself for my first vacation in years, I wouldn't be mulling my crazy thoughts and my crap forgiveness. haha.

May your crazy thoughts not inundate you today, peace and quiet is so hard to come by after all, you wouldn't want to kill it with your own brain. ;c)

To All The Boys I've Loved Before

Life of Incredible Succulence

I am absolutely in love with the word succulence. Thank you Nia Mclean for bringing it into my life as a requirement of personal description.

I have been up for 30 minutes on an early Sunday morning with songs in my heart. I find when those are there, I must write them down. The songs don't come every day, and I encourage you all to write down your songs as well. The world needs them.

I'm reading this book called Succulent Wild Women and the way this woman writes, half stream of consciousness and half purposeful reflection, inspires in me a way of being I often leave in a corner.

Ya'll I'm about to be as honest as I can be. I am going to write down all the worst and best things about myself I can identify as a way of releasing them into the world, not letting them be locked inside of me. This comes neither from narcissism nor horrible self-esteem. It comes from an acknowledgement that everything in me touches on beauty and it is okay. It is actually okay for you too, everything in you touches on beauty as well, love. Allow yourself to touch and be touched, and yes that sounds dirty, but I love that I don't care.

Some of the things that I think are the worst: I can't help but loving to talk everything out, sometimes, you leave well enough alone, and I can't. I have very little self-restraint. That last cookie, I eat it; that phone call to the him you shouldn't make, I make it; the snooze button, I push it. That being said, I am self-indulgent (which maybe does make this narcissistic). I allow being a survivor to hurt for at least 10 hours in each day and I don't know how to stop. I am at once too emotional and not emotional enough. I do not allow myself to carry the full cycle of emotion, I stop it just in time to feel sorry for myself. When I pass gas, its a horrendous unladylike smell and I don't always own that it comes from me. I am utterly human with no ability for perfection, though I am a perfectionist, just so I can criticize myself. I am a slob and really have to put an effort into making sure that I don't just drop every article of clothing right where I undress. I want a bigger world than my family has known, and I want it at least 10 hours out of every day. I wallow with judgment, so as were most people could wallow and then get over it, I wallow and judge myself the entire time. The division of the two lets me victimize myself a little too much. I'm a huge fan of baths I never take. I will go entire days having eaten once because I am too self-important to make room for food. As much as I've been through I still take unnecessary risks to prove that I am independent. I own books I do not finish. I think I know it all. I don't let myself get angry. I love dancing and exercising but I get too lazy to go and do it everyday.

Now I challenge myself to make the next list just as long.

Here are some of the best: I think the world is sooo beautiful sometimes, I will celebrate it in my room alone. The celebration is a better dance party than you find in most clubs and I need no one but myself to have it. I am a true friend. When other people find good fortune I genuinely do not feel it makes me less than, I get so proud, so as not to seem silly, I'll go to the bathroom and shed tears of joy. They are my tears, I shed them privately and they are full of beauty. My eyes are magically trained to give empathy. I can look at a child or an adult and have a pretty good instinct of where the hurt comes from. I know people. On very good days I radiate light. I bring community into the world and allow people to remember the root of family. I truly accept and encourage imperfection in others. I wear perfume on my wrist so that I can sniff it at any time in the day and love that I smell good. I wear perfume on the nape of my neck as much for myself as for anyone who may hug me. I love to comfort. I am a great hugger, I give embraces full of life, warmth and tenderness. I love to learn. I read as much as I can. I love to sleep. Good sleep is my favorite thing in the entire world. When I kiss, I nibble, as if tasting my partners lips is the most delicious thing I can think of doing in that very moment... because it is. I'm feisty. I am as much of a girls girl as a guys girl. I do not feel intimidated by good women, I revel in them and encourage their brilliance and succulence. I respect the male heart, its genuineness, its difference from the female heart. I truly love in men how well intentioned they can be in their want for adventure, to protect, to rescue, and even to conquer. I sing at the top of my lungs no matter who is in the car. When I sing, I put my heart into my voice, not because I try but because my heart is so big, it has to find other ways of jumping into the world. I dress up for myself, because I love watching the end product for me. I love to cook, and I cook wonderfully. I bring flavor into the world.

Main Entry: 1 suc·cu·lent
Pronunciation: -l&nt
Function: adjective
1 a : full of juice : JUICY b : moist and tasty : TOOTHSOME a succulent meal; of a plant : having fleshy tissues that conserve moisture
2 : rich in interest

Give yourself love today. (I say this as much for myself as I say it for you)

Oh Dad...

I was in my parents home for about 36 hours this last weekend. A home that is as familiar to me and as foreign to me as any place can possibly be. My parent’s home has gone through refurbishment ya’ll and its beautiful to see. I look at how proud my mom is showing me all the new pieces; the wood floors, the new mats on each wooden step, the virtually new kitchen. I believe she has repeated to me the decision for each piece, the rationale behind the purchase and the path to the purchase at least 3 or 4 times per piece. I can absolutely count on certain other stories from my mom too. I know that in stepping into the house I will hear of how loyal our dog Tyson is and he follows her everywhere, how my father has acquired a new cat (the newest one is called Leonel for anyone keeping track), I’ll hear about how hard of a worker my brother is and most definitely I will hear about how my grandmother nags her all the time.


And as the stories have become staples, the conversations with my father have become more and more sparse. We acknowledge each others presence. I give him a hug, ask him how he is, he grunts some response and goes back to watching television.


Its been particularly cold as of late because since my assault in April, he has yet to ask me how I am doing. Not a one time has he inquired into how I am doing. I wait for phone calls that never come and am naively hopeful every time that I speak to my mother that he will at least ask a question through her – but he doesn’t.


I try not to put my mom in the middle of our beef, its not fair, but she is naturally concerned that her life partner and their progeny do not communicate. In this last trip, my mom let me know that he was mad at me, because I hadn’t called him since April. She says this and my mouth drops “What? Are you kidding me mom?” I feel the wave of sadness wash over me. “Mija, he says that you don’t call him and ask him how he’s doing.” I breathe, not letting the tears prickling my eyes go any further, these tears are unfair to my mother. How do I say this “Mama, I was sexually assaulted and he hasn’t once asked if I’m okay. Not once since. And he’s mad at me because I don’t call him to see how he’s doing?” “I know mija. I’m so sorry. I try to tell him. He just shuts down.” And I watch as tears fill her eyes, because she can’t give me the one thing I want, comfort from my father. “Don’t mama, its not your responsibility, this is me and Dad’s love to figure out.” I smile and tell her that I love her and that I love him. I know he isn’t a bad person, it just hurts.


Knowing this new nugget of information, I swallow my pride and go to him. I say hello daddy, how are you daddy, can I get you anything daddy. And there he sits, unmoving, years of hurt stapling him to a couch with his eyes trained on a television. He makes minimal conversation back and turns coldly back to his one true friend, a screen that doesn’t talk back. It is pain so mutually deep, over years of distance that I can feel it pierce me. I go to the bathroom and grip the sink, shedding the tears that are also familiar to this home. “Let it go,” I tell myself, “He just doesn’t know how to be the adult.”


When dinner comes, he elects to watch TV by himself in his room while the rest of the family sits around the dinner table. And I force myself to not be hurt. But its deep ya’ll. With my dad, it’s not even the stuff he says that hurts as much as what he doesn’t say but puts in a room.


My dad’s always been the kid in our relationship. His responses when approached in conversation are always the kind of responses that you would expect to get from a sullen teenager. I don’t say this disrespectfully, just factually. It’s always about how he was hurt, why he doesn’t care, why the other person is in the wrong. There is no self reflection, no ownership over his role. And for awhile, this was just hard. I wanted to be the teenager. I wanted to be the kid and it was a role that I never had. Not as a kid, definitely not as an adult.


Please don’t get me wrong, I’m not ungrateful for the father I have. He came home every day, he put food on the table, he never lifted a hand to my mother and he hugged us. This is more than many can say and I do not take that in vein. It’s just for a long time I needed my dad in ways he couldn’t give to me. I craved a father that would emotionally comfort me and tell me I was his little girl. But I think I’m past that age. It’s not really about needing him anymore. It’s about wanting him. I actively want him to be a part of my life. I think about it constantly throughout the day. I want to know him and exchange friendship with him the way my brother does.

I decided recently to go to Guatemala with my father. My father’s homeland and the place that contains the history that created my father into his current incarnation.

Going to Guatemala is another attempt and to some extents my last to get to know my father at another level.

I’m surprised that it doesn’t hurt more to write this. I would think that it would be painful knowing the last respites of my energy in this particular subject have a timeline. There is finality to it that I really hope I stick to. It helps me breathe through it a little more. I have spent the better part of my adult life dealing with daddy issues. You know, there comes a time when you have to say “fuck it”. I refuse to spend my life crawling to a father figure that has no desire to know me. I can’t keep waiting for him to want to open a space for me. He loves me, that is enough. Liking me is not an obligation that I have to lay out like a grand golden hoop. It’s unfair in a way. But Lord do I ever pray for joy on that trip. If not joy, peace. And if not peace, more reasons to hope.

Homage to Bobby

Tonight, as I struggle to get a few hours of sleep before a big flight, I'm restless because I can't stop thinking about Bobby.

You see, in high school, I had this amazing group of friends. Our history teacher dubbed us the brat pack, and a brat pack we were. We were this bizarre collection of random ass people. It was me and Michelle (the former yet still attached to the ghetto, latina girls), Eric (our fearless, yet at the time closeted ring leader), Ricky (our resident videographer), Miley (our actress and eccentric), Valerie (our athletic wonder girl), and Arron (our dumb blonde and resident white girl, and I say this only because she would beat me to the punch).

Now each of us came from INCREDIBLY different life circumstances, I mean we should have essentially never been friends. Except we all reveled in our differences, hated high school dramatics, and ultimately loved each other dearly. Our families loved each other too. They invited us all over, spoke to each other at big events and from time to time broke bread together.

We were a community. And because of each other we survived. As adults, though we don't maintain as close contact, we all just need to be in the same room together to really laugh and let go.

Today, I found out that one of our mothers, Arron's mom, Bobby passed away.

I think I spent hours in shock today. I cannot imagine how Arron is feeling. I want to be able to grab her and hug her and let her know that she has family everywhere.

Bobby was without a doubt one of the coolest mom's I have ever met. She was one of those mom's that you could be totally and completely unfiltered with and she would still look at you like she was proud. She gave us all love. I mean huge quantities of it. She carted us around in her car, let us hang out in her living room being obnoxious teenagers. And on random nights of teenage sleepovers, she knew how to balance being a member of the group and being a parent that would let her kids have space. She had the greatest sense of humor and not in that cliche "she was so funny" kinda way. In the, when you were around her you couldn't help but give a full throaty, clutch my belly cause it hurts laugh.

As an adult, I realize now more than ever, how difficult some times in our childhood were for Bobby. So many countless moments that I can reflect on her baring down and trudging through. Yet as kids, we never knew, she never told us. She always had a smile on her face and let us be kids. Which is more than many adults in our lives afforded us.

I have this memory that I've been thinking about all day. I had spent the night at Air's house, Air was in the shower. I was sitting on Arron's bed listening to some awful pop music and Bobby comes in the room. We start chatting and randomly she says to me "Ya'll are such beautiful girls." I laughed it off, really not able to accept compliments that heartfelt at that stage in my life. And she stopped me, she pointed to the bathroom door and said "My girl, she's amazing, I mean crazy and a loon, but she's amazing. And ya'll love so much. I can't wait for ya'll to see. You are both such beautiful girls." It was the first time anyone besides my mom called me beautiful. And I felt it. I felt how much she meant it. I felt it from the top of my awkward teen head to the tip of my toes. I remember blushing and her saying "Oh don't be such a goober, you'll get it some day."

So that's the Bobby I remember, brash, ballsy and fantastic. The first parent I knew who got how important it was to be a kid, a raving lunatic, a girly girl, and a ballsy mo fo from time to time.

Thank you for loving us Bobby. For showing us that it was okay to mess up and start over again. For encouraging us to collect as many mistakes as successes. For unconditionally loving Air enough for two parents. Even from years away, I see the impact that you made on lives. I hope that where ever you are, you are having much peace and a good laugh.

All my love,

The one formerly in pig tails

Better

I am the kind of mofo that really cannot be happy unless she is pushin herself to another level. Sometimes, in early morning, when I am trying to wrap my brain around who I became, I wonder... why can't I just be happy with what I am and give myself a break every once in awhile. It's crazy, that quest, to be better. Because better you see, is intangible. You never achieve better. You wrap your arms around and hug it. You can't taste better. You most definitely can't see better.

Maybe that is where the problem lies. How do you rework your person to be satisfied with what you are currently, instead of seeking better? Is that how it works? Is that the key to it all? Figuring out how you lay off and just let yourself be who you are?

Yesterday, I grew to be excited about my job again. I can't really go into specifics yet. But more and more I realize how my role can make change on a really large scale. Its really about motivating people and making them as passionate for better for our kids as possible. And I do say our because I think we are a community and we are all responsible. I had this familiar ache in my stomach after the conversation I am referring to. I couldn't figure out what it was for a bit, but as I laid in bed last night, it came to me. It was mild "can I do this?" anxiety, mingled with excitement that I had another way of challenging myself to be... thats right... better.

I guess the perks to this is that recently, I added the personal bucket to the better paradigm. It's allowed me to take leaps I have never taken before. I was inspired by a friend, who seems so at ease with himself most times, that I have to just pause and be in awe every once in awhile. I mean don't get me wrong, I've seen him riddled with insecurity and doubt too. But its different for him, it all comes when it comes and you don't have control over that in his philosophy and that is just a totally different way of being for me.

Tomorrow, I take my first cross country flight by myself in over 6 months. For those of you who know me well, or at least read this blog, you know what a big deal that is for me. I'd be lying if I didn't say that this flight doesn't mean reclaiming my independence for me.I know I shouldn't make it into such a big deal but I can't help it. It's the build-up to being "better" again.


So as I struggle with the deamons of "not enough" I pray for the understanding to relax into myself and accept the beauty that I help create. May the Gods of logic and rationality win out and help me believe in the present as much as I do the future.

The Men Of My Life

I have a wonderful beautiful group of friends. I'll be the first to tell you, I'm not the kind of girl who says the phrase "I just like hanging out with guys. Me and girls totally don't get along". I know that female, and usually it comes from a deep fear of strong women. Not always, there are exceptions, but I have found that that is pretty much what you get. My female friends sustain me, give me permissions for my heart, fortify and mother me in ways I find hard to do myself.

That being said, my male friends are a different breed. They are seriously the most amazing men. Just the most wondeful amazing men. I'm a lucky girl. Today, I spoke to a record breaking 6 of them in one day. And I gotta tell you, it was great to have them.

There is something about the male heart that just floors me. Not that its so much different from the female one, but it at once one of the most vulnerable, playful, and heartbreakingly beautiful things I ever see. Oh these brothers of mine, with the ties that bind them to preconceived beliefs of what the word "man" means. How they fight to find their true selves among the depictions of dominance and infallibility around them.

One of them today, just broke my heart. I see his fight and I so honor it. Its the struggle that everyone goes through to find happy. As his voice broke, ironically enough, I felt relief. It was only then that I felt he was allowing of himself to be true to the amazingly beautiful soul he was blessed with. In his struggle, I found hope that he was finally starting to see what the world around him saw. A tender spirit with love to give and receive.

Another one, he just made me smile. I think he sensed the heavyness I have been carrying and just brought to me joy. This man knows how to make me laugh. We sang to eachother silly theme songs of cartoons long forgotten. And with him, I find myself able to be the kid I never get to be. The one that is truest to my most authentic self. And for that and so much more, I feel blessed by him more with every passing day. He is a highlight.

So ya man, these men, these beautiful men. With hearts full of laughter and pain the world barely gives them the shot to express. I'm so lucky to be able to see them, hear them, feel them and love them. They remind me that all the spirits of boogie men past do not carry as much weight as strengths as the battalion of my guards and confidants in the present. They show me with their mere prescence, that kindness is not a female exclusive trait. That redemption, is something everyone is seeking. That life, is something everyone is struggling with.

And I trust them, oh do I trust them. There is gold in them. Warmth that is just unbelievable. Strength that is just unmeasurable. And for this and so much more. I cherish them. These men in my life. These beautiful men.

Like a Brandy song... Brokenhearted

Friends, I am nursing a broken heart. No man in particular is responsible for it (that revolving door hasn't slowed enough to cause that kind of hurt as of late). As silly as it may sound. I am fully and completely in love with the world around me. And lately, its done some jacked up stuff to and around me. So tonight, for one night, I am grieving the broken heart I feel as a result of my partner, the world.

At once, you have given me everything, every worthwhile connection, salve and fragment of hope. Yet in gasping breaths you have also caused me the most physical, mental and emotional hurt I could ever imagine. I have watched first hand and experienced things that have shaken me to my core, left me in despair and thrown me for a loop. I lay here at 1 am recovering from the savage way you have ripped a part pieces of me. So ruthlessly in the last 3 years you have taken safety, love and peace. I wish world. I wish I could hate you. I want to so bad, just cast you aside. Remove myself from your sphere. Close down my boundaries and put up my walls and never let you penetrate at the level of intensity that I do.

Yes here I lay, knowing that I cannot do that to either of us. You hold too much beauty for me to walk away. I have too much yet to learn. When my heart finishes mourning and grieving. I hope to be in a space of forgiveness. Not only with you but with myself. How I have attacked and punished myself for ever having let you get this deep, this entrenched in my soul. How I have critiqued myself for caring this much and being so intricately involved with parts of your healing that I neglected to vigilantly guard my own.

Tomorrow, when I wake, may I be healed. At least in the smallest fraction. Let me feel more whole, show me that I am not lost. Help me move forward, help me move on. May the scars serve only to remind me the path of the warrior. That I may not forget the courage it takes to face you. The power it takes to not conquer but commune with you. Provide in me the light needed to feel grace. May I find a song so sad, that I connect so deeply as a result of you, that I can sing my pain away.

Tatoo... not the midget

So I think I found her... ain't she cute! I have wanted a tatoo for years. But said I would never do it without a reason, never with an embarassing symbol. Something I was guaranteed to always appreciate. This is the Mayan symbol for a Quetzal. It has a sun-disk shield on the front of its body. The Quetzal symbolized the movement of Creation and the will of the Creator come to earth. Which I think is beautiful. I like that it has a sun shield, like all the bright pieces of the world protect her, regardless of the hurt. To quote Jonathan Larson, "The opposite of war isn't peace, its creation." And friends, I believe in creators, healers and change makers. I'm gonna soak it in for about a month. I will get it on the anniversary of my survivors celebration. June 29th.

Choosing A Movement

Once, someone told me that my scope and capacity could only be so big. If I tried to work on healing the world, I had o choose my mission and run full strength on that mission. The person, said that there, maybe, I could make impact.

This bugs me.

Mainly because I see the world so fractured in so many ways that I feel a human responsibility to act.

For the first four years of my work in service, I chose to work with young children, helping them have a childhood. You see, for me, a group of friends (one young man in particular) gave me that gift. And though it may seem inconsequential, knowing what life could be like burden-lite was a motivator for me. And in tough moments a safe haven I rolled around in. So logically, mission number one, was doing the same.

From there I chose to do work on the ground with high school students to get them into college. This was/is one of the greatest blessings of my life. The more work I did the more I realized that it was at least in part my calling. There will never be a year in my life, where in some way, shape or form, I do not do this. College access to me, is the grand equalizer. Where you can go from being a young woman born and bred in a low-income community and be given the gift of choice. The world, looming before me after my college graduation was at once the scariest and most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I could do, at that point, whatever I wanted. And so many people had invested in me, it made sense to invest in the communities that shaped me.

Very recently, my role in this has changed. I now seek, identify and motivate other change makers and get them involved for the same causes that grew, challenged and reinvented me. It is my great honor to be a red kool-aid peddler. And I'm good at it btw, solely because my product helps create more whole individuals both on the student and volunteer end. My true and unwavering belief that this is the case, makes me want to yank people off of streets and get them active.

This all brings me to this week. Where I sat in a room with 1,000 other people listening to a call to arms around the cause of Darfur. It took one statement. One, to literally get me to lose sleep the last few days. "Women are in charge of cooking. To cook they need firewood. To get firewood they must go into the brush with the Janjaweed militias. At this point they are in danger of being raped repeatedly. To feed their families, these women must risk rape every single time they walk out of their door." And that one phrase, hurt my heart so deep, I sat the rest of the night hearing the phrase echo in my head. Fighting tears, even when engaging in other conversations. I now must figure out what action looks like.

I am a 6 time survivor of sexual assault. And in my worst moments, it feels more than any human (not woman, human, I have known quite a few male survivors at this point and I honor their path as well) should ever have to bear. The long term repercussions of this violence have left scars I have to wrap my brain around every day. It is my struggle not only in selecting, opening up to and trusting men. But my struggle in everything. My own personal safety, my self-identity. I constantly ask myself to stay aware of filters this abuse could be affecting. I refuse to live a half life running from the skeletons or closing my doors to them and that makes life just a little harder. So to hear that a woman, half way across the world, has to live with that fear more intensely, and bear its repercussions more literally every single day and every single time she fulfills her maternal instinct to feed her home, it absolutely floors me. It makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs to make good people stop and fight on their behalf.

I write this to say, I can't choose one movement, I am a heart divided. There has to be more that one human being can do well. I am in a period of new education of a new issue that I am sure to take on as my own. How? I'm not sure yet. But I can't sit here and pretend that this injustice isn't happening now that I have been made aware. Now I just have to figure out what I do.

The Precipice

I met this musician a couple of weeks ago, I've seen him preform three times. His gift is so gorgeous and has such depth. When I first approached him to tell him how much I appreciated it, I knew instantly that he couldn't yet fathom how powerful and gifted he was. But it's great to see people on the precipice you know? There is something about that ledge before you just swim in who you were born to be that just amazes and delights me. WIthout even knowing him I know the coming months are going to be one of ledge balancing for him. But I didn't wanna come off like a weirdo, so I didn't say anything. haha.

Last night he said in conversation "I don't know you know. I just don't know where I'm going." and as he said it, I don't think he even believed it. When you have gifts like that, you know. You try to deny it for a long time because of what those gifts mean. But they are such a piece of your fabric.

I met this anthropologist that is in the same place. His gifts are so there for everyone to see. But I could tell he has this "Why was I given these pieces, now what do I do with them?" There is such crippling doubt there. And I can tell he's in the middle of a soul search, I wish I could say "yo, its gonna be okay. You have been chosen. Scary but doable." But really, people don't need that, cause at base. You know. I mean if someone else can see you and know, you know.

People are so beautiful.

My Tia gave me a sarape once. It has beautiful colors in it. When you take your time and really look at it, I mean really look, those colors are amazing in there vibrance. They have almost a glitter to them. When put together, they are a comfort for me and a couple of generations of women before me. I think it's this thing you could probably skip over, but it's art is art.

I think people are just like that. Just brilliant and vibrant but if you aren't really watching. You could miss it. That moment when the folds of their colors open up and put the light in them that they were meant to bless the world with.

The tough part is accepting that about yourself right? I mean who am I? And that humility is a blessing and curse at the same time. Almost like that "Who let me sneak in and do this? Obviously I came under the radar." And when you are at the precipice, its scary, because you just start to understand your purpose, and purpose is great and hella freaky.

But damn, that ledge is like staring into art before it gets created. To all the people that I see at that ledge, I just honor your journey. Light the world up mofo's cause it needs it. It needs you.

Acting Like I'm 21 on Easter Weekend

So I just got home from my Friday evening. My body is totally wiped. I have to rally though, I got stuff to do and you can't ignore a sunny day in San Francisco, its a sin and being Easter Sunday. Can't be sinnin.

Every once in awhile, I think you need a weekend where you just kinda while out and have fun. I can't say I'm a major partier, I love things that are fun and low-key (very SF). Well, thats not totally true, I go through phases. But I got my dance on fierce this weekend, =c) And it was really good times. My liver will be in recovery for a second, but what can you do.

I gotta tell you, I love being a girl. Everything about it is so appealing to me. I love dressin up, I love dancin around, and as independent as my ass is, if I'm honest with myself, I love all the stereotypical girly things. At the same time, I really enjoy being the kind of girl that will take one outfit and rework it three ways, not make a fuss about it and keep charging through and having fun. I know I have a strong uber-feminine presence and I love the hell out of it.

As any one of my overthought ramblings I did tons of thinking with Andra this weekend. Thank God for growing man. I love the place I'm in. My heart aches sometimes for the girl I used to be. But not aches in a feel sorry for her way, more like a "it's okay boo boo, it gets better" kinda way. It's crazy to comprehend how blind you are to yourself sometimes. All the great pieces just seem to be laid to the weigh side. It took me 25 years to acknowledge myself as a pretty girl. That's 25 years of wanting to rework my face and body into someone else's version of beautiful. It is obscene how tiring that is. That doesn't mean I don't wanna keep working on myself physically, I think out of respect to myself, I want to do that. But to even just marginally let go of some of that baggage is like breathing in a different way.

Thank God that I get to dip back to having fun the way I did in less "preoccupied" times, but can still have the heart and knowledge that I grew into.

Good Easy Days

So my night was great and so was my day. They deserve homage sometimes, those really good days.

Woke up on Andra's couch
Saw the Devil Wears Prada and quoted lines with Andra
Got up and went to Cafe Lo Cubano
Talked about every topic under the sun over a havana chicken sandwich
Drove back to Andra's apartment to get my iPod
Blasted Dez Hope music while Andra drove us to the movies
Went to the mall and tried on perfumes
Watched 300 on IMAX (Thouroughly enjoyed abdominal muscles that were 15 feet high)
Played at the MAC counter with new gay boyfriend Jason who does great makeup
Decided we needed to go out dancing
Drove back, still talking about everything under the sun
Went to Walgreen's so we could buy hygenie supplies (esp toothbrush for me)
Carefuly took a shower making sure not to get my newly makeup'ed face wet
Put on dirty yesterday clothes on newly good smelling body
Had another glass of Bailey's and Milk (as God intended milk to taste)
Danced around Andra's apartment
Now will head to Medjool to enjoy tunes with newly good smelling body in yesterday smelly clothes. haha

I love good days, every once in awhile, they should be recorded for posterity. Hope you had a good one too. =c)

Strong Women

As a woman you create so much of your identity based on the women you have in your life. Everything that you do, everything you are, you get permission for by the women that surround you. Now, don't get me wrong, this doesn't mean that you are sitting there waiting for approval (at least if you're lucky and grounded you aren't). But you are a girl and you have these thoughts that society never gives you permission for. Everything about you and who you are in your assertiveness, your sexuality, and your emotions is created in tandem with the women around you as you all help create each other. I would say that we aren't raised with a sense of easy disclosure. I'm not even sure if this makes sense but its like, there is this sisterhood to womanhood and you realize you aren't a freak when you are around women that show you, "hey, you are totally normal."

I have been blessed with strong women. At all ages I have just had these partners and sisters in my gal pals. I trust the women in my life implicitly. I know they keep my secrets, bring my game up, push my boundaries, call me out, esteem my gifts, and encourage the "fun" me. I have so much inner monologue, the "fun me" part is actually pretty important.

So I write this particular blog entry as an homage to those women. Thank you for showing me that its okay to be me. For having enough security in yourselves and who you are to encourage my growth and not be intimidated by it. For being just as good on your own as you are with men. But mostly, for honoring this sisterhood with your hearts and honesty. Thank you for teaching me and my scars that its okay to be sexy, ballsy, bawdy, independent, dependent, soft, emotional, fierce, scared, scarred, ghetto, classy, smart, silly and at peace. I owe you my life for giving me permission to be myself. And the beautiful thing about you all is that you are always so adamant about showing me that we owe each other nothing but that this is the way it should be. I concur.

Obviously Pretty Girls Part Two

I am not an obviously pretty girl. I may have explained this distinction before but in the event I haven't, an obviously pretty girl is the kind of girl that the world readily, speedily, and many times overtly acknowledges as beautiful. Not in the, wow, she's a full package kinda way. Not in the, she cleans up good, kinda way. Not in the, when you look at her when she talks she's beautiful kinda way. Obviously pretty girls have the body (thin/big boobs/tall or petite), the features, but mostly, they are the women that from a very early age were told over and over how pretty they were. So the muscle they developed there was the one that let them lean on their looks to get what they want. In short its the attitude. They know how to use it to their advantage.

And don't pretend like you haven't met that girl more than a handful of times. Fellas, you in particular seem to fall all over yourselves when you meet her. She can also be the "super cute" girl. So cute you just wanna squeeze her and put her in your pocket. Which is why she, like OP girl, can get away with ANYTHING... at least until you get sick of being dragged around on a leash. That is not to say that an OPG couldn't extend way past this. In fact, most...if not all of them do. But I watch consistently as my sisters in this camp struggle, cause guys have a hard time calling them out on their shit. Mostly because of the validation tied to having them on their arm.

Now before anyone tries to tell me, that this is a low self-esteemy/judgemental/self-effacing/mean thing to say... I'm not saying I'm not pretty. I'm just saying I've never been raised as an OPG. I'm the presence girl. The one that gets prettier as you get to know her because she's got so much in her. Not to say that I'm bad to look at, its just not the muscle I developed to lean on. We all have those muscles I believe. It just depends on where we create it. I think one of the first ones we build as women (and maybe even as men?) is the pretty muscle or the personality muscle.

I would venture to say that obviously pretty girls have many times a tougher time with the issues attached to that particular social sect than the rest of the population. At least I would rather have the issues that are attached with my side of the green grass. I can't imagine being constantly and consistently identified as a sexual object. Which of course, has its roots in many of the things I write about regularly, but I digress.

I feel as a "regular" girl you get the shot to work your way into different arenas. You get to develop your other muscles so much, you have to work harder... for everything. You get to flesh out who you are with the world around you, instead of with the people who can see more to you than the validation your presence provides.

I dissect this only because I've really been looking at the muscles I've developed lately. What they mean and how I could develop the others. Is it an innate attitude do you think or is it a learned behavior from validation in a certain area? I'm curious. Are you born to be that person or do you become her/him? Just a few things to ponder.

To Write

I have a poets words but not a poets bravery
Miles of paper inked with my heart in drawers hidden from the eye,
I turn to these blank pages for peace and watch as they save me

In stacks of red leather, embroidered flowers, flip book, composition black and white
My gift stands untouched and unjudged by the world
There in their pages exists a reserve of warmth, power, spite, love and anger

Emotions so strong they are indescribable
At night I lay in prayer hoping that my children never feel this level of pain
Only to wake and believe this level of love is the genetic gift I am born to pass down

Verses so caged they fight against the societally trained walls of my being
Then my heart opens, purges and flys
Allowing my words to glide at such altitudes I swear they summon rain

I stand in the mist of their tribal call feeling purified
Moments of bliss surrounded by the freedom of letting go, drenched in my own song
Only to watch the world and the pieces it tries to take from me while I seek my redemption

I kneel to rebuild with logic and rationale a concerete prison of loneliness
Feeling the severing of my soul as I withdrawl from the world I usually jump to paint
And there with bruised knees and bruised heart I wait to heal myself again

Tears streaming down my exhausted face

A Youth Workers Verse

I ask you with my embrace to allow me to be a part of your family and only after years of consistency do you allow me to hold the space
Foreign – the practice of allowing the outside in
Frightening – the thought of breaking the character you have to wear as a survival system
Peaceful – the first moments after your first extension of faith

In your silence I hear you screaming for me to listen to your story
You sit still and unmoving
Any movement will break the massive efforts it has taken you to control emotion
You pull up your sweatshirt hoodie as if it were armor made of steel
Watching you, I see it is

You are coming to me from a life-time of training
A world that tells you being a man is never letting you break
16 years of learning from women, peers and TV how to be men
And here I am, yet another woman, hoping to be here for you, when what you need is a man

I ask you to let go of the anger, allow me to help you ease it from your tight grasp
Frustration – the confusion of not even knowing how to get there
Anger – the thoughts of verbal assault other people in your life do not hesitate to dish out
Hope – the thought that maybe, just maybe, you will find a way through this time

In your silence I hear you screaming for me to listen to your story
You sit still and unmoving
Any movement will break the massive efforts it has taken you to control emotion
You arch your eyebrows and pout your lips, hand on your hips, attitude, hardening, as if it were armor made of steel
Watching you, I see it is

You are coming to me from a life-time of training
A world that tells you being a woman means ingesting every insult hurled at you as if it were truth and then hurdling it back at light speed
16 years of learning from men, peers and TV how to be a woman
And here I am, yet another woman, hoping to be here for you, when what you need is a mother you can dialogue with

I ask you to believe me when I tell you how beautiful you are
Frustration – the confusion of not even knowing how to get there
Anger – the thoughts of verbal assault other people in your life do not hesitate to dish out
Hope – the thought that maybe, just maybe, you will find a way through this time

In your tears and your laughter I hear as you share with me your story
You stand and invite me in
Your movement breaks the massive efforts it has taken you to control emotion and a child reappears in the place of your pain
You start to believe in your strength the way I do, as if it were armor made of steel
Watching you, I see it is

You ask me with a tentative fear, will it always be this hard.

My heart fills with empathy, wishing I could make lifetime guarantees

I ask you with my embrace to allow me to be a part of your family and after years of consistency you allow me to hold the space

Tongues Curl and Give Birth To Words and Worlds

I cannot take credit for the title of my entry. It belongs to a young poet from Oakland, CA. When I heard it last night at the Youth Speaks Poetry Slam Semi-Finals, I decided it had to be repeated everywhere. I wish I would have brought a notebook and taken down the many phrases that touched my heart last night. The night was so blessed in so many ways. I really have to hand it to that organization. The work they do is so vital to the survival of young people. Giving them a mechanism to express themselves is key to any child/person so full of emotion, they have no idea what to do. Learning to do that, is like learning to breathe. So as I breathe out last nights emotions, know that I am one of the lucky ones. Knowing how to write, having this random piece of cyber space as my forum keeps me centered. Because letting go of these words is nothing short of reclaiming life.

I invited three of my old students to come with me to this Poetry Slam last night. I was well aware of how difficult the week had been for them. You see they were informed this week that three more people from the after-school program I used to direct were quitting. With these particular three, I knew what a devastating loss it would be and I wanted time with them. I'm not sure if I wanted that time to help them process it or if I wanted it to just be able to give them a piece of my heart and time so that the four of us could enjoy each other.

My idea was that we would have dinner together, like a family, go to this slam, Twin Peaks, and then I would take them home. They each brought a side dish with them and I provided main course and a couple of other odds and ends. When I picked the two boys up, there was this odd mix of happy and awkward. This was interesting, because in all the time I had known these two particular boys, even in the beginning, there was never any awkwardness. I let it ride out as we drove up to the city, chalking it up to hunger. Yet as the hour passed and we reached my apartment, their emotion became thicker, yet what they were telling me was more and more sickly sweet. Unable to allow my time with them to be false, I said to them "Listen, I know that this week sucked. If you want to tell me that it sucked, if you want to tell me that you are mad at us, if you want to sit here and be silent; all of that is okay with me. But please don't sit here and try to put up Disneyland for my benefit. I can feel the hurt in you right now and it's louder than what you are saying to me."

Then it came, the emotions, the ones that I became accostumed to receiving every day while I was there. One of the boys started explaining to me how frustrated he was with the verbal abuse he was experiencing at home. The more he spoke, the closer he came to his voice breaking, until tears streamed hot and fast down his face. The young woman nodding her head in agreement in emotions I could tell they hadn't expressed in some time. As I watched him release, I watched the other young man shut down. The fear of breaking radiated off of him palpably. Even his body turned slowly away from the dinner table. He put the hood up on his sweatshirt. Like a turtle, I could see him retreating into his shell. All of it spoke volumes. I told them how much I loved them, how much it hurt me to see them being this hurt. But I knew at that point, the way you know, that your words will do nothing to resonate in the situation. There was too much hurt for words to heal any single part of this. I got up. Put my hand on the shoulder of the first young man and then asked the second young man if I could hug him. This 16 year old boy got up from his chair and in that moment he wasn't a tough teenager anymore, he was a kid. A kid who desperately needed love. He hugged me with such warmth and need that it hurt my heart. I asked the other young man to stand up and join us and both of them stood there in my kitchen, holding me and each other, tears spilling down there cheeks but managing not to fully cry.

I think the first young man and the young woman were aware of how much more the second young man needed a conversation. Soon after they busied themselves cleaning the kitchen and the young woman eyed and the second young man, silently asking me to talk him through this.

In my living room we sat there and he finally spoke the words that made the pain so much more relevant to him and really all of them this particular week. "It's just, its the same way for me that it is for him. It's that way for all of us. But before it was like, my mom or whomever would yell and call me a piece of shit, but when I got to College Track, it was different. I didn't have a mom that told me she was proud of me or that told me she loved me and stuff. But I had ya'll. And now there is no one there. And I want the services and stuff, but the other stuff was more important. Even walking in there is sad and hard for me right now. I wanna support you guys and tell you to do what you gotta do to be happy, but when you guys leave, my family leaves. That stuff, leaves."

And there it was, everything I was trying to articulate about why staff retention is important and quality of service being quality of heart. Better then I could have ever said it, this young man hit the nail on the head.

I was a little floored by how much space and room this created at that point for them to all be open. They spoke to me about everything after that, as a group and as individuals expressing to me what was good and bad in life right now. One of them said to me "I'm just afraid that I'm sensitive. It's like everything hurts me or makes me mad and no one else is that way." God I would never be a teenager again. I think that is why I am so dedicated to them. It's just so hard. I told him, its not about being sensitive, its about having a full cup of emotions. When its already full and getting a barrage every day, one more thing ends up overfilling the cup, it matters... a lot. When you know how to empty the cup, the world is a different place. He looked at me like this concept was relevatory. And we made a commitment to each other to learn how to empty his cup better.

The rest of the night was laughing and joy. There was good conversation. Activist conversation. Proclamations of changing the world. Silly singing and jokes being cracked on each other. It was FABULOUS. God I miss the kids. It was so nice to enjoy them outside of it being my job. It was different and good in a way that words struggle to articulate. Ironic when the night was really about the power of words.

We need to find ways to help us all express. Its a matter of survival. There is too much else to do for us to let emotional constipation be a block in the progress of the world.

Aruba!

So I made the hottest decision yesterday when I got my Jetblue miles statement. Turns out the benefit to always traveling is getting the kind of miles that allow you to travel and it's quite conceivable for me to have a free plane ticket to Aruba by the end of the summer. Holy geez! I've been running and running for the last few years with little to no vacation that did not involve helping out a friend or org. I am ready to sit my ass on a beach and ask a cabana boy to get me a Mai Tai. Wahoo. I will schedule it at the end of the workshop/volunteer season and use it as the FIRST leg of a longer vacation. I swear to you, it makes the heavy lift I'm about to run all the more conceivable and exciting for me. Wahoo!

Anyone is invited to join, though I can't promise you I will do more then sit on a beach, read a book, dance and hike.

Thank you for my vacation going friends that have inspired in me the want to chill the hell out. I swear to you, I am gonna do what you guys have been requesting that I do for myself for years. I love you for so many reasons and among them, caring for me so much. Must go purchase a beach boys song now to keep me inspired! haha.