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Whole Notes
Her whole body pulsed with each phrase. She inhaled crescendos, exhaled decrescendos. Rhythmic integrity was the sole concern of her heartbeat. Her short fingers struck the ebony and ivory keys of Gulbransen, the player piano that never learned how to play itself. It knew Ume Sakamoto as its devoted companion from the moment it planted roots at Sakamoto's Seed Company.
Ume studied piano with Mrs. Johnson. The lessons were a seventh birthday gift from her father, Akira Sakamoto. After the death of his wife and son during childbirth, Akira searched for months to find an affordable teacher. By Ume's eighth birthday in the Spring of 1941, she and Gulbransen played the second movement of Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata for her father and the sacks of seeds that would be dispersed in Central Valley soils.
Ume spent every day after school and all day during the weekends at her father's business. She walked straight to Gulbransen who stood in the far-left corner of the shop. She cherished Saturday morning practice sessions, knowing she had two whole days to play and dream with Gulbransen. It was a Saturday morning in mid-May when she jumped in her seat after placing the last delicate chord of Pathetique, oblivious to the small audience that formed behind her. She turned to see her father standing next to Mr. Hagopian, the Armenian barber who owned a shop next door. A boy she didn't recognize stood a half-inch taller than Mr. Hagopian’s knee.
"That was good! Very, very good!", Mr. Hagopian exclaimed. The girl responded with a wide-eyed stare.
"Ume, say thank you to Mr. Hagopian", her father insisted.
"Thank you, Mr. Hagopian".
"Ume, this is Raffi, my son. He heard you playing from next door and wanted to hear. I heard piano here before, but I thought it was the radio!"
"How did you do that?" Raffi exclaimed, transfixed by the piano.
"Ummm, I don't know", Ume whispered as she looked at the floor.
"She has a teacher", her father beamed. "Teacher says you're very good, Ume!"
"Akira, where did you get the piano?"
"A farmer didn't have enough money to buy seeds last year, so he traded piano for seeds. He said no one ever used it. Now Ume plays every day!".
"I want to play!" Raffi shouted as he tried to wiggle away from his father's hand and approach Gulbransen. His father gripped Raffi’s hand tightly.
"Raffi, that's not our piano. We can't just…".
"Yes, play, play! Ume, show him how to play something", Akira interjected.
Before she could respond, Raffi jumped next to her on the piano bench and hit Gulbransen's keys with his palms. "Raffi, stop!", his father walked over and grabbed his hands. "It's their piano, you can't just hit it! Let Ume show you".
Ume looked into the eager eyes dancing in front of her. "Well, what do you want to play?", she asked.
"What you played! I like that song!"
"Ummm, well, how about I teach you to play the first song I ever learned?"
"Yeah!" Raffi laid his hands flat on the keyboard and wriggled in his seat.
"Akira, I have a customer coming. Can I leave Raffi here until I'm done?"
"Yes, yes! Ok, Manoug! They play in here while we work", Akira smiled. Ume looked at the floor and sighed.
"Thank you, Akira. Raffi, I'll be back soon. Listen to Mr. Sakamoto and Ume, and don't hit the piano!"
"Ok, pop", Raffi replied, keeping his eyes fixed on Ume.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The summer of 1941 provided few daylight hours when the children of Fresno could play outside without the miserable heat of the sun beating their bodies. By July, the children who could not access swimming pools found ways for their playful spirits to survive. They migrated from house-to-house, playing outdoor games indoors to the dismay of their parents. Others valiantly charged into the sun armed with nothing more than their perseverance to play, periodically retreating into foxholes of shade. Ume and Raffi spent their mid-morning hours sharing a fruit salad made of cherries, Japanese plums, apricots, and figs before playing music with Gulbransen.
Ume progressed on the piano beyond what anyone thought was possible. She was reluctant to teach Raffi at first. He was half her age, and she was worried he wouldn't be a serious student. She did not want him to detract from her practice routine. Over time, she came to appreciate that teaching him helped her own musicianship. She found herself excited for their almost daily lessons where she could impart her knowledge.
"Raffi, you hold that note too long. It only gets two counts".
"But it's a donut! Donuts get four counts!", Raffi argued.
"No, that's when it's in common time, or 4/4 time. This is cut time. See the C with a slash through it?"
"Yeah, but what does that mean?"
"It means that every measure has two beats instead of four, and all of the notes get half of the count. So the donut, or whole note, gets two counts".
"But you said donuts get four counts!"
"That's when it is in a 4/4 time signature. Here, look, let me show you something". She searched through a pile of sheet music and pulled out a piece that showed '12/8' at the beginning of the song. "See, this song has a 12/8 time signature. In this song, a donut, I mean a whole note… we need to start calling them whole notes, Raffi. A whole note gets 8 counts".
"Eight counts?"
"Yeah, but usually you see it written like this", she pointed to a dotted whole note on the page. "See the dot next to it? That means it gets the full 12 counts for the entire measure".
"I don't get it", Raffi pouted and crossed his arms.
"You will, don't worry. Just remember that for this song that we're playing, the whole note only gets two counts because it's in cut time".
"What's a whole note again?"
"A donut", Ume sighed. "But remember, it's called a whole note, not a donut! We need to start calling them whole notes, Raffi! Whole notes mean different things in different times". Raffi scrunched his face at the sheet of music in front of him.
"Don't worry, I didn't get it at first either. You'll get it, I promise. Let's just keep going".
A few weeks later, Raffi ran into another whole note he did not understand.
"What's that thing on top of the whole note?"
"That's called a bird's eye, or a sustenato. It means that you hold the note for longer than the count. You can hold it as long as you want".
"As long as I want? Like for a whole hour?"
"Well, not an hour. That won't work because the sound will stop at some point".
"The sound will stop?"
"Yeah! You won't be able to hear it after a while. Here I'll show you. Close your eyes, and I'll play a chord. Now keep your eyes closed until you can't hear anymore sound from Gulbransen".
Raffi closed his eyes. Ume struck a G Major chord and held it. She smiled when Raffi leaned in to hear the harmony as it grew faint. He clung to the sound until he couldn't hear it anymore. His eyes popped open and he saw Ume's hands still held G, B, and D on Gulbransen.
"You're still holding it! Why isn't it making sound anymore? Did Gulbransen break?"
"No, Gulbransen isn’t broken!” Ume laughed. “I'm not sure where the sound went, but I like to pretend it's part of the air now. So the sounds we make and the music we play is always around us, even if we can't hear it anymore".
"Maybe it went to heaven?"
"Maybe”, Ume smiled and looked at the picture of her mother hanging above Gulbransen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The early December fog obscured Sakamoto's Seed Company. When Manoug parked his Chevy in front of the shop after church, Raffi sighed in relief when he made out the front door through the tulee fog. "I thought their store went away!", he said to his father. Manoug laughed as they got out of the car and walked into their friends' shop.
Raffi started toward Gulbransen, but he saw that Ume was not sitting with the beloved instrument. He turned to see Manoug walking toward Akira and Ume as they huddled around the radio.
"Akira, what is…"
Akira held up his hand.
"Pearl Harbor Attack by Japanese"
Akira, Ume, and Manoug stared silently at the radio. Raffi stared at them. "Pop, pop, what's wrong?", he pulled at the sleeve of Manoug's church jacket.
"Raffi, we should go".
"Why? Ume and I are supposed to play with Gulbransen today!"
"Raffi, we need to go", Manoug commanded. "Akira, I… well, I will talk to you tomorrow.” Akira nodded slowly, his gaze downcast toward the floor.
"Bye Ume", Raffi said. Ume looked at Raffi and waved goodbye. He noticed her eyes were moist and her whole body trembled.
Manoug and Raffi walked out of the shop and back to the car. "Pop, why were they so sad? "
"Something happened today that made them sad.", Manoug explained.
"Why did Ume look so scared?"
"Well… never mind right now, Raffi. We're ok. Let's go back home and see how your mom is doing".
When Ume saw Mrs. Johnson's car in the driveway on December 9th, she nearly jumped out of her father's moving car and sprinted to the door. The past two days were difficult at school, and she longed for her weekly piano lesson. She tapped the wrought iron knocker at four o'clock sharp, the exact time of her lesson. After seven minutes of knocking and calling out Mrs. Johnson's name, Akira reached for his daughter's hand. She looked at his hand and grabbed it with her own. Silent tears watered Mrs. Johnson's flower beds as Ume and Akira walked back to the car. Akira tried calling Mrs. Johnson the next day, but she hung up the phone as soon as she heard Akira's voice. When Ume went to school, she hoped that the other kids, and even some teachers, would simply ignore her. It was the best treatment she could imagine at that time, even from people who were her friends when they were in school together on December 5th. After-school and weekend practice sessions with Raffi and Gulbransen became sacred. She sought refuge in the world of sound they created together.
After Manoug picked up Raffi from Kindergarten one February afternoon, they walked into Sakamoto Seed Company for the daily musical ritual. Akira pulled Manoug to the opposite corner of the store as the children met at the piano.
"Manoug, buy Gulbransen from me", Akira whispered.
"I can't afford a piano, Akira!".
"We need to get rid of everything! I can't keep it!", Akira shouted. He looked at Ume and Raffi who stopped playing Gulbransen. They turned and stared at their fathers. Manoug looked at them and let out a heavy sigh. He leaned in and whispered to Akira.
"Akira, I can't do it. I don't have enough money to buy a piano".
"Give me anything! We can't take Gulbransen with us".
"You're going somewhere? Where?", Raffi whispered to Ume.
"I don't know. My dad just told me we need to sell everything we can and we're going to the fairgrounds tomorrow".
"You're going to the fair? That sounds fun!"
"No, we're not going to the fair, Raffi. Just the fairgrounds. They're going to take us somewhere".
"Who?"
"I don't know", Ume whispered.
"Well, where are they taking you?"
"I don't know", Ume choked.
"Raffi, let's go", Manoug shouted from across the store as he handed Akira a five-dollar bill.
"I want to stay here with Ume!" Raffi cried.
"Raffi, stop crying! Let's go. We'll be back, we're just going to get Uncle Mesrop's truck".
Raffi hugged Ume, and she returned his embrace as they sobbed together. Manoug opened his mouth to yell again when he saw the two children hugging and crying. He walked over to the piano bench, put his hand on Raffi's shoulder and whispered, "Come on, Raffi. We'll be right back".
Raffi squeezed Ume tighter for a few seconds. Ume released the hug and sniffled. "It's ok, Raffi. I'll see you in a little while, ok?", she smiled.
"Ok", Raffi said as he released his grip on Ume. He wiped his eyes with his hands and stood from the piano bench. Manoug and Raffi walked past the sacks of seeds that carried the sounds of Sakamoto's Seed Company.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Five days after Gulbransen transplanted to its new home, five days after the Sakamoto's disappeared and never returned, Manoug sat with Raffi and his wife Nevart in their living room.
"I am going to City Hall tomorrow and we're changing our names. No more Hagopian, we are Smith. I'm Michael Smith, you're Ronald Smith, and you're Rose Smith". He pointed to his wife and son as he bestowed their new names upon them.
"Why, pop?", Raffi asked.
Manoug jumped from his seat as his whole body shook, "Never mind why! I'm your father, that's why!", he shouted.
Raffi and Nevart stared at him wide-eyed. After several minutes, Nevart took a deep breath, stood up and walked toward her husband. "You can change our names at City Hall, and I will use those names outside of this house. But in this house I am Nevart Hagopian, this is our son Raffi Hagopian, and you are Manoug Hagopian. If you want me to make Armenian food in this house, we use Armenian names in this house". Manoug's body shook more vigorously as he lifted his hand toward Nevart's face. She fixed her gaze into his eyes without flinching. He slowly lowered his hand to his side and nodded his head up and down, his body still shaking.
"Raffi, it is time for bed. I'll make you some warm milk. Go change into your pajamas", Nevart said as she walked toward the kitchen. Raffi watched his father stare at the ground, his whole body convulsing in violent tremors.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Raffi sat on the piano bench behind Gulbransen. He successfully picked out the melody of "Lucky Old Sun" that morning, and now attempted to find the best chords to put the entire piece together. He stopped playing from time to time, closed his eyes and hummed the tune to himself. He heard it on the radio at Manoug's barbershop a few days earlier when he was cleaning the shop after school for his weekly quarter. He grimaced as he swept the floors when Louis Armstrong's version of the song started playing on the barbershop radio. "I hate this song", he thought to himself. Then he saw his father stop as he cut a customer's hair. Manoug looked at the radio for several seconds and sighed as his shoulders relaxed. "Hey Mike, you still there? Is my hair ok?", the customer shouted with his head tilted downward. Manoug didn't reply. His head remained pointed in the direction of the radio to his right, his eyes closed and the scissors poised just beneath the man's neck. "Mike! Mike! Hey, what's going on back there?", the man shouted as he lifted his head. Raffi walked up to his father and placed a hand on his shoulder, "Hayr", Raffi said, beckoning to his father in Armenian. Manoug shook as if startled and promptly replied, "Oh, yes, everything is fine, Mr. Travis. Your hair is fine. Please put your head down so I can finish". Raffi continued sweeping the floor. He moved closer to the radio as he hummed the tune and immersed himself in the chords.
As he picked out the tune with Gulbransen, Raffi sang the only lyrics he remembered. "Show me that river, take me across, and wash all my troubles away, like that lucky old sun, give me nothing to do but roll around heaven all day". He was accompanied by the sounds of his mother bustling in the kitchen as she put the finishing touches on her infamous dolmas. "Manoug, wake up! Wake up! The festival starts in an hour! I'll make coffee, get ready!", Nevart shouted in Armenian from the kitchen. There was no response from the bedroom.
"That lucky old sun, got nothing to do but roll around heaven all day".
"Manoug! Please, Father Kazarian asked me to make these dolmas for the Blessing of the Grapes today, and we need to be on time!".
The bedroom door opened and Manoug shuffled into the living room with his eyes cast toward the floor. Raffi stopped playing and turned to him "Good morning, pop!".
Manoug did not respond or look at his son. He resumed his shuffle past the small dining room table and into the kitchen.
Raffi resumed his work picking out the chords to "Lucky Old Sun".
"Show me that river…"
"Manoug, why are you going outside? You need to fix your hair and get dressed!"
"I need to check on something in the shed". Nevart heard the kitchen leading to the backdoor close. She sighed and continued cooking.
"I got it!", Raffi exclaimed from his seat behind Gulbransen. He played the whole song from start to finish, chords and all. He didn't know the lyrics yet, but it was good enough to play the tune for his father. He jumped from the piano and ran to the kitchen.
"Is pop still outside?", he asked his mother.
"Yes," she grumbled behind the stove. "Tell him to get ready! I don’t want to be late!"
Raffi went through the kitchen door leading to the backyard. "Pop, pop!", he shouted as he walked to the shed with its door ajar. He pushed it open and said, "Pop, come inside I want to play something…. Pop, what are you doing?".
Manoug stood on top of a wooden stool, staring at his son with wide eyes. He held a rope in his hand that he tied to the rafter beam of the shed. The stool wobbled beneath his shaking body. He said nothing in response to Raffi.
Raffi swallowed and slowly walked toward his father. "Hey, pop, I want to play a song for you". He held his hand toward his father as he approached the chair. "Come on, let's go inside. I'll play the song for you, and then we can go to the festival", Raffi said as he forced a nervous smile.
Manoug looked at Raffi's hand as he extended his own shaking hand toward it. Raffi helped his father dismount from the chair, guiding him the yard and back into the kitchen.
"Manoug! Here's some coffee, now go get…" Nevart extended a mug toward Manoug, and retracted it upon seeing his shaking body mostly supported by their twelve-year-old son.
"We're going to the living room,", Raffi told his mother. She followed behind them with the coffee. Raffi brought his father to the couch. Manoug fell into the cushions as if he had been standing with alert attention for the entirety of his 45 years of life and finally had the opportunity to rest. Nevart put the mug on the coffee table and sat next to her husband on the couch. Raffi sat at the piano bench in front of the coffee table, and without a word, he started playing his rendition of "Lucky Old Sun". He sang only the lyrics he remembered, "Show me that river, take me across, and wash all my troubles away, while that lucky old sun, got nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day".
As Raffi played, Nevart held Manoug's shaking hand in her own steady hand. Manoug turned his head toward her. They both smiled. Although they had aged, they recognized the same smiling gaze they shared when they were children in Elizig, Turkey. It was the same smiling gaze they shared when Raffi was born. By the last few measures of "Lucky Old Sun", Manoug stopped shaking. His pulse steadied and synchronized with Nevart's.
Raffi played the final chord and sustained the whole note. He held it until the vibrations of the final harmony unified with the summer ether.
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White(ish) Ally Reflections Post-Sit In (Facebook Post)
This morning I had a conversation with a friend with whom I attended the sit-in last night. While we were both energized and excited to see so many white folx putting their bodies on the line in support of Black Lives Matter and our BIPOC siblings, we also had questions, curiosities, and concerns that felt important to express to one another. I want to be clear that I am not speaking for my friend here, and yet I am moved to write some reflections based on our conversation.
First, I want to say that these actions feel meaningfully different for me in many ways than other BLM or racial justice-oriented actions I’ve done with white folx. I know I am in Oakland, CA, and that generally (albeit, definitely not always), the level of awareness and vigorous investigation around white privilege, white delusion, and showing up as a white ally tends to be relatively strong. It’s awesome, and I am so encouraged to see the ways this has developed throughout the past decade.
I particularly want to encourage white folx to continue putting their skin in the game. Most recently, and especially last night, this manifests through growing beyond the confines of myths of rugged individualism and expanding into community. It also means taking stock of what is truly within your capacity to contribute, and the myriad ways such an event needs people to show up. For some, that means putting your freedom and bodies on the line. For others, it can look like holding down sanctuary spots for protestor refuge and support, organizing your group and ensuring everyone has a buddy that is aligned with their personal limits (like I’m willing to stay until X hour and willing to be arrested, or I’m not willing to be arrested and I am not willing to endure police brutality tonight), bringing water and supplies in the event of police violence, donating bail money, going around and asking folx if they have the local National Lawyer’s Guild phone number in case they are arrested, or fiercely calling other white allies and protestors in when you see them behaving in ways that could be harmful to the cause. I saw all of these things happen last night, and I offer resounding support for clarity of intention and conscious action.
Beyond that, I want to ask that white folx don’t stop there. Ever. While I honestly don’t judge folx for deciding to place their limit on risking arrest or bodily injury, the truth of the matter is that part of our privilege is that our BIPOC siblings daily, throughout their whole lives, don’t have the choice to say, “Ya know, today I am going to decide that state-sanctioned violence is not a risk I want to take”. As the murder of Breonna Taylor demonstrated, this is true even while they are in the seeming safety of their own homes. I know many white allies will say they know this, and I’ve heard many of them say it in one breath, and then state their limits in the next breath without acknowledging the gap between the two. Perhaps that gap is filled within their internal conscience, but as a multi-ethnic woman who has learned to never assume that white folx are filling in those gaps, I want to make it explicit. Yes, self-care and recognizing your capacity is important. Please also investigate your edges. Ask yourself questions like, "Why is it that I don’t want to put my freedom, my “criminal” record, my body, and my life at risk for this action? What does it feel like in my body to imagine risking those aspects of my life? Will BIPOC siblings be taking on these risks in lieu of me tonight? What is it like to imagine that being true? What does that feel like in my body? What thoughts am I having in relation to these inquiries? Do I find myself being defensive, terrified, foggy, sleepy, checking out? How can I expand my capacity and resilience to even imagine this, in support of BIPOC siblings? Can I reach out to other aligned white folx for honest conversations?". As far as I'm concerned, this work for white folx is going to mean persistent curiosity and living into these questions each and everyday.
Having said that, I also want to address something that is more challenging for me to discuss, especially since this is something with which I struggle. Last night was no exception. In preparation for the event, I found some conversations difficult with white allies because of the ways we were talking about the action. In particular, I know that there is an element of excitement in the adrenalized energy to show up in a bold way, ready to put your life on the line in support of revolutionary action. Please never forget, though, that this is not about white folx becoming glorified martyrs. This is an exaggerated way of saying it in some ways, but I do recognize this tendency in the words and actions of people other than myself. Personally, when I recognize this tendency coming up in me, I find this to be a crucial time to do grounding practices like meditation or journaling to bloodlet this poison from my system. After almost a decade of working on this, I am not ashamed to share that I still struggle with it (albeit far less than in the past). I am not ashamed because I don’t blame myself for this tendency, and I recognize that wallowing in shame further entrenches it, and prevents me from healing it. I was born and raised in a fairly narcissistic society that has conditioned my thinking to go in the direction of “How will I get recognition and praise for this?”. Luckily, I have learned many ways to intervene in this line of thinking with fierce compassion. One of the ways is to investigate the very conditions that led to it. In a recent conversation with my half-black cousin Unikwa Jenkins (my actual relative), I was reminded of John Brown and the ways that his white “martyrdom” is exalted in U.S. History classes, while generally ignoring the millions of black slaves who organized for their freedom throughout the hundreds of years of slavery until abolition. Reflecting further upon this, I realize this is even true of individual historic figures in ante-bellum U.S. History like Nat Turner, who I learned to view as more of a fanatic, complicated figure than John Brown, even though they both had a lot of similarities in their mentality and what they were willing to do and risk for the abolition of slavery. As my family member pointed out, this can also be recognized in watershed moments like the Civil Rights Act of 1965, where we praise the U.S. government for bestowing this gift on our nation. Sure, we may extend gratitude to very praiseworthy leaders like Martin Luther King, Jr. as well, and we still miss the point that millions of black folx risked their lives on the streets for over ten years before such laws were passed. The more I thought about this, I realized this also extends to many other areas of history: I read and learned about the importance of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin far before I learned about Harriet Jacobs’ (pseudonym Linda Brent) Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Sojourner Truth’s Aren’t I a Woman?, or even Frederick Douglas’ slave narrative.
In short, history as presented by dominant white culture encourages us to believe that white folx made things happen, and that we undoubtedly deserve recognition and praise in the historical narrative. A large part of my anti-racist work is to let go of my ego’s grasp on what were unconscious beliefs for far too long. Now that I am aware of them, my work is to ground and center as much as possible before I act or speak, to remember that I am one of many, to honestly assess the best way for me to show up, to remember that black leadership is vital, and that just as important as the choice to risk my life for racial justice is the choice to risk my egoic tendencies towards needing praise and recognition for the privilege to even have that choice. Lately, I am realizing that if these tendencies seem particularly strong in my psyche for whatever reason, that is when I should choose to engage in a different way. This is proving to be more true than needing to overcome a tendency towards fear for risking my freedom, record, or life. This is proving to be my edge in this work more than anything else. It showed up most strongly for me this morning, when I read an account from a friend that after last night’s sit-in, lots of trash was left in downtown Oakland and the people who stayed late into the night to clean up were black women. I realized I was so focused on calming my nervous system and psyche to risk my life that I forgot about the non-glorious work of cleaning up after the event, which far too often falls on women of color in this world. So, my intention for the next action is to show up later in the action, and alleviate this unseen, non-glorious necessary work from people of color. This writing feels incomplete, but I want to share what I can as soon as possible, given that these actions will keep happening. If anyone has feedback or wants to discuss any aspects of this, I am open and ready to do so. Please comment or direct message me.
With love, humility, and solidarity,
Steph
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The Jade Necklace
December 3, 2019
Dedicated to Genoveva Torres Meneses, aka Mama Geno. My mother called her my second mommy. That description is 1000% true. Also dedicated to all of the wonderful people Mama Geno has raised and influenced throughout her life. This story is based on one such person - Mama Geno’s incredibly kind grandson and my childhood friend, Adrian Alvarez. I’m so grateful to love and be loved by Mama Geno, and to be part of her incredible family. Muchisimas gracias, Mama Geno! Te amo con todo mi corazon. <3 Guera :)
The wildfires sucked for a lot of people. They sucked for me too, and I didn’t even live in any of the places where the fires burned. Me and my buddies sure did make money cleaning up that mess. Sometimes money just ain’t worth it, though. Ya know? Some of my homies think I’m crazy saying that. “You gotta get yours, Mario. You’re just too young to understand. You’ll learn. Life’s gonna kick your ass and you’ll learn”. Always tryin’ to school me. They’re cool, though. I like to throw back some beers with them while we try to not to think about another night without our ladies.
We spent damn near six months in Santa Rosa this year, only going back to Fresno a few times to see our families and friends. My lady, my mom, and my abuela worried like crazy about me. They said this work is too hard on my body. Shit, they’re right. I know I’m young and strong, but damn, it’s getting to me. We worked twelve hour days, usually seven days a week. We were so tired at the end of the day we’d just have a drink and pass out. Shit, sometimes we didn’t even need the drink.
Sometimes I’d hear people who lived in the area talk about their lives when we went to the bars. Once I heard a woman say that she works from home. What the fuck? Work from home? I wanted to tell her that we’re doing the opposite of that. We worked 200 miles away from our homes, cleaning up ash and trash from other people’s homes that aren’t even there anymore. It can be some depressing shit, but I find ways to keep my head up. You gotta.
One day my homies and I were cleaning this burned up house when I saw a little box that was all black and a little melted. I saw a lot of things like this, and I always looked inside to see if there was anything I could save. Usually not, but I always checked. When I opened this box though, I saw this pretty gold chain with a big shiny green rock in the center. I could tell it was expensive. I showed it to one of my homies. He looked at me with big eyes and said, “You gonna give that to your lady?”.
“Nah, man, I’m gonna ask the foreman how we can return it to the person who owned this house”.
“Mario, what the fuck is wrong with you, man? They think they lost everything! They’re not expecting to get it back! Give it to me! I’ll give it to my lady! Or sell it!”.
“Hell nah, man! What if you lost everything? Wouldn’t you want someone to give you something like this if they found it?”
“I don’t know, man. All I know is I’m working out here every day looking at these big ass burned up houses. These people got money, you better believe that shit. I’m gonna get mine when I can. You do you, though. Fucking stupid, though”.
I kept looking at the necklace as I walked to the foreman’s trailer. I thought for a minute what my lady would do if I brought it to her next time I went home. She’d give me that big pretty smile as I put it around her neck. She’d pull me close to her, kiss me, tell me that she loves me. Shit, she might do things for me that I only thought were possible in fantasies!
Then I remembered a conversation we had in bed a few months ago. She asked me what I love most about her. I said something nasty at first. She hit me, and we laughed. Then I got serious. “I love how patient you are”, I said while I looked into her hazel eyes. “You’re patient with my sobrinos, my hermanos, my mama, my abuela. You’re even patient with these crazy Fresno drivers! Sometimes I feel like I’m gonna lose my shit with people, and then I look at you just living like you got all the time in the world. You’re patient with me, too. Most women wouldn’t be alright with their man being gone for so long. So many of my homies have lost their ladies since we’ve been cleaning after the fires. If they don’t break up, I hear them fighting because their ladies get sick of being alone. I mean, damn, I get it. I know it ain’t easy for you either. You show me nothing but love, though. That’s everything to me, babe. I love you”.
She smiled and kissed me like I never been kissed before. Them lips, though!
“You know what I love about you the most?”, she whispered. “You do right by people. You care about them, and you do things in a way that helps people know how much you care. I never met a man like you. I feel like the luckiest woman in the world”. I kept thinking about her words until I got to the foreman’s trailer and turned in the necklace.
The foreman called me to his trailer the next day. I saw this woman holding the necklace and crying when I got there. She introduced herself to me and told me thank you for finding it and returning it. It was a jade necklace that belonged to her 95 year-old mom. Her dad bought it for her mom when they were young, before he had to leave and fight in World War II. Her dad died about ten years ago, and the fire burned up a lot of the stuff they had to remember him. That necklace was the only thing they had from him now.
I smiled and I thought about my abuela. She has all kinds of gifts that she cherishes from my abuelo. He died before I was born. He sacrificed his life to save my mom when they were in a car accident in Mexico. My abuela immigrated here with her seven kids a few years later. All she had was her kids, some money, a picture of my abuelo, and some jewelry that he gave her. That picture and jewelry means everything to her now that he’s gone, and I know it’s probably the same for that old woman and her daughter with that jade necklace.
The daughter came to our site every day after that and brought donuts for the whole crew. I was King of the crew after that. What’s more important to me, though, is that my lady still loves me with all her heart. The next time we were in bed together, I told her about the jade necklace. I told her about the mom and her daughter, and how their story reminded me of my abuela. I’ll never forget the way she looked at me and held me that night. It was better than anything I could ever imagine.
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Lace Up
November 30, 2019
Lift the tongue.
Most days you tie your sneakers with perfunctory proficiency. Lift the tongue, pull the laces tight, cross them, pull again, loop two bunny ears, pull tight again, and always double knot. You don’t think about it anymore. During the tail end of your thirtieth year, you lifted the tongue of your boots in preparation for a hike through autumn woods. That’s when the memory of your first lace up revealed itself. It hid for twenty six years within the recesses of your neuropathways, disguised as a purely practical skill. That day, though, function and feeling met in gratitude for the day you learned.
Pull the laces tight.
You were four years old. Your mom took the morning off of work for a dentist appointment, and she surprised you at preschool with lunch. The two of you sat alone in tiny plastic chairs of a childhood art laboratory. She brought a red cardboard house-shaped happy meal, home to four lumps of breaded chicken, a small white bag made translucent by greasy fries, and a plastic toy wrapped in plastic. Mom probably had a fish filet. You shared sips from a red and yellow paper cup with a plastic lid, the sunroof to neon orange Hi-C flagged by a straw made from, guess what? More plastic.
Cross the laces.
As you cross the laces on your right hiking boot, you marvel at how much changed. The mere idea of eating that crap wages a war with your stomach. Within the past decade, both you and mom laced up for environmentalist actions. You avoid plastic as much as possible, and you stay conscious of your carbon footprint. Once you remove the plastic film of disgust from this memory, you perceive the importance of that lunch.
Pull tight again.
Remember how much you loved spending time with mommy back then? You cherished every moment with her, and dreaded every moment separated from her. You protected her when family members called her crazy, not remembering her ten day stay in a mental institution when you were two. The storms of your adolescence brought cursing matches, during which “crazy” was the most complimentary term you spewed. Many of those dry California valley nights ended with you sliding into laceless skateboard slip-ons. You charged out of the house and into the cars of friends who became totally irrelevant to your life. You convinced yourself they cared about you more than she did. Damn, you were so wrong! At least you recognized it at some point, especially when you recalled your first lace up.
Loop two bunny ears.
“Mommy, can you tie my shoes for me before you leave?”
“How about I teach you how to do it yourself?”.
A minor panic attack ensues. During her more anxious moments, mom insisted that hypervigilance of shoelaces was crucial for survival. You might trip and crack your skull on the sidewalk, leading to permanent brain damage or death. The stakes were so high! It was best if adults held that responsibility. Yet she seemed relaxed when she offered to teach you. You both basked in the afterglow of afternoon giggles together. You felt confident in your ability to handle this new responsibility. Circumstances conspired, and you gave it the old college try. As she gave verbal instructions and demonstrated with your left shoe, you followed along with the right. The bunny ears especially excited you, and then a flash of yourself falling and cracking your head on the sidewalk. There would be plenty of bunny ears to come. Focus!
Pull tight again.
“You did it!”, she beamed with a smile. Your shocked gaze fell towards your black and white saddle shoes. You did, in fact, do it! You insisted that she stay so you could untie them both and do it all again. You did it again! By yourself! On both feet! Your reward was a big hug and kiss before she said goodbye. Your protected feet ran through the preschool playground, your mind carefree within the sanctuary of your skull.
Always double-knot.
Early into your thirty first year, you laced up and rushed to the hospital when your mom received emergency heart surgery. You stood by her side and witnessed her unconscious body sustained by plastic tubes and beeping machines. She died within hours. Now you lace up through fogs of grief. You walk through the world with the intention to honor the legacy of her full humanity. You took it for granted most of your life, yet every day you manage to lace up with your skull fully intact.
Then the laces come undone. Sometimes by your hand, sometimes by unanticipated forces. So you do it all again.
And again.
And again.
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Thanksgiving Reflections 2019
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Today I am fortunate to give thanks for my very life on the land stewarded by the Northern Valley Yokuts in what is now known as Fresno, California. It is the land where my father, my siblings, my niece, my nephew, and I inhaled our first breaths. It is where my mother exhaled her last breath. I’ll be sitting with my 79 year-old Armenian father, a man who represents the first generation of his family born in the United States of America. His parents, my beloved grandparents, were both refugees of the 1915 Armenian Genocide. Centuries of my Armenian ancestors knew the pain of violent separation from the land that birthed them. I know the inherited pain of the ubiquitous denial of this violent separation. Whenever I am in a space in this country where folks honor the indigenous peoples who stewarded the land before the genocide (yes, it is a genocide!) that spanned centuries, I imagine what it might be like for me to sit in a room in Turkey with my father and the ghosts of my grandparents, hearing someone of Turkish descent honor our ancestors for stewarding the land so that people could simply be there and breathe. There is a place deep within me that resonates and heals with the soundwaves of recognition for the indigenous people in the United States. There is a visceral understanding, beyond words, of the importance of this action. Immense and immeasurable gratitude to the Northern Valley Yokuts for stewarding the land where my grandparents found refuge less than a century ago, making it possible for me to be on this planet. I regret that I don’t yet know the specific name of the tribe(s) that lived where my dad and I will be today (the name Northern Valley Yokuts was a very general name imposed on myriad tribes by colonizers). I vow to continue learning and honoring their legacy, and the legacy of any tribe where I happen to be. Happy Thanksgiving to all. May today bring us into fuller connection with the truth of interdependence in service to healing our ancestral lineages, ourselves, and our planet.
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From the Team: Intervening in an Arrest
My submission to the “From the Team” section of the July 2019 Fearless Heart Newsletter by Miki Kashtan. This is about my experiencing witnessing and intervening in the arrests of two teenager at my high school alma mater in Fresno, CA. I use a framework created by Miki to review, investigate, and analyze nonviolence practice and theory in relation to the action.
I jogged past the iron bars surrounding Fresno High School (FHS), my hometown alma mater. It was the Friday before the school’s spring break. The oppressive heat of a Fresno, California spring doesn’t punch like the fists of its summers. It is more like an open-handed slap, the kind that bruises a child’s skin as punishment for simply being a child.
As sweat dripped from my forehead, I saw a Black male teenager being arrested by two police officers outside campus. “If you see someone being arrested, it can be supportive for everyone’s safety if you stop and witness. This is especially true if the arrested person is a person of color, and even more true if you are white”. These words from my colleague and dear friend, Leonie Smith, echoed through my head at that moment. I first heard them during a Responsible Bystander training, an offering Leonie co-developed and facilitated at a meditation center last fall.
“There must be a reason for it. There’s probably nothing you can do. Just keep running”. This harsh voice followed Leonie’s. It is old and familiar. I attended FHS during the era of “No Child Left Behind”, a time when increasing numbers of children of color were forced behind bars. That harsh voice frequently controlled me as a student at FHS. Although I was in the statistical minority of white kids within the student body, white privilege protected me throughout high school. It influenced my decisions to turn away from my criminalized peers.
Since Leonie’s voice is far more beautiful than the played-out harsh voice, I decided to listen to her and witness the arrest. I was also able to prevent the arrest of a second teenager by applying nonviolence techniques I learned from Leonie and other activists at the Nonviolent Global Liberation retreat in Santa Cruz, CA. As I read Miki’s most recent newsletter, ‘Steps toward meaningful action‘, my understanding of the situation came into focus. I am sharing my account of the experience here, and using the steps as a framework to deepen my reflections.
My account of the experience:
Around 8:30am on Friday, April 12, 2019, I stop jogging to witness a white police officer arresting a Black teenager in front of Fresno High School (FHS). A Latinx cop searches the teen’s backpack on the hood of a police car. I do not hear anyone informing the arrested teen of his rights. A Latinx teenager approaches the scene and starts talking to his arrested friend. “We’re like cousins”, the friend tells one of the cops when asked why he is there. The white officer puts the arrested teen in the back of the police car, but both officers allow the friend to stay and talk through the slits in the car window.
A third police officer, who is also white, arrives around 8:45am. He steps out of his car and begins yelling at the friend within minutes. The friend tries to explain that he has a close relationship with the arrested teen. The third officer continues yelling, and the friend eventually yells back. The cop moves towards the teenage friend, stops within a foot of his face, and threatens to arrest him for truancy.
Recalling lessons learned from nonviolence activist trainings, I witness while actively working to transform my enemy images of the police officer. Holding the intention to support everyone’s safety, I step toward the situation. I recognize the Latinx teenager as more vulnerable, so I focus my attention on him. “Hey, I know you’re worried about your friend”, I say to the Latinx teen. He briefly stops shouting and looks at me. The third officer continues to yell over my voice. “Can I have a moment to speak with him?”, I ask the officer.
“Sure, go ahead”, he responds. He walks away from the Latinx teen and towards the other officers.
I continue speaking to the Latinx teen. “I know you’re worried about your friend. I am too. That’s why I’m here. I am concerned that you might be hurt or arrested if you stay, though. I encourage you to go on campus”. The friend listens to some of what I say before shouting an expletive at the police officer. He then walks through the iron bars and on to the FHS campus. Blood rushes to my feet, and my heart beat rises when I realize the friend is safe in that moment.
The next moment, I turn my attention back to the officers and the arrested teen. I hear the officers explain why they suspect the Black teen of armed robbery, even though they didn’t find any weapons. They say he was in the neighborhood where the crime took place, he was sweating a lot, and he fit the description of the suspect. The third officer looks at me mid-conversation and asks, “Excuse me, are you a school official?”.
“No, I’m just concerned and decided to witness”, I respond.
“Oh, ok, well thanks for your help with that kid”, the officer says. I notice myself wanting to shout at him and blame him for escalating the situation, but I stay silent. I return to the practice of transforming enemy images, neither challenging nor affirming his misrepresentation of my intention.
The two white officers eventually leave in separate cars. The Latinx officer gets in the driver’s seat of the car holding the arrested teen. As the engine starts, I walk towards the slotted window. “Don’t say anything other than ‘I need a lawyer’. That’s all you say, over and over, until you have a lawyer. Nothing else! Ok?”, I say to the arrested teen. He looks at me and nods his head before the car pulls away.
Steps toward Meaningful Action:
Notice. I noticed the two voices in my head before I stopped to witness. When listening to the harsh voice, I noticed tension in my body. Memories of the many times I walked away from criminalized classmates plagued me. I recognized a rising sense of disempowerment and failing integrity. Leonie’s voice illuminated the possibility of using my white privilege in service to a nonviolent outcome. Making a conscious decision to stop and witness, I recalled specific lessons from many nonviolence trainings: maintain embodied presence, set intention, listen with empathy, transform enemy images, and hold safety for all while supporting those most vulnerable. That last one is a key component of Leonie’s Responsible Bystander model. These principles helped me hold the possibility of a nonviolent outcome as I made moment-to-moment decisions.
Mourning and Analysis. It may appear paradoxical to combine the emotional process of mourning with the seemingly impersonal process of analysis, but they are profoundly intertwined for me in relation to this experience. Mourning happened in the moment, and it continues to happen. I mourn the past, knowing that my blind adherence towards the harsh voice contributed to disempowerment for me and my high school peers. I mourn the present, especially for these teenagers who are two of too many children detrimentally impacted by systemic racism. I mourn my silence when the white police officer misrepresented my intention. His words, “thanks for your help with that kid”, implied that I was a partner in controlling the teen rather than an advocate for his safety and freedom. I mourn that I failed to respond in clear alignment with my values.
Analysis and mourning are most obvious to me when I travel through my deep past. The pattern of hiding behind white privilege goes beyond my lifetime. My father, who was born and raised in Fresno by refugees of the Armenian genocide, embraced white identity and encouraged me to do the same. My grandparents’ terror influenced their decision to assimilate in a city where racism and xenophobia mingle with toxic air pollutants. My ancestors wanted safety, freedom, and belonging. They believed whiteness was the appropriate strategy to meet these needs. By the time I was born, the survival strategy of embracing whiteness while turning away from “others” became an entrenched behavioral pattern.
I must clarify that this analysis of my Armenian ancestry is neither comprehensive nor condemning. First, the factors contributing to assimilation of immigrant groups in the United States is far more complex than I am presenting here.* Second, I hold immense love, respect and compassion for my dad and Armenian ancestors. Yet it is still important to investigate the impact of assimilation on my life. It enables me to mourn the pain of my family, reckon with my decisions, and make conscious choices going forward.
Reframe as needed. Miki’s description of reframing fits well with my experience of the police officers, especially the third officer. She says, “If we see the police as a part of the working class that was pushed into working for the elite we will act differently than if we only see them through the lens of the impact they have as instruments of the state, without holding in the mix their humanity, including their potential to shift”. A similar reframing happened for me at the scene. I made a conscious choice to transform enemy images of the police as I witnessed. Throughout this process, I noticed my nervous system settle in the intensity. I am convinced this helped me stay as calm as possible as I approached the escalating argument between the white officer and Latinx teen. Had I approached that encounter without connecting to the officer’s humanity, I believe the risk of further escalation and harm could have changed the course of events.
Discern and Care. I am gaining more insight into what I bring to this life as I age and mature. Although I do not always like to admit it, an important factor to consider is my social location. As an adult woman with white skin privilege, I have more status quo power than the two teenagers. Honest acknowledgment and rigorous discernment of my social location helped inform my role, and enabled me to advocate more boldly than I had in the past.
I also experienced discernment as a moment-to-moment necessity. This continuously informed my decisions to care for all, especially for myself and the teenagers. Orienting towards embodied presence helped me gauge that I could step towards the escalated encounter with composure and effectiveness. It helped me feel my visceral reaction to the police officer when he mischaracterized my intention. Discerning that blaming and yelling might compromise my own safety, and therefore the ability to support the arrested teen, I made the best choice I could by remaining silent.
Because I was able to stay at the scene and continuously respond to each moment, I recognized another opportunity to intervene. I held knowledge about what the arrested teen might experience under custody. I also knew what he could do to protect himself from self-incrimination. It was vital to share this information with him before he was in an unknown situation alone. By discerning how to best take care of myself each moment, I was able to take the best possible care of everyone in the situation.
Support. I am fortunate to have many connections to NVC activists. Within hours of the incident, I received empathy from a friend who helped me celebrate the prevention of the Latinx teen’s arrest, mourn the Black teen’s arrest, and identify feelings and needs relating to my silence when the officer mischaracterized my intentions. She also encouraged me to do some shaking to help release residual trauma from the experience.
Leonie and I discussed the incident a few days later. She offered similar empathy, helped me understand that I did the best I could when I chose to remain silent, and helped me brainstorm other ways I could respond that were more aligned with my intention. These early conversations encouraged me to share the story with other friends, including non-NVC practitioners. As I recounted the story to more people, I received feedback that people were inspired to take a bystander training, witness arrests, and stay aware of ways they might intervene. It is my hope that this story will encourage others to act, to make mistakes, to learn, and to grow together. It is my hope it will support more freedom and peace in our world.
*If you are interested in learning more about the assimilation of Middle Eastern populations in the United States, I recommend John Tehranian’s Whitewashed: America’s Invisible Middle Eastern Minority.
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New Beginnings
January 7, 2019
For my nephew Giovanni on his 10th birthday, and my beautiful niece/Gio’s big sister Sophia. I love you both!
The second floor of the hospital wreaked of sterilizer accented with sweet notes of new beginnings during the first week of January. The breaths of patients, visitors, and hospital staff alike circulated through white paper masks that enclosed the lower portions of their faces during flu season. The last day of that week, Sophia stood proud and tall at a whopping three feet and two inches in the visitor’s waiting area. She held her grandma’s warm hand as they faced the passageway to the maternity ward.
After several moments, Sophia recognized her dad pushing her mom in a wheelchair beside a stout nurse leaning over a mobile plastic basinet. They all smiled at Sophia behind their masks as they approached her, but their kind gazes completely eluded her attention. They might as well have been part of the plain white linoleum floor that matched the equally lackluster white walls with burgundy trim. Her chocolate eyes focused solely on that plastic basinet.
The crib was about fifty feet away when she first saw it. It appeared to be empty at first glance. All she could make out was the glare of bright fluorescent lights reflecting off of the transparent surfaces. The wheels of the carriage, attached to the bottom of the stainless steel legs, propelled the precious cargo forward as the nurse advanced toward her eager destination.
When it was thirty five feet away, Sophia noticed the small sky blue mattress lining the crib. It supported a round bundle wriggling in a white blanket. The din of people talking, nurses shuffling about, and the PA system calling Doctor Kratzer to room 242 fell away as her ears attuned to the sound of the basinet’s wheels rolling along the gleaming floor. Her eyes widened when she finally saw a caramel hand, tinged with a ruddy pink color, extending towards the left wall of the carriage. At that instant, Sophia pulled her grandma to meet the carriage with the joyful force of an ecstatic four year-old child.
They all converged near the bustling nurse’s station. Sophia’s eyes were level with a baby boy wearing a blue and white striped beanie. His own eyes appeared to be glued shut, even though his slight movements indicated that he was awake. His tiny lips shone with a saliva gloss. They smacked opened and closed to the tune of his infant grunts. Sophia’s eyes became two records spinning songs of unconditional love as her mask dropped off of her face, exposing a mouth agape with wonder.
“Sophia, this is your baby brother, Giovanni!”, her mom announced. With this introduction, Giovanni turned his face directly towards Sophia and opened his eyes to stare at his big sister through the thick plastic wall. He reached his hand towards her as she offered her index finger over the top of the basinet. Three busy nurses stopped in their tracks to admire the two siblings meeting for the first time. Giovanni clasped Sophia’s finger at the same moment that the corners of her mouth turned towards the heavens.
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Imaginable
June 19, 2018
Facebook Post:
“Unimaginable”. This word frequently circulates in our so-called civilized society in response to traumatic occurrences, or when hearing about egregious acts inflicted upon a fellow human being. “Unimaginable”. This was a word I would have used until January 17th of this year if a woman in her early thirties told me she lost her mother unexpectedly. “Unimaginable”. I confess, this was the first word I uttered when I heard about children as young as four years-old being separated from their parents at US immigration detention centers.
I try imagining being separated from a parent. Wait, I know this. As a 31 year-old woman whose mother passed away after living a full life, I believe I am too young to experience this pain. One more minute of imagining and there I am at four years-old. I am bawling as my mom drops me off at preschool. I am clinging to her skirt and begging to go with her. Moments later I am finding an appealing coloring book and I am laughing with friends. More imagining, and I am not in preschool at all, but in a prison. More moments pass and I am more terrified than I was when strange men with guns separated me from my mom, because now I am unsure if I will ever see her again. The entirety of my being is thrown into a state of grief. My small body is forced to endure circumstances conducive to more harm and trauma. My mind is unable to settle for even a moment, and my innocent spirit desperately begs for someone to save me. It is a crucial moment to determine whether my conditions are leading me to a hopeless and hardened existence, or if I can believe in the power of humane compassionate action.
Since I already started imagining beyond what I’ve experienced during my lifetime, I keep going. I imagine the women who help me the most as I grieve the loss of mom. They are the incredibly strong women who accept grief’s companionship many years after the death of their own children. I imagine being a mother to a four year-old child. I imagine my mixed-race niece and nephew when they were four. I imagine how, as their aunt, I want to contribute to a world that ensures a life of autonomy, dignity, and fruitful opportunities for them. I imagine being separated from them, not knowing if I will ever see them again. I imagine this torturous mindfuck is happening while I am imprisoned and suffering inhumane conditions. I imagine the panic that arises within me when I realize that my child is experiencing this hell at the tender age of four, without me nearby. I imagine the dissonance of reflecting on my bold decision to move in the direction of my dreams, possibly borne out of necessity, and the confusing indignation and shame I feel while living my worst nightmare.
I imagine myself using the word “unimaginable” in response to the crises occurring in US immigration policy. I awaken to the realization that it is a word from the lexicon of privilege. I realize using it means distancing myself from the pain of another human being’s reality. I realize it serves as an unintentional mechanism to wash my hands of the situation, only to realize my hands are still dirty. I realize that there is a vast difference in my outlook and decisions when I absentmindedly add one syllable to the word “imaginable”. I realize that the imagination is a potent impetus for compassionate action and meaningful transformation. So I imagine, and I continue from there.
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Misery Had Made Her Bold
June 18, 2018
An introduction, of sorts: The title ‘Misery had made her bold’, is from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I recently started reading it to learn more about Greek and Roman mythology in order to inform a piece I am writing called “Eurydice’s Remix”, a feminist reimagining of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. This is a true story that occurred yesterday. The title of this story describes Niobe after the death of her 7 sons. This line helps me understand the way grief, unimpeded, can give way to resilience. It’s worth noting that Niobe’s 7 daughters died shortly after the death of her sons, and the grief was so much to bear that she turned into an eternally crying marble statue. Part of the reason I think she met that fate, though, was because she didn’t humble herself to the grief of her sons. She had a “is that the best you got? I still have 7 daughters!”, attitude. Even though she was feeling genuine grief after the loss of her sons, she tried to control it rather than let it move through her. I like to think that the story I’ve written captures the true spirit of Ovid’s line. Misery is a powerful mentor. In my experience, it helped me be more bold in the pursuit of boundless love for humanity… Time will tell, but writing this story helped me highlight the beauty I’m starting to see emerge from the chaos of grief.
Sophia and Gio goofily imitated their favorite YouTube personages as they left the grocery store with their Aunt Stephanie. Stephanie shook her head with a “kids these days!” smile illuminating her face.
Stephanie’s lighthearted gaiety transformed the minute she saw Dr. K approaching the store with his two children. Stephanie knew Dr. K, but it was a knowing that did not warrant a friendly hello. Stephanie worried that she would erupt into a fury of hateful curses if she spoke at all, and she did not want her niece and nephew to witness that.
Dr. K didn’t see Stephanie at all. He focused on his pre-adolescent son walking to his left, and his small daughter holding his right hand. “He’s a good father,” Stephanie thought to herself, as her mind simultaneously relived that day five months prior when she and Dr. K sat in the hospital waiting room with Stephanie’s father and aunt.
“Unfortunately there were complications and she didn’t respond well”, Dr. K sighed, his eyes cast towards the ground as he spoke.
Stephanie looked at her aunt, then at her dad. Both of them were waiting for the next sentence, expecting Dr. K to explain Cherylyn’s life going forward. They were waiting for him to say she had permanent brain damage, or kidney damage, or that she needed another procedure. They were waiting for him to say they would still have their wife, sister, mother, respectively, but her life would have limitations going forward.
As fast as a healthy heart pumps blood through the arteries, nourishes the body’s organs with oxygen, and then returns through the ventricles, Stephanie understood what Dr. K’s next sentence would be.
“Are you saying she’s dead?”, Stephanie blurted. She looked directly at Dr. K, beckoning him to muster the courage to look her in the eyes.
“Yes, she’s dead”, Dr. K confessed on an exhale.
“FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKK!!! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”, Stephanie shot-gunned. She almost followed her curses with, “GO BRING HER BACK! What the fuck are you doing in here with us? BRING HER BACK!!!”, but she knew such shrieks were useless. A rush of sensation inversely drained from her feet and floated above the room. Part of her was detachedly observing the situation from the ether. It was like a benevolent spirit hovered above her whispering, “This is too painful to feel fully right now. It will all come in time, and you must allow it do so. For now, here’s the gift of partial numbness”.
It was an incomplete analgesia, but it worked well enough to help her stay in the room with her family. She saw her 77 year-old father sitting in a chair with tear-filled eyes stretched from forehead to mouth. He looked above him trying to find a continuation of the past 48 years with Cherylyn, but he saw nothing at all. He slammed his knees with tight fists as he gasped for air. Stephanie ran to his side and crouched next to the chair to embrace him. They stood up clinging to each other. The chin of one rested on the shoulder of the other; the tears of one watered the back of the other’s heart. If they could speak in that moment, they might have screamed, “You’re still here, right? Please still be here! Please stay with me!”. Stephanie’s aunt moaned, hobbled towards them with wet eyes, and joined the embrace. The grieving trio stood there for several moments, screaming and holding each other, afraid to let go
The prophecy of Stephanie’s benevolent spirit proved to be true. Grief descended upon her and her family in its multi-faceted forms, sometimes in forms completely unrecognizable to what she read in articles by psychological experts. She did her best to adhere to the benevolent spirit’s advice, to allow herself to feel it as it came, to surrender and welcome the gradual descension of grief. Then there were times when she was exhausted by grief’s unpredictability. She wanted to turn it off, to distract herself from it, to find a panacea that she was sure existed outside of herself. After much trial-and-error, after too many experiences of feeling worse in an attempt to push it all away, she adhered to the wisdom of the benevolent spirit with reverence.
As she walked with Gio and Sophia through the grocery store parking lot, the raging aspect of her grief upwelled alongside tender recognition of Dr. K’s humanity. An arising memory of Dr. K speaking somewhat detachedly to her and her family merged with an understanding of his difficult job. She knew that a certain level of detachment was a necessary skill for his work, that he simply couldn’t fall apart with each family whose lives would change irrevocably after he performed heart surgery on their beloved. She imagined it must be challenging to face death on a regular basis, and that the best thing he could do for his patients was to stay somewhat distant from their pain. She also knew he spoke with genuine sadness and shock after the death of Cherylyn, that there was part of him grieving with them in that moment. Stephanie knew all of this, and she was also upset that empathy came so easily to her. She wanted to be able to spew her venomous rage on him without regret.
“What would it be like to demonize him? What would it be like to wish vengeance on him?”, Stephanie thought to herself. “Get in the car. I need a minute before we leave,” she said to Gio and Sophia. She stood alone and attempted to muster all of her fury when she saw Dr. K walk out of the store with his kids. None of them saw her. Suddenly, her eyes didn’t see Dr. K at all. They focused on his young daughter who wore a cloth teal dress with ruffled sleeves and a slight flare in the skirt that landed just above her knees. Her skinny tan legs donned knee-high white stockings. Her sable hair glimmered in the sun as it bounced merrily on her shoulders. Stephanie’s eyes softened as she saw a little girl enjoying an afternoon with her dad. At that moment, Stephanie knew what she had to do.
“I hope you all enjoy your afternoon. May you have many more years of happiness, good health, and love together”, she whispered to the still summer air. She got in the car with her niece and nephew. Rage slowly humbled itself to silly laughter as they drove home.
Her misery had made her bold to love without boundaries.
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Paper Crane Mother’s Day without a Mother
May 14, 2018
Facebook Post:
This post is late because I needed the day yesterday to honor my mom as I reminisced, cried, laughed, listened to her favorite music (mostly the Cranberries), put on a smile to celebrate Mother’s Day with my 90 year-old aunt Charlotte, and started folding the first 10 of 1,000 paper cranes.
My mom taught me about Sadako Sasaki when I was a child. At that time, I was only a few years younger than Sadako when she died of Leukemia in Hiroshima a decade after the nuclear bomb decimated her hometown. My mom was born a year after the bomb fell, but she carried its horrors with her as if she was Sadako’s mother. If I were asked to identify one of my mom’s greatest strengths, I would definitely say it was her compassion that defied physical, mental, and temporal borders. That, and her deep conviction that peace is the only thing that makes any damn sense in this world. I think Sadako’s cranes were a symbol representing this belief for my mom.
I can still picture my mom’s face as she shared Sadako’s story with me. Her eyes were moist with sadness, her brow furrowed with vexation, her mouth moving purposefully even though her jaw quivered as she alternated between distress and rage. She spoke with a voice both vulnerable to the pain it described, and strong in the assurance that this was a story necessitating repetition for future generations. I remember trying to learn how to fold origami cranes that day, but I was terribly impatient and I moved on to some other childhood interest. Still, I never forgot the story of Sadako Sasaki.
Two weeks ago, I heard a history podcast recount Sadako’s story. I thought about my mom during the entire episode, and I resolved that I would finally learn to fold paper cranes. Then the resolution mushroomed – not like the smoggy mushroom clouds that exploded over Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the summer of 1945, but like the natural fungus that blooms from the Earth and provides nourishment to the cycle of life. I decided I am going to fold 1,000 paper cranes between Mother’s Day and my mom’s birthday on November 25th. I did the math and found this would mean I need 3 days of folding 10 cranes, and the remaining 194 to fold 5 cranes. I chose the endpoints of Mother’s Day and my mom’s birthday to fold 10, along with the day of Sadako Sasaki’s death.
I am also writing notes to my mom on the paper I’m using to make the cranes. They are memories - both pleasant and unpleasant, in recognition of the very human relationship we had as mother and daughter. They are also quotes from her favorite works of art, conversations in which I choose to engage with her in her afterlife, and messages of gratitude. That last one proved to be the most plentiful yesterday and today.
Pictured here is the first crane I successfully folded. All I have to say is a big shout out to YouTube, and here’s to the past twenty years that helped me mature to the point that I could grin and bear it as I struggled to fold paper into a crane. Most of all, let this tiny victory serve as a reminder of the potential boundlessness of love between mother and child.
To all the mothers out there, I wish you a very happy, albeit belated, Mother’s Day. Never underestimate the influence you have in this world, and in honor of Sadako Sasaki, please don’t underestimate the influence your children have in this world either.
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Just Like Her - A Eulogy for My Mommy
February 20, 2018
In loving memory of my mother, Cherylyn Rosaria Smith: November 25, 1946 - January 17, 2018
Eulogy delivered on February 17, 2018 at the Big Red Church in Fresno, California
“You’re the spitting image of Cherylyn”, “you follow in her footsteps”, “you’re just like her”. I’ve heard these phrases all of my life in relation to my mom. Depending on the period of our lives together, it was either a huge compliment or a crushing blow to my ego. As a little girl I was convinced that my mom was the most beautiful person in the world. I wanted to spend all day with her and sleep by her side at nights. I loved to listen to her unbridled laughter when we watched funny movies, and to see tear droplets adorn her face when she shared a meaningful poem with me. As I launched into my rebellious teenage years, “just like her” was an insult to the delusion that I was separate from her. Although I never resisted being told that I look just like her. After all, my mom was gorgeous her entire life. That’s just a fact.
We had our share of disagreements and arguments, which is common in any close relationship. But in the midst of my tumultuous teenage years, I remember having a clear glimpse that mom’s beauty was more than superficial.
A friend of mine died suddenly from meningitis when we were only 14. My mom didn’t know him or his family, but she was deeply saddened when I told her about his death. She agreed to take me and some of my friends to the funeral during a school day. The morning of the funeral, mom admonished that I was not to shake hands or touch anybody because other grievers might be carrying the meningitis virus. I was angry, declaring that it was rude to act that way at a funeral. After some argument, she gave me an ultimatum: I would either promise to follow her orders or she wouldn’t take me and my friends. I begrudgingly agreed.
It was standing room only when we arrived at the funeral. My mom stood two rows ahead of me, next to a young woman who was crying in deep grief. I saw my mom put her hand on the woman’s back and speak to her. Within minutes, my mom embraced the woman and rocked her from side-to-side as she cried into my mom’s shoulder. They stood next to each other for the entire duration of the funeral. My mom alternated between rubbing her back and embracing her.
During the car ride home, my mom told me the woman was my deceased friend’s cousin. I bit my tongue as the snotty teenager impulse to announce my mom’s inconsistent logic begged for verbal expression. Instead, I just smiled and appreciated my mom in all of her contradictions and beauty.
When I remember that incident now, I realize my mom’s words and actions were actually quite consistent with how she lived her life. My mom was acting as both a fierce protect to me and a compassionate nurturer to the young woman. She was being a good mother in the most expansive sense of the word. Even in those self-righteous teenage years, I saw that being “just like her” would be a fine way to live life.
After all, mom’s life was full. Hers was a life that knew the full range of human emotions, and she utilized a combination of feeling and intellect to connect to the world. Hers was an independent and strong life that spoke against injustice even when it was wildly unpopular to do so. Hers was a life that appreciated beauty and art as necessary treasures of humanity. Her was a life that held a sacred kinship with nature. Hers was a life that managed to find the best bargains at various discount and thrift shops, a fact for which she was quick to announce any time she’d give you a gift she purchased during an unnecessary shopping spree. Hers was a life I am proud to reflect upon and say, “I take after my mom”.
Whether or not I truly am “just like her”, I didn’t just like her. I am lucky enough to love her as my mommy. I am lucky enough to carry the legacy of her love, compassion, and strength into the world. Just like her.
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#MeToo from Patagonia
October 19, 2017
Facebook Post:
Me too.
I just finished a 5 day sola trek in Torres del Paine National Park on the Chilean side of Patagonia. It was challenging, mentally and physically, and at times dangerous. The winds, rain, mud, and rushing water streams over rocks made for tough conditions. I trekked between 12 and 19 km for the first 4 days with all my gear and food in my backpack. I had to constantly remind myself that I am a strong and brave woman, and I made it.
When I got back to the world of internet connectivity, I was moved by all of the "Me too" activity, and especially moved to see all of my friends tell their stories. While I am proud of myself for completing the trek, I discovered a whole different way to be a brave and strong woman by reading your posts. So, here's my #MeToo.
I have been grabbed in public, followed in cars and on foot, had lewd comments shouted at me, and I have been sexually harassed and assaulted, including by a man who I thought loved me at the time. I have also been told all of that was somehow my fault, and I've also believed that to be true.
I don't think it's an exaggeration to say every woman I know has a "me too", and I know it's not an exaggeration to say this does not preclude our status as strong, brave women.
With that, in honor of all of the strong, brave women in this world, I present to you Torres Del Paine National Park - or a portion that I saw for 5 days. This one's for you, ladies. We've got this because we've got each other.
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Amor Puro en La Paz, Bolivia: Pablo y Melva (A Free Write)
September 30, 2017
There is an apartment in La Paz, Bolivia where pure love resides. It chose its location wisely. Most people would not think to enter this building with graffiti on the exterior walls, hop on the elevator to the 13th floor, and enter the humble apartment in the Sapocachi neighborhood. But I assure you, pure love lives there. I am confident it will thrive there for the foreseeable future.
"Hola, mi corazon!", Melva chimes to Pablo as she walks in the door. It's clear it is a habit, one that has gained meaning over time. When she references her "corazon", the vibrations of her voice emanate from that fortified place in her body.
"¿Que tal, mi amor?", Pablo responds in the same habitually meaningful tone.
They spend the rest of the time catching up on their respective days. They have been married for nearly 30 years and have raised 2 lovely, grown women. There is a photo of them as youthful lovers mounted on the wall. Their features appear younger in the photo, but they still exude the same excited, fresh energy of young lovers who met last week.
Pure love does not confine itself to Pablo and Melva in its home. It fills every nook and cranny as it overlooks the charmingly gritty city of La Paz. Rocky and Lulo, the two large and lumbering dogs, are also bathed in pure love. They will surely bathe you in it with their sloppy kisses and expectant glances as they clench toys between their powerfully harmless jaws.
If you are lucky enough to be a guest in the home of pure love, you will learn that it doesn't make a single demand. It sits you at its table, blesses you with its prayers, nurtures you with meals and conversations, and ensures you have everything you need to become enchanted with its country, city, apartment. If you're single and searching for love, you will find that you're not saying "I want this!", like you tend to do when observing lovers. You will simply sit there, sip coffee, break bread, marvel at the view of the Andes framing La Paz, and relax into the pure love that resides within you.
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Tus Sueños Son Importantes (Your Dreams are Important)
September 5, 2017
Facebook Post:
Ms. Baird played a documentary about Costa Rica in our 2nd grade classroom. As a lifelong animal lover, I was in awe as I watched footage of the diverse wildlife thriving in the Costa Rican rainforests. I wasn't sure how I would do it, but I swore to myself that I would one day visit those forests. It seemed so out of reach at the time, but it was a dream I held through adulthood. Eventually my dreams grew to encompass an extended trip through Central and South America. I dreamed about learning Spanish and learning about other places, people, and cultures.
As the dreams grew, so did the fears. Throughout the years I worried about losing money, careers, and relationships. Some people told me that it is not safe for a woman to travel by herself in that part of the world, while others gave doubtful looks when I told them I don't speak Spanish. At times the fears overpowered my dreams, but the dreams remained. The truth is that it is scary to head in the directions of our biggest dreams. They seem so elusive and uncertain with threats looming behind every gorgeous vision, noble intention, and heartfelt wish for the best possible outcome.
In time I came to trust my own strength, wisdom, and the power of my intentions and dreams to travel. There were also people who inspired me through the realization of their dreams, their travels, and their immigration experiences. There were the people who loved me and supported me, who heard my dreams and responded with "It's possible. Keep going".
This week, I hiked in the Costa Rican rainforests with tears moistening my smile. I've been struggling to navigate new places and cultures in Spanish throughout the past two months, but it is happening. Despacio ;) I just landed in Colombia, and I am beyond excited to learn from the people and places of the South American continent.
There sat other dreamers in that same 2nd grade classroom where these dreams were born. We grew up together in Fresno, California. Some of them were immigrants from Mexico or Central American countries. They were struggling to learn English. It was not a choice, they needed to learn to survive. I imagine some of them also dreamed of visiting Costa Rican rainforests when they watched that documentary. I imagine they dreamed of thriving in their studies, and they dreamed of living meaningful and fulfilling lives with their families.
These fellow dreamers have been my friends, supporters, and extended family members for as long as I can remember. They played, imagined, kissed, loved, cried, laughed, swam, walked, and ate sweet cold fruit in the intolerable Fresno summers with me. Their dreams are as crucial to me as my dream to visit Costa Rica. Their dreams are an indispensible part of my world.
I was disheartened when I read the news about DACA this weekend. Within seconds, though, I recognized the downtrodden feeling as a fear barrier in the midst of big dreams. I found a determination to hold the dreams of these dreamers as strongly as I am holding my own.
May the dreams of the dreamers be realized. May the power of their pure-hearted dreams be distinguished from the delusions of grandeur held by those "in power". May every person in the United States recognize that the dreams of the Dreamers are inseparable from our personal dreams.
To all of those affected by the recent overturn of DACA, know that your dreams absolutely matter. They are vital for our nation. I believe in your dreams, and I lend my hands, mind, and heart to hold them with you. I support you. It is possible. Keep going!
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León, Nicaragua
August 19, 2017
Facebook Post:
León, Nicaragua embodies its contradictions. It is simultaneously ancient and modern, revolutionary and apathetic. The days torture its inhabitants with oppressively static heat, and then liberates them with the wildly mobile thunderstorms throughout the late afternoon and evening.
This is a city that is incredibly proud of its revolutionary history and literary traditions. The streets are filled with murals commemorating the Sandinistas. There are countless busts and statues of Ruben Dario, the poet born from Leon's womb. The two seem to be intertwined, even though they existed decades apart.
I walked past the Cathedral tonight before dinner. I've walked past it at least a dozen times since I arrived, but it wasn't until tonight that I noticed a corner where its old face meets its new one. That corner of the Cathedral speaks volumes about this city. It's a place that exposes its many faces proudly. The people here seem to understand the necessity that its tensions coexist in plain view.
The streets with all of the tourist businesses contain homeless addicts passed out on the sidewalks in the middle of the day. You have to step over them to buy your coffee and pastry, or to book a tour to slide down the side of a volcano. Nobody asks them to leave. Occasionally a tourist nervously looks and walks across the street, or a local checks to ensure the person is breathing. They keep walking.
Parks, basketball courts, and other communal areas are decorated by murals depicting revolutionary struggles. Two young men play basketball amidst a background of soldiers attacking people in the street, while the attacked help and protect each other. A few feet away is a flier for a frivolous party at a bar.
I have never been to such a place as Leon. It's a place that lives, breathes, and most importantly, boldly displays both the horrors and beauties of humanity. It's a place that intimately knows these dualities within itself. It's a place where the phrase, "Well, nothing is perfect..." is more than just a platitude that falls short before the essential conclusion to that sentence: "and we still try".
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Baggage from the USA
August 15, 2017
Facebook Post:
This is my first post in a long time, especially since I started traveling. I am not one to post pictures of beautiful places that encourage people to seek tourist destinations. Don't get me wrong, I have encountered many beautiful places, faces, and souls in Guatemala, and now in Nicaragua. I came to be with them, through all of the peaks and valleys life has to offer anywhere. Believe me, there are plenty of both in this part of the world.
Some people ask me "¿Eres de Italia?", or as I get more tan and more self-assured navigating new places speaking a new language, people sometimes assume I am from Latín America. At times it is tempting to pretend I am not from the United States, especially since Trump is our President, and especially considering the recent tragedy in Charlotesville. It is tempting to treat this trip as a treat, to transplant my privilege and let it guide all of my decisions as a traveler.
Some US travelers claim to be Canadian because they are embarrassed. It is a damn shame what is happening, but I will not allow myself to be ashamed of who I am and where I was born. Allowing the recent hateful transgressions of one group of people and our so-called leader to define what it means to be from the United States is self-defeating. By "self", I mean the collective self.
Our troubling past and present is part of us, and it is important we don't shut out those parts of ourselves. Reflecting on what I have learned and seen about the history, cultures, trials and tribulations of Guatemala and Nicaragua, albeit through my imperfect lenses, I know it's essential to never bow your head in shame. It’s essential to find the incredible strength within yourself to care about other people. It's essential to recognize the way the well-being of the most downcast person is directly tied to your own well-being. There is no escaping that truth.
I considered not taking this trip this year so I could stay home and fight Trump and his followers. I worried I was indulging in escapism and flaking on my country when I decided to leave. I now realize the truth of the statement "Wherever you go, there you are". So, when people ask me "¿De dónde eres tu?" I say "Soy de Los Estados Unidos". Then I keep moving forward, feeling the heavy pull of the baggage my US identity carries. I have noticed, though, that it feels more bearable when I call it what it is. Only then can I carry it with kindness and understanding; only then can I truly extend this to the fellow human beings I meet and grow to love; only then can I make decisions that lighten the burden of shame by learning, listening, and interacting with people who love themselves and others far too much to ever be ashamed of how they live and where they were born.
I may be thousands of miles away, USA, but I promise I will never try to escape.
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Las Noches Moradas de Xela: Doña Antonietta (A Free Write)
August 9, 2017
Adorned in the colors of Xela, "rojo por la sangre, amarillo por el maiz, y morado por la noche", Doña Antonietta's body contains unfathomable depths of strength, energy, courage, and faith. Her faith is active and ever present. At the core of her being is a heart that puts me at ease just to know a person like her has materialized, even for just one human lifetime. Her face maps the worries she has endured in her life, while her eyes glimmer with a youthful optimism that is difficult to define, but is absolutely not naive.
She served me. That's hard for me to admit, and it was hard to permit at first. Worse yet was when I realized I became accustomed to it. One day I woke up and found myself somewhat upset that she hadn't managed to have breakfast on the table by 7:30 am while taking care of her sick grandson. That's when I saw her rushing into the kitchen, obviously worried I was upset, apologizing profusely as she prepared a well-balanced vegetarian breakfast especially for me. Her anxiety was palpable. It was as if I could see her thoughts of me being late for school and telling the director it was her fault because my breakfast wasn't ready. Then that extra 400 quetzales per week would disappear. Then how would she make ends meet?
My frustration collapsed beneath the flimsy weight of my self-righteousness at that moment. I was nearly in tears when I saw her vulnerability laid before me, creating a barrier for genuine human interaction between us. The voices of other students complaining about their host families played through my memory's stereo: "She only gives me fruit for breakfast", "the food is horrible", "She's trying to manipulate me into buying her things".
It was at this moment that I realized someone has probably complained about Doña Antonietta in the past, a stranger in her home with the gall to mistrust her pure and kind heart. The worst part is she seems to have internalized it, leading her to believe she must work harder to the point that her blood pressure has risen and now she incurs the extra cost of the medication.
"Esta bien, Doña Antonietta. Usted no tiene preocupada". I didn't know much Spanish at this point, but I am glad I learned enough to piece together this horribly constructed sentence at that moment. I made it a point to thank her after every meal, and every night before I went to bed thereafter. In time, just the thought of her filled me with gratitude. It still does.
I learned more about her incredible strength raising 3 children alone in Guatemala during the Civil War. I learned about how much she misses her granddaughters. They are her son's girls, and they live far away with their mother after their parents divorced. I learned and witnessed her active faith, and I maintain she is the only person who could ever inspire me to attend an all Catholic church service at 6am in a language I scarcely understand. My favorite time was immediately after mass. She always had a few quetzales in hand to give to any beggers standing at the entrance of the church. I loved her even more when I observed this habit.
One night we sat together at the table after dinner. She could barely sit up and keep her eyes open. I insisted that she go to bed and I would take care of the dishes. "No, no. Usted esta cansada. Trabaja muy duro a la escuela", she said. "Yo insisto. Descansa, por favor". She finally agreed. The next morning she looked better and I asked how she felt. She told me she was better, reluctantly confessing that the night before she felt pain throughout her entire body, which happens sometimes. I realized it was an honor that she let me serve her, and that she admitted her pain to me. I know she couldn't ask me for help, because that would put her extra income in jeapordy if someone thought she was taking advantage of the students in her home.
She ocasionally told me about her indigenous roots, and the ways she intermixes them with her devout Catholicism. One day we had a field trip with the school and I had the opportunity to learn my nauahl, or Mayan astrological sign. I was excited to tell her about it when I got home. I asked if she knew hers, and she said no. I offered to find out for her, and she agreed with a nervous excitement.When I looked it up, it said she is creative, clever, enthusiastic, and artistic. It said she should be encouraged to pursue her goals because she has a lot to offer the world through her creativity. I could definitely see this in her, and I wondered about her girlhood dreams.Which had been realized, and which had been stifled by taxing demands that sent pain coursing throughout her body?
She taught me about the colors of Xela. She grabbed the striated towel she used everyday to a wrap the warm tortillas. She pointed to each color on the towel and told me about how they are inspired by Mayan tradition: "rojo por la sangre, amarillo por el maiz, y morado por la noche". This information illuminated the world around me, adding a sweet romantic flourish to the feeling of my pulse, the tortillas and tamales she prepared at mealtimes, and the air we inhaled as we shared dinner and conversation on those sweet Xela nights.
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