Tumble

“So, do you put vinegar in it?”

“No. Only the seasoning,

little by little,

and then you tumble.

You don’t want the rice to get mushy.”

“Wait. How do you tumble?

Because I put in the seasoning,

and then I stab it with the rice paddle,

to mix it.”

She puts her hand on mine,

she looks into my eyes,

and she says,

“Tumble the rice,”

she does a turning

motion with her arm,

imaginary rice paddle in hand,

“Soft.

With patience.

Then,

you will have

the perfect rice ball."

Humidity

It is there

or it is not.

When it is,

my nostalgia is triggered,

and I am transported

to dusty brick homes, 

on dirt roads

with the thick scent

occupying my soul. 

No matter where I am:

DC, San Cristóbal, NY, Ixtepec,

Miami, Playa del Carmen, Poptún,

when the humidity reaches

my nostrils,

I am again in Tepic, Nayarit.

Memories of moist sunrise, waking to

neighbors in my Tia’s living room tiendita,

“¡Quiero!” they’d shout.

I’d turn in the damp sheets.

Muffled voices in the kitchen,

the clinging of dishes, and the fan’s soft

breeze, ease me into the waking hours. 

Soon, the neighbors are sweeping their

slice of the sidewalk,

men are loading up their Nacho Libre tricycles,

with merchandise,

my uncle paces back and forth near my bed,

judging my lazy yanqui-ass, for still being asleep,

at 7am. 

As the humid day continues,

and the unforgiving, scorching summer sun,

shines angrily on our walk, along uneven sidewalks

and stone road,

the human mass on the bus,

radiates, moisture. 

Pasamos vendedores de gelatinas,

elotes, pepinos.

Nos vamos a la neveria, a comprar bolas de limón o de fresa. 

Cuando comienza la lluvia veranal,

nos subimos en un taxi,

las ventanas, medias abiertas,

nubladas por la humedad.

La humedad, simplemente

pertenece a un rincón de mi memoria,

que se enlace con otro mundo, otra civilización,

otra realidad, otra epoca.

And I’m not talking about damp.

I’m not talking about Seattle, or San Sebastian,

or San Francisco. I’m talking about tropical humidity. 

When it is not humid,

I am in L.A., or somewhere in California,

or Madrid, or London, or Tel Aviv. 

My feet are on the ground.  I’m on the topside world.

I am working, or mothering, or speaking,

doing some kind of hustling. 

This morning,

I was lakeside.

The sun rising,

the mist crawling across the water,

the humidity, cradling my heart,

re-membering my connection,

to the earth, to humans doing their work,

with their own hands, to people caring for

their patch of the sidewalk,

to small treats, like a cut up cucumber,

or a corn on the cob, or handmade ice cream.

And my soul

was home. 

Flying over the Gulf Coast

I’m looking out

the airplane window,

onto

the Texas gulf coastline.

Blue water

as far as the eye can see…

What happened to the oil spill?

I know enough

to know

that disasters

don’t just go away.

When the spill happened,

black blood flowing

from the earth’s core,

recorded night and day

by an underground camera.

We watched those fuzzy,

underwater gray images of oil,

blasting out of that tube,

and we all held our breath

for the oil-covered animals

for the precarious economies

of the gulf communities,

hoping the efforts

to stop the hemorrhage

would be successful. 

It went on and on,

the ticker tape counting the days.

It was a disaster,

for the whole world to see. 

Helicopters followed the oil slick,

for hundreds and hundreds of miles. 

But today,

I’m flying straight across,

Houston to Miami,

and I only see the vast blue sea,

and the clear, clear skies. 

Where did you go oil?

Are you at the bottom of the sea?

Are you hiding in the corners or coves

of the swamps?

Did you float off to some Caribbean island,

or seep onto the shores of Mexico or Belize?

Today,

I don’t see

any trace of you. 

That’s a disaster for you.

Complete mayhem when it happens,

and then

it subsides. 

And then,

recovery,

and more recovery.

But the remnants,

the effects,

are still out there,

and we

just learn

to live with it.