Species

They say

that animals

carry on with their plight.

Whatever it is,

they don’t complain,

begrudge, or give up.

They keep going,

and live,

or die.

But our species.

Humans.

Mostly,

begrude, complain,

hate,

our journey.

And we ask,

“Why? Why me?”

And we drown,

in our sad story,

and blame,

and excuses. 

But the rest,

of the animal kingdom,

keeps going,

they do their best,

and keep going.

And they don’t,

complain.

*I saw this1/4 inch snail on my hike, on a ¼ mile hill, with a 70% grade.  I almost stepped on her.  I thought, “Shit, if she can do it. So can I!”

Lean In

you/me/we

are so afraid.

so fucking afraid.

to feel. 

we cruise through life.

waving along the way.

getting along.

or not.

not a big deal.

until it matters.

and then,

we run like hell.

we insult.

we push away.

we become unavailable.

we make ourselves,

irresistibly annoying,

to turn the one who loves/

we love,

away.

so that we can be alone.

safe.

in our zone.

of fear.

and being untouchable.

and unaffected,

not alive,

but safe.

safely,

not alive. 

until the next rapid heart beat.

and then,

we feel alive for a minute.

but we shut that motherfucker down,

in an instant.

and then we’re back,

to safe,

and being dead,

inside.

Inousa

Home.

My kitchen. My dining room table.  My living room.

Our beds.

Our bathroom.

Our TV.

Our groceries.

Our meals.

My front door. 

My small patio, with plants and caged bird.

Picture frames. 

Books. 

Echoes,

of our talks, our laughs,

our arguments, our scolding,

of soft assurances,

that there are no monsters under the bed. 

Curtains to open and close,

and brooms to sweep up,

the dust and activity of our daily life. 

It’s all here. 

In this house. 

On this block.  At our market.

At the spice store.

At the tailors.

At the bakery.

At the temple.

At the school.

In the shade of the olive tree,

at the park. 

It’s all here. 

It’s all assured.  Guaranteed. 

We have tomorrow. 

And next year,

and the next decade,

and the rest of our lives. 

3am.

Deserted island.

No more home.

All rubble. 

Haven’t eaten in days.

I hold my four-month old baby,

in the dead of night,

can only hear the lapping of the water,

and our faint breathing.

Haven’t slept in a bed in nine months.

Gave birth in a refugee camp.

Desperate,

I agreed to board the boat,

from Libya,

hopefully to Italy.

I don’t know where I am.

I don’t even know if I will survive. 

I don’t even know if there is a place for me in the world.

I don’t even know,

if my baby will live. 

I’m numb. 

It is dark. 

I’m freezing. 

There is no one here. 

I can’t even remember,

my life before the war.

It is a lifetime ago. 

I’m not sure. 

I’m not sure. 

I’m just breathing,

for this moment. 

My life,

is one breath,

at a time.  

Why I teach...

(This piece was generated this morning from a writing exercise with my Writer's Anonymous group. So fortunate to have this space, once a month.)

My K-12 experience was meaningless. Looking back, those were a lot of years of wasted time and bullshit.  I looked at the masses of children going through the system, and I thought to myself, “What a disgrace.”

When I read James Baldwin’s “A Talk to Teachers,” as an undergrad,  there was a passage in that essay that really struck me: “Now if I were a teacher in this school, or any Negro school, and I was dealing with Negro children, who were in my care only a few hours of every day and would then return to their homes and to the streets, children who have an apprehension of their future which with every hour grows grimmer and darker, I would try to teach them -  I would try to make them know – that those streets, those houses, those dangers, those agonies by which they are surrounded, are criminal.  I would try to make each child know that these things are the result of a criminal conspiracy to destroy him.  I would teach him that if he intends to get to be a man, he must at once decide that his is stronger than this conspiracy and they he must never make his peace with it.  And that one of his weapons for refusing to make his peace with it and for destroying it depends on what he decides he is worth.  I would teach him that there are currently very few standards in this country which are worth a man’s respect.  That it is up to him to change these standards for the sake of the life and the health of the country.  I would suggest to him that the popular culture – as represented, for example, on television and in comic books and in movies – is based on fantasies created by very ill people, and he must be aware that these are fantasies that have nothing to do with reality.  I would teach him that the press he reads is not as free as it says it is – and that he can do something about that, too.  I would try to make him know that just as American history is longer, larger, more various, more beautiful and more terrible than anything anyone has ever said about it, so is the world larger, more daring, more beautiful and more terrible, but principally larger – and that it belongs to him.”

I went into teaching, to teach children, that their lives are worthy of doing activities that are not a waste of their time, and that serve them, instead of them serving the system. I went into teaching to teach children that the sentence handed down to them by the system because of their zip code, their skin color or their family’s income, is an illusion and they could choose a different identity, a different destiny, a different experience.  I went into teaching to challenge the adults who live in permanent deficit thinking, and who are themselves trapped into judging and labeling children,  and who feel powerless in the lives of their students.  I came into teaching to smile warmly at the hard working families, in worn clothes, hand-knitted scarves wrapped around them, firmly shaking their hand and looking into their eyes to convey, “When I see you, I see my own working-class family, and you are important to me.” I came into teaching to affirm the humanity of the people that I work with everyday, and to bring the light of the bright, bright sun into the darkness of our heavy, confused and damaging system. 

An Ode to Cussing

Bitch.

Don’t censor me.

If you do,

you are disrespecting,

my culture,

my family legacy,

our oral tradition,

and my mama.

And don’t nobody,

dis my mama’s memory.

If you did research,

you would find,

that anyone,

who is in,

my circle of trust,

says the word, “motherfucker”

at least thirty times,

a day.

There are some folks

in my circle of trust,

like my husband,

who just wasn’t brought up

with all of the cussing,

so it is simply not part

of his DNA.

But he doesn’t judge me,

and he is frightfully aware,

that I am passing on the tradition,

to our sons.

But see,

the man has respect,

for my history.

The ridiculousness of it,

often makes him laugh,

and he’ll say,

“Wow.  They hear it from their mama.

That’s gonna be your legacy to them.”

And I say,

“That’s right motherfucker! ¿Y qué?”

His only consolation,

is that our sons have passive reception

right now.

He knows the verbal production,

will surface later,

and maybe their use,

of our oral tradition,

will be appropriate then?

Once,

when a story of mine

was getting workshopped,

an older African-American woman

with a southern drawl said,

“I’m sorry. I just don’t think all

of this cussing is necessary. After the

third “motherfucker”, I just stopped reading.

I’d have more notes, but I didn’t get far.”

Point taken.

I came home

and told Pablo what she said,

and he said,

“Well. She obviously doesn’t know you

and I don’t think you’ll ever be friends.”

Another time,

in my undergrad years,

my sister from another mister,

poured her heart out, about

how much she hated my cussing.

“Can you please stop?” she asked sincerely.

Um. I don’t know? Can you please

stop breathing?

I need to cuss like I need to take a shit,

so no, I can’t stop. Sorry. 

She got over it and now happily

cusses it up. 

When she is pissed about something

and says, “That motherfucking bitch asshole,

who do they think they are?”

I smile inside.  I do. 

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.