mad organica

Escape to Manhattan, Part 3

2010-08-04T13:47:00.000-07:00

The day after Mama Luz's party, I decided to take the girls into Manhattan since it was my last day in Nueva York and because I wanted to get them out of that house. It was still a bit of a mess even though we did a lot of basic clean up the night before, drunkenly. We awoke to Papi Guillo bolting out of the back room wearing the shirt he had on at the party and boxers. He was toothless. He hoarsely yelled into the kitchen, in Spanish, that he couldn't find his teeth. His thinning lips swung in and out of his mouth like a saloon door. "My teeth aren't here!" He pointed to his face. Even Mama Luz laughed and told her father not to worry, that they were probably in the bed. Sure enough, his teeth were tangled in the sheets somehow; they must have flown out of his mouth during the fitful sleeping of an aged Life Of The Party.

On that note, I decided to get the girls up and ready before we were guilted into a ridiculous choreography of maddening rearrange-cleaning. By noon, we were on a train Manhattan-bound, taking photos and enjoying each other - a lot, as usual.

Maya is a budding photographer with a great eye, and for her birthday she got a killer camera from her BD and Sanne, for which Maya agreed to pay half. She worked that camera out in the LES!
Here are my three favorites:
Capturing Mina perfectly.
Capturing us in a store-front window. Awesome photo, Maya! We went uptown, at Mina's request, because she wanted to go to FAO Swartz and to see the Empire State Building. Mina believes that the gods and goddess of Mt. Olympus live at the top of the ESB because anyone who has read the Lightning Thief series knows that! Maya got this great picture for her.FAO Swartz is what it is, and Mina didn't ask me for TOO many things (none of which she got anyway) but at least going in there was a relief from the 100 degree NY heat beat down we were receiving outside. One thing about having a kid photographer is that they are always putting the camera up in your face and though you don't want to squash their enthusiasm to take many, many, many pictures at your expense, sometimes you're like, damn enough already. She took this picture on the escalator of FAO Swartz. The photo started out angry, then goofy and in a split second turned glamorous. Maya looked at the screen after she took it and said, "How'd you do that?" I said, "I dunno, but stop taking pictures of me because I don't know if I can do it again."Then there were pic's like this that you gotta love - Lego Chubaka, man!Before we left the LES for midtown, I took them to lunch at Teany and when arriving, the waitress said to me, "You really like this place, huh?" which kinda pissed me off and made me laugh at the same time. I said, a little flushed, "Couldn't leave before my girls ate here too." We ate vegan BLT's and spring salads and lavender lemonade so yea, I really like this place -- sans stupid, harmless observations.

I then took the girls to the Tenement Museum on Orchard. Betsy and I had stumbled onto it when walking around the neighborhood a few days before and though we didn't go on any tours, we sieved through the gift shop thoroughly. At this gift shop is where Betsy bought me my very early birthday present, The Most Killer Necklace Eva:When I took the girls to the museum, I wanted to show them the gift shop for sure, but after reading more about the tours I really wanted to partake. We got in on the last one of the day and ran across the street into the old, narrow building where the tour had stared 7 minutes before. The Tenement Museum bought the five story building, across from the gift shop, in 1988 after it had been boarded up, unused since 1937. For over fifty years this building had not been touched and when the museum unboarded it, they realized that the incredibly rich immigrant history of the entire LES was still alive in the walls, in the molding, the hall paintings, the garment inventory notches on the peeled wallpaper and in the gorgeous mahogany banister that was smooth and polished from seven thousand people of many cultures touching it from 1863 until everyone was evicted in 1937; evicted because of that very banister. The fire codes had changed at the time stating that a building could not have a wood banister. The landlord would need to replace the banister or board up the building. Since it was The Depression, a new banister was not affordable. The Tenement Museum researched real families that lived in certain apartments in certain times and tried to replicate their exact lives, telling their stories of struggle and adaptation. It was an incredible social commentary on immigration and shed light on the fact that the tension of this subject has hardly changed; someone was always looking down on someone else, especially the darker the arriving immigrants got. It was also an empowering historical validation about how women are the rock of a society because even when economies crumble, whether during the Great Panic of the late 1800's or The Great Depression or even now, women get creative and keep food in their families mouths. The second apartment we visited was set up to showcase the lives of an Italian family living there in the mid 1930's. The daughter of this family, as an old woman, happen to stumble upon the renovation of the tenement and she was able to give them exact details about how they lived and how the apartment looked, down to morning glories her father had planted in the window for her mother in the empty government cheese boxes to remind her of Palermo, which she would never see again. The daughter did a voice recording for the tour to tell us what their lives were like very vividly. In the midst of The Depression, a year before the tenement was boarded, the father lost his job and the mother got a part time factory job. FDR at the time started a food box program to help families in need, but the stipulation was that no family member could have a job in order to receive the food. The mother stood in line and told the officials that she did have a part time gig but it wasn't enough. They turned her away. The second time she went, she lied, and said she had no job so she could receive the food. The tour guide then asked us what we thought of that, an undocumented woman lying to receive food on the government’s dime. One woman spoke up and asked very terse, conservative questions about the legality and morality of it. I felt very uncomfortable because I could feel her angle, but just then Mina raised her hand. The tour guide, also shifting on his feet from the woman's energy, asked Mina what she thought. Mina said, "The woman had a choice. To feed her family or not feed her family. I woulda lied." I laughed and nodded. The tour guide said, "I think I would have lied too." Mina made all kinds of great comments throughout the tour, Maya a couple too, which meant that this tour and this information had meaning to them, not just to me. I was fascinated and completely in love with the entire project, but to see the girls engaged and thoughtful and compassionate about the issues and conditions made me almost pass out from pride in the sweltering apartment.

The Tenement Museum and that day with my girls was definitely a highlight of the summer for me.

Manhattan Is for Fun Lovers; NY Part Dos

2010-07-21T09:46:00.000-07:00

I didn't go into Manhattan to necessarily escape Mama Luz and them. I had planned the excursion for months. And BFF Betsy was coming in from NoCal to meet me in the city for the three days since she had to visit friends in Boston also; she turned it into an east coast tour.

The point of the Manhattan leg of the trip was to have the most fun possible in a short amount of time. That and eat, which is super fun too, right? And Betsy is the person with whom to do all of the above. I planned meticulously -- kind of embarrassingly so -- which wasn't really to feed into some Virgo Planning Sickness I have, but it was really fueled by my addiction to efficiency. If my work and busy life need to be efficient to run smoothly with the least amount of stress then why shouldn't I approach the fun parts in the same way? I appreciate a Go With The Flow approach, but I tend to meander and get distracted by the Flow, losing opportunities I wish I would have taken advantage of. Believe me, I scheduled some Go With The Flow time within the plan. Mmhmm, judge all you want. So, how could I have the most amount of fun in NY? First, invite Betsy. Then, research bars and restaurants, make reservations. Lastly, locate myself in the center of fun, which to me is the LES, the lower eastside.

We stayed at the E. Houston Hotel. It was reasonably priced with TINY rooms (who needs much room anyway?), but it was very clean and simply, chicly decorated. Mainly, it was in the most perfect location. Almost everything I planned was in walking distance. The action was so thick on the street; bars, restaurants, parks, Whole Foods two blocks down just in case I needed a comforting center point; WF is like a pacifier for me in a far-off city. The hotel was across the street from some busy handball courts. I loved waking up to the thwack of the ball. It went on all day. We checked out the court action a few times.

Watching the women hold it down.View from the hotel roof top.While waiting for Betsy's plane to come in, I ate at one of my regular fav's Wild Ginger in Little Italy. I saved her my leftovers of black pepper seitan and the pineapple fried rice made with tofu scrambled bits, pinenuts, goji berries, pineapple and avocado. It's a type of dish that makes you want to violently kick something, it's so good.That night we had dinner rezzies at Counter Organic Restaurant on First Ave. The portobello sliders were to-die, but mainly we were excited about going to the mysterious bar Milk & Honey later, after dinner. M&H is this sort of exclusive speak easy where you need a reservation and practically a secret handshake to get in. The place is not detectable from the street. Ssshhh, very secret, this place. Here I am getting buzzed in. The place was cool, but not really our speed. It was dark and quiet and did not promote any kind of interaction with anyone else, which is the thing B & I like best about a bar. We love to yell things like, "Hey! What are you drinking??" The place was not as pretentious as I thought it would be; the staff was super nice and the drinks were out of this world. They have a list of House Rules and the thought of that made me roll my eyes, until I read the first rule: "1. No name-dropping, no star fucking." Wha? Gotta love that. There is no drink menu. They ask you what spirits you like and what flavors you'd prefer. Mine: Aged Rum. No dairy, no eggs, no bacon -- hey, bacon is the flavor of the minute so you never know. And I got an Aged Rum Lime Daiquiri with shaved mint. YUUUMMM. Betsy: Tequila and ginger. She got a sort of tequila, fresh ginger juice collins with club soda and topped with candied ginger. YUUUUMMMM. After one drink we jetted though. Enough of the dark and quiet. It was after midnight and we walked back to the hotel, talking nonstop, and thrilled to be in the bustle and brightness of the city.

The next day, we took it to the streets and tooled around, going into the million unique and genuinely interesting shops in the LES, from updated men's tailors and milliners who made hats by hand, coffee shops that roasted beans onsite to custom skateboard shops to top of the line thrift boutiques and a revolutionary bookstore. Every effing store was beautiful and interesting and artful. Damn. Like, you want to hate a place for being so spontaneously, rocketously hip & popular, but goddamn if it wasn't worth the hype. I'm LES hook, line and sinker, baby. Anyway, scenes from the street:
This was on the wall of a shop, along with a few others yarned-up bikes. I was kinda shaking when I took the picture 'cause I wanted it so badly!This is from the day before in SoHo, but love the pic.Of course, we had to get over to BabyCakes, vegan bakery, where we ate cinnamon bread and jammed biscuits. Delish!We stumbled into a Brazilian-Cuban spot with a beautiful staff and watched the Ghana-Uruguay soccer match and ate the perfect meal of black beans, coconut rice and platanos at the bar. We cheered and yelled with all the other patrons. Fun! (And this was on my Go With the Flow list; for Betsy too because at first she didn't want to watch any World Cup, but this was a ton of fun even as the game went into double overtime and then a shoot out. Another round of drinks please!) After, strolling through Washington Square Park, we accidentally watched Curb Your Enthusiasm being filmed. We saw Larry David and Wanda Sykes and them. Betsy pretended to take a picture of me to stealthily get Jeff Green! haha.We then booked it back to the Village to meet Shannon for drinks. Shannon is Betsy's husband's son, but he's only about 10 years younger than us. He's great company and a lot of fun and lives in NYC. We met at Cuba and drank unbelievable mojitos with sticks of sugar cane to chew and swirl the drinks around. Too good. A singer, conguero and keyboardist set up in the corner and a man began to hand roll cigars in the other corner. I was feeling the drinks and the buzzing, crowded spot and the liveliness on the little street outside throbbing with bicycles and pedestrians and early-evening light bouncing off awnings and apartment steps.

But on to the next place! One of the places that I was most excited about going to was Mehanata, the Bulgarian gypsy bar on Ludlow. It sounded so fun. And know what? It was! Firstly, Lauren met us there. Hooray for the wonderful Lauren!Betsy, Shannon and I had parked ourselves at a little table near the stage around 10pm. The place was totally empty at that point, but we didn't care. Then Lauren walked in, and we absorbed her into our table, talked like we've always known each other (because we have, kinda) and it was an insta mini party. The table next to us had ordered a hookah and we were like, we want that too, with the mango tobacco please.
Like this?

Naw, like this. Smoke it out, Shannon.
The place started to fill up and we downed homemade vodka apple cider ladled from a big glass jar that sat on the bar. Diced apples floated to the top. Then we met this guy, Wiki, who was just standing around the tables observing the scene. You'd think he thought he was cool wearing douchie shades in a club/bar, but when I looked down, I noticed he was wearing these sort of jean culottes with white tube socks and I thought, He's not a douche, he just weird. "Join the party, Wiki!" Wikki wikki wikki I said all night, like the 80's song Jam On It? Btw, Jam On It was an anthem for Betsy and me in 1984. We never did get Wiki to take off his sunglasses though through different stages of drunkeness, we tried hard. He pulled them down his nose one time on the dance floor. We considered it a victory. Wikki, wikki, wikki.After we pulled Wiki into the fold, we watched a six-foot tall dreadlocked white girl walk in wearing a fedora. She stood alone by the bar and stared toward the stage. Betsy yelled at me to ask her over. I said, "Come over and try the hookah!" And she said, "Ok!" I said, "Hey! Lauren is six foot also!" And that's how we pulled beautiful Michelle in too, who, even more radly, was a forest fire fighter from Canada. Then it was kind of on. The place got packed and we drank more and more apple cider wudka!The band appeared on the step-up stage and started in with some gypsy swing. Much to my dismay, there was no accordian, but we managed to channel our inner gypies anyway.Man, we had a great time. We trotted back to the hotel, through still-packed streets, at 3am.

The next morning, Betsy & I tried to pretend we weren't so trashed and went over to Teany for breakfast. Then we took the subway up to Central Park to ride bicyles. Renting the bikes was sort of a hilarious transaction with a group of Russian hustlers. $20 for two hours and they didn't seem too concerned about the getting the bikes back. The tires were a little deflated and let's just say there was duct tape wrapped around near my rear derailler. Off we went! The day was perfection. Classic Central Park crowd, tourists and locals sprawled throughout the park, intent on thoroughly enjoying themselves. It wasn't hard.

That night was going to be our big, fine dining night. We went to Pure Food and Wine, the gourmet, raw phenomena near Union Square. We couldn't wait to eat here. We were seated closely to two women dining together and we talked to them a little about what they were eating. They asked us if we were going to order the tasting menu offered and after considering the menu I said, "Knowing us, we'll order a ton of plates and create our own big-ass tasting menu." They laughed like I was joking, but after we ordered a salad to split, two appetizers, two entrees and two desserts, they realized we weren't kidding. We don't mess around. Simply, the food here is so outrageously good, we mmm'ed and ooo'ed loudly with every bite.

Here's the desciption of my Zucchini Lasagna: basil pistachio pesto, sun-dried tomato sauce, macadamia pumpkin seed ricotta. Come on!Betsy had the Sweet Corn and Cashew Tamales with Chili Spiced Portabella with salsa verde, cashew coconut sour cream, avocado, raw cacao mole. Delicious. Here was my dessert: Strawberry Shortcake with pistachio gelato, orange blossom caramel. Unreal. I was so happy with the whole experience.On to the next place! After dinner, we went just over the Brooklyn Bridge to DanceSport Manhattan, the biggest annual ballroom dance competition in NYC. Titi Jennifer's husband was a judge and they gave Betsy and I seats around the dance floor! Yay, Titi.I was so excited to see the Latin dancing, but quite honestly when Katusha Demidova, the world champion (world!) of the waltz and the like, danced we were awed. I got goosebumps watching her glide around the floor. I couldn't get any good pictures because of the movement and my shitty camera, but really when she danced, we just stared, slack-jawed. So beautiful.The next morning we ate at Teany again and then Betsy got on a train to Boston and I got on a train back to Mama Luz's house for the party. So, see? Jammed-packed, serious and planned fun, all in three days. Thanks Cuz for such a great time. Seriously, it was the best.

I took Maya and Mina to the city the day after Mama Luz's party, but I'll save that post for Part 3.

These Streets Will Make You Feel Brand New, Part 1

2010-07-09T10:10:00.000-07:00

Just got back from New York. The trip was all I had hoped it would be from sweltering uncomfortable familial accommodations to serious play time in lower Manhattan.

Mama Luz was out of her gourd this trip, and I say this with the utmost amusement and a tiny bit of concern. It's not beyond me that's she's probably menopausal, but when someone like her gets her hormones extra fucked with, it's like swinging the mood pendulum from the Gateway Arch of St. Louis. The pendulum hitches and sticks on the frazzled, annoyed side much longer, however. The shit she blurts out had me rolling most of the time, but sometimes I was like, Damn Mama Luz. I will say that she is happiest messing around with the girls, especially Maya who has always been her running buddy, since Maya was 2. They are equally rough - I mean rough! -- and will laugh until sides hurt. Mina gets in on the action too of course, but she will land in Big Papi's lap or by his side, watching WWF, which Big Papi calls his soap opera. He filled us in on all the characters.

Ug, so sweet . . .Here's what's hard to talk about: The deep grime of their house sends my anal sensors into a hissy fit. Mama Luz will spend hours and hours -- it's gotten so much worse with age -- straightening and rearranging the house. Her ADD, and the fact that she drinks coffee from dawn to midnight, does not allow her to sit still ever. So, she rearranges. I was constantly asking where my suitcase was, damn. So, the house is fairly neat (though she won't throw anything away), but there is a layer of grime and dirt that gets ignored from all the straightening. It's not outright obvious, but because of my own neurosis it barks out at me as if sirens and flashing lights were swirling. I never took my shoes off. I had to talk myself down to take a shower. I wouldn't touch the kitchen. I opened doors with towels and closed shit with my knuckles. I felt like a crazy person in that house. I feel guilty writing this because it was an equal mix of her neurosis and mine, but either way, I didn't get much sleep and I didn't eat well because of it. Other than that, good times were had in that house no matter how sweltering hot it was (102 humid degrees with no AC) or how cramped we were (up to seven to one bathroom). I felt big, big family love and I will squash all my squeamishness to feel some of that.

Some stellar Mama Luz Quotes:
"My cousin has been menstruating for 3 months straight. It won't stop. I told her to have the doctor yank all that out because FUCK. THAT. SHIT."

"So, I get these bootleg DVD's four for $20 and this last time she throws in a fifth one for free so I get Shrek 3. And of course all the DVD's are ALL FUCKED UP EXCEPT FOR SHREK 3!" Big Papi chimes in, "Yea, but we can return them." Mama Luz: "Yes, she very good about that. I just have to be at the laundromat from 2-3."

Maya says, smirking and trying to hug her, "Mama Luz, I love you so much. Give me a hug." Mama Luz, "STOP HARASSING ME, BITCH!"

Baby Luz, who's like a real sister to me, has had a chipped tooth and one bad false front tooth since she was 10 years old. She's 38 now and recently got them fix and said, "Ma, look at my teeth!" Mama Luz: "YOUR TEETH NEVER BOTHERED YOU BEFORE. NOW YOU'RE TOO GOOD FOR BROKEN TEETH?" Baby Luz (because believe it or not she is more volatile than her mother): "WHAT THE FUCK!"

Maya just told me this story: Maya, Mina, Big Papi and Mama Luz were visiting an amusement park and went to a diner to eat before entering the park. Mama Luz downs her coffee and there is only a bit left in Big Papi's cup. She goes to take a sip from his cup and he softly protests, "Honey." Mama Luz, insulted, slams the cup down on the table and walks out of the restaurant. Haha. So clearly she's in a panic about getting enough coffee at the park. She buys a coffee at the park and puts it in the locker to cool so she can enjoy it after a ride, but she gets so mad about something else (unclear about what) that she does this overhead baseball pitch of the coffee right in the garbage can. Maya said it was so funny, but she couldn't really laugh too much. But see, the moods are amp'ed up a notch. Maya said by the end of the next ride, Mama Luz was all happy again. When I talked to them last night, I couldn't hear half of what they said because they were all laughing so hard. I'd hear Mina get hit with a pillow by Mama Luz, then Mama Luz yelling; Maya was wheezing the entire time.

Anyway, on and on with the stories . . .

July 4 is her birthday and this birthday was her sixtieth. If you said "60" or old or "grandma" to her, you'd likely get your clock cleaned. Big Papi organized a huge party at the house. He organized and then Mama Luz's ADD went into overdrive about what was needed and what needed to be where and how and naw, change it again and this and that and on and on . . .yo, it was miserable. I escaped to Manhattan the three days leading up to the party (more on that later) and left my children, Baby Luz, Big Papi and other family members to fend for themselves. Before I left, I told the girls, "Don't take anything personally. That's just her." Then I was like, Peace, I'm out!

On the day of the party, I came in on the train, back from the city, and arrived at the house around 2 in the afternoon. It was about 101 degrees, but the tents they put up in the backyard covered the newly arrived guests nicely. People streamed in from then on; family mainly, but friends of family and neighbors too. Around 3, I asked Mama Luz if she was having a good time yet and she stared me down with stink eye. Then she told me to get the ef out of her way.Cousin Nancy then got to making her famous Mango Mojitos which acted like a sledgehammer to bad moods,whether it was an unshakable stress about party planning, the beat down from the heat, the vice grip of menopausal hormones, whatever; mango mojitos were the cure. Rum it up, Nancy!Later that night, around 10ish, Cousin Tuty got the bright idea to mix a drink with half mango mojito and half straight Bacardi! Ai, dios mio. She called it the "I Love You" Drink because certainly after a few sips you were sloppily telling everyone you loved them.

At 3:30 in the afternoon, Mama Luz's happy switch went brightly on (mojitos kicked in) and stayed on until late, late into the night. The homemade food was laid out -- serve yo'self y'all -- drinks were flowing, music pumping. We danced on the hard concrete patio from afternoon until one in the morning, when the cops finally came to tell us to shut the racket. One in the morning is an early night by Mama Luz Party Standards, but all in all, the night was so fun. Here are some pic's.

Us with Titi Elsie, Luz's sister.The girls with their titi Luz. Mama Luz had gotten all the ladies in the family Old Navy flag tank tops. By the time I got back from the city, Mama Luz had rearranged my tank top out of existence. Of course she was mad at me about it. Ok, its on.

It ain't a party without some dominos. Here's Tio George, Mama Luz's son, and Papi Guillo, Mama Luz's dad, talking shit.Speaking of Papi Guillo, the mango doesn't fall far from the tree. At 83, he out danced us all, and just as flirtily as he did 10, 20, 60 years ago.The original PR Playa of the family.Don't stop, won't stop. Dancing with her cousin Nelli who drove four hours from Virginia to come to the party, then drove fours back after 10 o'clock.What the -- Guillo!Shake it, babies.Maya keeping our dances alive with Baby Luz.On and on til the break of dawn . . .Group picture! Except Uncle Raymond was balancing his mojito on my head in this one . . .Then Baby Luz risked her life and climbed on top of the house to get this great shot.Happy Birthday, Mama Luz. I love the fuck out of you.I was gonna write about the Manhattan leg of the trip too, but this got too long and Manhattan & Betsy deserve their own post. It will be soon coming; it won't take a month it's been taking me to write a post lately. Thanks for the nudge Pixilyn - much love!

Photos From a Quince or Two

2010-06-06T18:01:00.000-07:00

La Quince de Cynthia is over, finally. The preparation for the event had been long and exhausting -- on top of Maya's already taxing schedule -- and the money we paid for the dress and shoes . . .I can't even imgaine the money Cythia's mother spent. Oh my gosh, a mini wedding practically.

Cynthia is a shy, beautiful girl, and she quite possibly was only appeasing her mother and grandmother with all this quinceñera business. Ah, but sometimes that part of the tradition too.

Here's Maya's chosen escort all flush-faced and clean-cut. He wore a medallion over his tie, which on him was somehow adorable. Maya said things to him during the performance like, don't be nervous. You got this. Don't forget to start with your left foot.
The waltz moved me. Children of a hip-pop generation wanting to please their parents by keeping traditions. And these kids never did this reluctantly or I didn't hear about total dissent. They showed up to a lot of practices and swapped their jeggings for formals and did a great job. The family was proud. So was I.I love this picture of Cynthia hugging her uncle, her grandmother watching, and the mariachi band surrounding them.
I didn't know Maya had brought other shoes to change into. They were so perfect and cute and her.Ug, so great.The converse were a perfect touch when it came time to party, when she could be herself again. Kind of like her own quince, which was so dramatically different. I didn't get a chance to tell you about it. It wasn't really a quince in any traditional sense, but we called it that anyway. Actually we called "MAYA'S ROLLER QUINCE!" Check out these invitations I made: We had it at a skating rink, one that I went to a few times about 25 years ago. The place is exactly the same. Here is Maya's "quince dress". Gorgeous!:The Papi-Daughter Dance: Maya's damas of the court:
A girl becoming a woman:Whoops, not quite.She's the perfect mix:

Near Brooks Court This Time

2010-06-02T14:45:00.000-07:00

I sat in my car, parked on a narrow, busted-up street in Venice, getting irritated. I had been waiting twenty minutes already, trapped in the car, trapped again by things I can’t control. The sun was up and warm still but it was just starting to shadow the tallest of things, like telephone poles. Maya was in the alley up and to the right of me practicing with a group of kids for a quinceañera they'll be in next week. But the practice was running late, as usual. They only had another week to learn all the traditional, choreographed steps. The mother was in a bit of a panic.

I stared at two pairs of shoes that were wound around a high wire by the laces above me, a pair of low-top white converse and a pair of any-brand sneakers, scuffed. I stared at them motionless against the waning blue. The laces looked stiff like sticks. Whoever threw the converse up there had gotten the shoes exactly even with each other. They looked so neat and straight, suspended and highlighted against the sky. The scuffed sneakers were very uneven -- one way up, one way down -- but quietly still and in nice contrast to the straight converse.

I let it go then. I was gripping so tightly to the irritation. It embarrassed me suddenly.

I clicked my seat back to a half-recline and meditated on the shoes. All four windows of the car were half way down and the quinceañera choreographer started the song over, again. It was a sad mariachi with a sloshy melody and sour horns that touched me. It wasn't meant to be sad, but the words were long-held, in spanish, about the changing of a butterfly. A girl to a woman, you know. I looked toward the alley and a few of the kid-couples marched up behind a low chainlink fence on the uneven asphalt, stepping to the music. Then they started the waltz. The boy of the first couple wore a stiff-brimmed Raiders cap, a zipped-up black hoodie, work pants and blue-white sneakers. He towered over his partner who was all eyeliner and giggles. She kept tugging up her acid-wash skinnies. The music stopped and I heard the lady yell, "Noooo", and the eyeliner girl rolled her head back on her neck. They started again. The next time, they got far enough so I could see Maya being very focused in her turquoise, knock-off Ray Bans and SAMO basketball sweatshirt and cuffed shorts. She carefully walked arm-in-arm with her partner who had a clean-shaven head and wore a crisp, white tshirt. He held his arm up, holding her by the fingertips, and she stepped through, not looking at him, not connected to him. It was all about getting these steps down. And I choked up. She was so sweetly serious, so beautiful and young.

A hand-painted delivery truck squeezed through the middle of the street next to my car and sounded a breathy, melodic horn. It braked and the back door rolled up. It was a mobile snack shop with hanging chips, chicharrónes, candy, gumballs, and other things I couldn't see on the walls and base, exploding in snack-package colors. The truck was there every time I came to pick up Maya from practice. It's a nomadic lounge because once it stops, people gravitate to the tail and hang out. Two girls passed me, gripping dollars, and came back from the truck digging in a bag of fresh cherries.

Mina crawled through the half-open window of the car and told me Maya was almost done. She turned on the radio, inserted a CD, and punched at the buttons until she found the song she wanted, Hit ‘Em Up Style by the Carolina Chocolate Drops. I sat back, looking at the shoes and listened to the deft fiddle mashing it up with the outside mariachi horns and the murmur of the snack -truck crowd. I watched the orange shadows creep up the street California city style; against century-old thick palms and beautifully cracked concrete and tiny, lumpy alleys canopied with wires. I freefloated in my seat, as I've been trying to do for weeks now; suspended and free inside the vehicle.

2010-05-05T10:53:00.000-07:00

I suppose it's that I feel hermitish and alone. Those are almost feelings of comfort to me, or a settling place. When I feel lost especially. I haven't wanted to be plugged in, electronically. I've just wanted to be or feel something that is just beyond how I'm feeling now. Be out. Be in. Be still. Be living. It feels like it might all slip through my fingers. My internal whirlwind has confused me. It's whirlwinded into a silence that I don't get. I'm tired. I'm bored. I want. I don't. I love it all. I'm so tired. I'm trying not to be disappointed. Where's the strength I had when I was a kid?

You don't have to tell me.

How about I tell you what's good? I've been doing that volunteer work at the Upward Bound House. I've taught a few baking classes to the kids and I helped with the Easter Egg Hunt and tomorrow I'll cook and be part of the Cinco de Mayo party. It's been all joy. The whole experience. The baking classes are so sweet. My heart wants to shatter when I look into their little faces. The kids thank me at every turn, raise their hands to impress me with their stories. They hug me and ask me if I'll come back "yesterday." I connect with their child's panic of wanting good things for themselves and their parents. And it kind of kills me. I don't tell them the baking is vegan. They just like to measure and mix stuff. I've had some questions, like the time I used rice milk. "Look! It's white, like milk!" They love to smell ingredients; cinnamon, freshly grated lemon rind, canned pumpkin. I'm never sure they'll like what we make because it's unconventional, contains less sugar, but they stuff whole, warm muffins into their mouths with wide eyes and ask me if they can take one to their mama/brother/grandmother. The students have mainly been little boys though last time I had one little girl who told me long stories about her grandmama's vegetable garden in Atlanta. Her two front teeth were missing and her thin, beaded braids swung and tapped her on the jaw when she spoke. Her name was Dee and they call me Miss D too because my name is hard to remember. Her name is hard too and she said she had six letters in her name and I said I have seven, I know how it is. And we nodded at each other while the boys tried to wet-finger sugar off the table. During the Easter Egg Hunt, I was assigned a four-boy search party. Two sets of brothers; one set aged 9 and 7, the other brothers were just 4 and 3. The tiny brothers held my hands with their teeny doll hands and wouldn't let me go, not even when they saw colorful plastic eggs sitting all alone, ones that the big kids hadn't trampled to yet. I'd have to tell them, "Go get the eggs now." And they shuffle-ran over and picked up the eggs, shook them, dropped them into their brown paper bag. Halfway through the hunt, the four year old looked into his three year old brother's bag. There were only about five eggs in there and without any words or hesitation he reached into his own bag and plopped in three eggs into his little brother's bag. Then my big boys came over and looked into the little boys' bags and without any words or hesitation, they reached into their bags and plopped a few more eggs into each of the little boys' bags. I'm tearing up typing about it because it was all so quiet and natural, instinctual, to share and be fair. I'll love those boys forever, if just in my memory of them, for that. Even, or especially, as transitional kids they understood the power and upliftment of sharing; upliftment as the giver and as the receiver equally, the true balance of community and humankind. There is always enough to go around. Don't believe there is not.

So, I feel good when I'm there.

I feel good when I'm with my own girls too. Man, they are a joy to watch develop and grow, but lord have mercy if it doesn't take every ounce of time and energy. Between them and work, there is little else. When I find free time, I tell myself I should write or read or paint, but my energy is spent. I'm beat. And I try to squash the feelings of guilt and squandering, again. But it's hard. I'm just on a down swing.

You don't have to tell me.
Mainly I just wanted to say hi.

Loops, May You Ride in Peace

2010-04-14T13:46:00.001-07:00

Most of you know how much I loved my bike Loops. I mean, she's the icon of this blog. And I tattooed an image of us on my arm to marginally explain the joy riding her gave me. My troubles were gone on her. She was my favorite pastime, of all time. Everyone who knows me, knows what/who Loops is.

Loops was stolen Saturday night from my apartment's gated courtyard. The fence was hopped and five bikes were stolen. The thieves hit a few other apartments in the neighborhood. In the past, I have felt violated when material objects were stolen from me, but with Loops, I didn't feel violated only deeply sad. Like my best friend had suddenly moved to another city and that was that for us. Y'know, people have their paths in life and I know people steal for whatever reasons; I hold no judgement of that, honestly. I was only devastated that my beloved bike was gone. For a split second, I felt stupid for loving an object so much, but then I remembered the advice I gave my friend Marianne that if you love something material, you might as well love the fuck out of it until it's gone.

One of things I really loved was that Loops was a hand-me-down, a castoff left to rot on the side of a seaside mansion. When she was given to me, I brought her to life and scraped salt-rust off her chain and covered her unkempt frame and put money into new parts and tune ups. What she brought back to life for me was this deeply-ingrained love I have always felt on a bike. There is no better casual joy; no other daily freedom. Loops turned me into a fierce bike advocate and the more time I spent on her, the more I convinced myself that I could one day be car-free. I can't adequately explain how emotional the connection was and how grateful I was for her. I couldn't wait to ride her everyday.

Loops even made me think I could be a road cyclist, but to be honest Heidi Whitey has been collecting dust in the garage because I just wanted to ride Loops. I like to commute on a bike way more than I like to seriously train on one.

I found out at the farmers market, when Molly called me. Her bike was stolen too. I hadn't noticed when I left because a couple bikes were still there. Molly spoke as if I knew and I felt punched in the face. I was spinning hot in the market's aisle, people streaming in slow motion. Mina was with me and her friend who had spent the night. When I told Mina, she gasped. The friend said, "Hey that sucks. Let's go see these funny-looking squash over here," which is a normal reaction to any meaningless bike theft, but Mina hugged me tight and said she was sorry many times. It meant everything that she knew how I felt. I didn't want to cry at the market. I waited. We got home, and I stared at the gaping hole in the bike rack. I clumped up stairs and put away vegetables. I text Papi. When he came home, I heard Mina say, "Mami's so upset," and when I saw him, I cried. I said, "It's the only thing I liked. It's the only thing I loved," which crushed Papi so hard that he immediately said, "I'll buy you a new bike right now, baby. Let's get a bike." I really didn't want a new bike, I wanted Loops, but I also didn't want to stop riding, not even for a day.

The bike that Papi got me is a slicker, faster, smoother, lighter Loops. It ain't Loops, but it's butter. It took me a couple days to even acknowledge how great of a bike it is. I said, "I guess it rides better than Loops," and Papi said, "It should, the components are about 100x better and it's 10lbs lighter." I mean, true. It ain't Loops, but it's butter. If you look at her fast, she looks like Loops without as much character. Yesterday when I rode her, it was the first time I let myself be wow'ed by her. She is amazing. So fast and smooth; a cross between Loops and Whitey. I've said so often -- it ain't Loops but it's butter -- that I think her name is Butter. Mina agreed and she's the Great Namer of Bikes. Butter, right?

RIP, Loops. God, I loved the fuck out of you.

Riding Loops through Squaw, busting with happiness.Back from SM Farmer's MarketThe famous birthday date of 2007 before I blacked out the frame with electrical tape. Sigh.

Mami's Been On Spring Break

2010-04-04T12:34:00.000-07:00

You think you're in shape until you, on a whim, print out a free pass to a distant, fancy gym and take an Afro-Brazilian dance class. It's not like I am a stranger to these dance moves. The class said Afro-Brazilian, but it was Afro-Caribbean as far as I'm concerned and I know the basic moves of los santos. In fact, I used to be the dance, when I was younger, and El Conguero was the drum. At 21, I used to take a similar class where we came across the floor by two's dancing to live drums. My roommate Eva and I knocked the ballerinas off the front line because those poor girls couldn't unlock their hips and me and Eva couldn't keep ours still. El Conguero was a guest drummer for the class now and again and I would sway and switch up the floor while he played and stared holes in me. Eva would swing her hair around in big sweeps and laugh deep. She was a big girl who wore tight leopard catsuits and red lipstick to class without an open care though sometimes she got secretly hurt when the stiff dancers looked at her wrong. I swore I'd slash a ballerina who talked shit on her. When the teacher told us we belonged on the front line - technical training be damned -- we swished our way through the others, Eva flinging her long dark curls, and me fixated on the drums. So I know the dance, but it had been a long time. The teacher of the class I took last week had a perfect energy, a woman who at first glance looked like a middle-aged fifth grade teacher with glasses and a big behind. But I wouldn't have trusted a little booty lady leading this kind of class. She put on samba music for the warm up, but one drummer showed up with a conga and percussive toys and I felt relieved. When the fifth grade teacher circled her hips like they were not connected to her waist, I was convinced we were in great hands. I know the etiquette of a dance class and even if I connect with the music personally and instinctively know the movement, I know to keep my ass in the back and not try to show up the regulars. That's rude anyway. But after two trips across the floor, the fifth grade teacher pointed to me and told me to get my culo front and center. The older woman whose place I took was gracious and welcomed me. The two women who flanked me, not so much. Didn't matter. I was in direct line with the drum then. I closed my eyes, mainly, and went. There were two men in the class, which apparently was rare, so the teacher concentrated on more masculine moves, dances de Chango; kingly and strong. So I stomped barefoot and squatted low, twisted my torso and flung my arms back with an arched back and an upward tilt to my chin. Queens know the dances of kings too. Over and over and back and forth, we got low for Chango and I yelped for the shy dancers and slapped five with the older woman and a beautiful blonde zaftig woman who put herself in the back. God, I wanted to tell the curvy blonde that these dances were made for her and F any person who ever made her feel badly about her body including herself, but I just slapped her five instead. After the class, I was exhilarated and nostalgic for sure, but the day after it felt like the whole back half of my body had been dipped in pain. I was crying every time I made a move for three whole days. Move it or pay is the theme here. You never lose it. That's a myth.

The girls have been out of town while school's out for spring holiday. They are at Maya's BD and Sanne's house, who first generously took them to Big Bear and then easter-fied their lives for the rest of the week.

And I've been inflicting myself with adventure and free-for-all fun.

I went to the Hollywood Farmers Market, to which I had never been, and without any disrespect to the prestigious Santa Monica Farmers Markets, this is my new favorite. The thing is to connect with farmers and well, the produce, and I try hard in SM but frankly over the years I've only clicked with the incense guy, the walnut oil girl, I'm digging the new desert flower guys out of San Diego, oh and the apple girl, but most of the time I wander around feeling disconnected. Most of the time that's ok because it's the farmers market and wandering a farmers market is still better than most things. It's just that at the Hollywood FM, I instantly found an organic greens farm that had everything I wanted in terms of lettuce and kale and leeks and beets and carrots, and it's run by young farmers, vibrant and flush-cheeked, hats and dirt jeans. Yesss. I found a fav strawberry guy and a raspberry guy and a mushroom guy and an orange lady all on the first visit. You know what got me too? The trio and solo music acts tucked between the stands. Old bluegrass and berry sampling seemed to solidify my feelings for this market. There was an older bluegrass group near the oranges and there was a hipster -- but still traditional -- bluegrass group near the entrance. There was an ancient Japanese man with long white hair and beard singing in Japanese. A pan flutist. A lone mariachi. A jazz duo. Man, these people got to me. The crowd is very hipster-turned-parent, very hipster-local-just-rolled-out-of-bed which whatever. But it's hard for me to hate on a guy who wears a top hat at nine in the morning sporting ankle pants and Artful Dodger boots while sniffing kale. I just can't. I mean, a top hat!

Husband and I went out on a Wednesday night (gasp!) and caught a comedy show. We've had a couple other dates too. And we hung out and talked a lot and watched a lot of college basketball together, which swoon. I'm so in love with this guy.

I made a green ginger soup with homemade veggie stock from my farmer's market bounty (chard, spinach, sweet potato, ginger, onion, leeks, lemon), which was deeply satisfying. Something about sorting and washing and chopping vegetables that makes me feel like I'm in line with the natural order of things; eating what earth yields. I shared my soup with Molly and we hung out a lot too, mainly watching Jamie Oliver's new brilliance, Food Revolution.

I cleared my system of coffee for five days. Felt good to do that, but it also strengthened my allegiance to the elixir.

Last Saturday, I went on a long trail run in the Sullivan Canyon Creek bed and I brought along my camera to show you guys the spring perfection going on in the SM Mountains.

The start of the trail A lot of the trail was pulverized by the rains we had a few weeks ago. Some of the trail still has a fire road intact, but much of the road is left with the indentation of a once raging creek that has since dried up. Like this: Sometimes it was like running in coarse sand.The flowers can speak for themselves. I don't know what any of the flowers are called, but I do know that this is wild Witch Hazel. More of the trail. I couldn't sop it up enough.The grass smelled like sugar could burst from a chewed blade. Y'know, it wouldn't be a Madness running post without a mishap. Though I took a good number of pictures, I did manage to run the most of the time. On the way back down the path, I felt exhilarated. I took a tiny side path because why not. It narrowed to a trickle of a trail. I pushed off some soft gravel to hop over a rock and I clipped my toe. Man, I flew to the ground! There is good trajectory when you land on an elbow before the knee. I hit elbow, hand, knee then turned my body to slide on my back. I laughed loudly. I'm not a faller. The last time I actually fell to the ground was in 1995 and I know this because I was eight months pregnant with Maya. I was wearing very wide legged pants and coming up the stairs to my apartment with a bag of groceries. I caught my toe on a pant leg and couldn't recover, I dropped the bag, wrapped my arms around my belly and in mid air turned my body so I would fall on my side. I was more surprised that I had fallen than anything else. Oh wait, I did fall on the road bike once when I got caught in the clips. I just relaxed completely then and went down with it. I laughed then too. Last weekend, I saw a mountain biker stop while I was laughing on my back on the trail. I'm sure he was asking me if I was ok, but I had my headphones in. I just yelled out that I was ok. I got to my feet and pulled out the headphones. I told him I was ok again while chuckling still. "I have a first aid kit," he yelled out. I put my earplugs back in and ran off, "I'm ok!" Dang. I have a cool bruise and gash on my elbow and some scratches on my hand.

The best part about the run was that remnants of the creek still trickled along side and across the path of the trail. I think an adult's instinct is to jump over a creek, but it only occurred to be to jump in it and through it. It all has to be both feet in for me. It felt amazing.

Off Line & Upward Bound

2010-03-21T20:58:00.000-07:00

It's been a while. I've been kinda off-line lately because sometimes I like to rebel against the machines. Not like desert-island rebel (yet), but a cut-down for sure. I've been in and out. I guess FB is good for that. My cell phone gets on my nerves, too. I really hate the image of people walking around texting, or unable to do anything without their heads down, thumbing at their phones. Not that I don't too, but I get self conscious about it and ignore the cell phone for long stretches. I feel that way about the computer too sometimes. But I miss my friends, and a good number of you live right here in the internet!

So, our SAMO girls basketball team made it to the 3rd round of the state playoffs and went down in a heart breaker against Clovis West, a team out of Fresno. We lost by 4 in a back and forth battle. We shut down their 6'3", 250lb center, but we could not contain their star guard who played out of her gourd. She dropped 39 points on us out her team's 61. She bombed threes, drove on three girls at a time and dove on the floor for many balls. She said after in an interview, "I never wanted anything more. I wasn't going to lose." And you have to respect when one's ability matches their drive. She was amazing.

Mina just finished her Y league. They lost today in the championship game. She's a superstar though. Her natural athleticism is pretty phenomenal. Here is the other star, Cloe, also 10. This was the team's one-two punch. While Cloe grabbed a defensive rebound, Mina would have already bolted to the other end. Cloe would cock back her arm and rocket a pass to Mina, who was the only one able to catch a pass like that, and would usually finish with a lay up. This happened about five times a game. Can you beat the stance of these girls? Is there anything more beautiful?
I went to a volunteer orientation on Saturday for the Upward Bound House, which is a transitional housing program for homeless families in my neighborhood. I pass the main facility all the time and I looked it up online last year. I just now got around to committing a small amount of time to volunteering. I've wanted to do it for so long. I told UBH I was willing to work in the food pantry which means stocking the food donated by the Westside Food Bank in a makeshift store where families can come and "shop" twice a week. They are able to fill up a box for free. There is a thrift store too for clothing needs. Each UBH apartment is decorated with unique touches -- plants and paintings -- and filled with pots and pans, towels, toiletries, etc. When the family moves on to permanent housing, they are able to take with them the pots and pans and dishes and plants -- everything but the big furniture -- so they don't have to start all over again in the new place. The program is amazing because it is a real catapult into a thriving life. Families can stay for up to a year. Parents take mandatory financial planning classes and three elective life classes are chosen too; classes in resume writing, interviewing, parenting classes and other life skills. After the year, another year of aftercare is available to them where they can utilize the food pantry and thrift store. The program is entirely supported by the community through many volunteers and contributions from many local businesses because the philosophy is that a strong community helps our people most in need, and not just with the very barest of essentials but with a strong leg up. We don't send them off downtown or to struggling neighborhoods; we embrace them and get them on their feet. I mean, exactly, right? So, I went to the orientation and I got to talking to the coordinators and the next thing I know I'm going to teach and demo a baking class for the Kids Club on Thursday night. I'm not sure if I'll teach the class every Thursday, but I am this week. We're going to make Lemon Poppyseed Muffins. We're talking about a healthful cooking class for the parents too. I'll keep you posted. I am overwhelmed that something so right is succeeding in my neighborhood and I can't wait to lend my hand too.

Serious Fun

2010-03-08T09:35:00.000-08:00

Our Santa Monica Girls basketball team, for the first time in our school's history -- since 1891 when we were hooping it up in long, wool black dresses and sporty hats (and you know I'm giving SAMO the benefit of the doubt that they even let us ladies look at a basketball then) --, we will raise a banner in the gym stating that our girls are the Southern Section Division 1A CIF Champions. We are the Champions! We start our state tournament at home on Tuesday.

The night we won the CIF finals, we traveled down to Orange County in ancient school buses, yellow rounded bullet-type buses where the insides looked like vaults; the best that a shoe-string budget can buy. I haven't had my teeth rattled like that on a road trip since my own high school away games. Maya traveled on the team bus and Mina and I traveled on the family bus. There was a third bus that transported faithful students, and the entire boys varsity and JV teams. We brought the noise. We screamed, we stomped, we competitively bantered with the opposing crowd across the court. Man, I swooned when I saw our boys teams clustered together with their rally shirts and painted faces, jumping up and down and creating chants, stomping their feet. In the end, our girls were too strong. They played amazingly.

Security wouldn't let us rush the court after the game. The post-game glory was for players, coaches and media only. I gave Mina the camera and told her to weave among the trees on the court and get us photos! They didn't stop her. Here the girls were posing for our local newspaper.

I love this picture of our star player, the one signed with a full scholarship to UCLA for next year. She already knows interview politics. All star athletes do, but I love her nervous tick of shoving her hands in her uniform like that. She does it during games too, sometimes. It's the only vulnerability she shows usually. All the players know Mina already. Here's Mina showing love to players she looks up to. I ask Mina, "Will you play that intensely when it's your turn?" And she says, "Shoot, more intense." I believe her. Here's Mina with our other star player, my favorite player. Both of these girls have a competitive intensity that is incredible to watch. I love when it makes people a little uncomfortable, like, yes we want them to win, but should young ladies act this way. And most of us shout, Most Definitely! Git 'em girls! We like our warriors with swagger, please. And we love them even more when they're gracious and loving to our warriors-to-be.
****

Sunday morning, I ran the Malibu Creek Trail 10K to fulfill my fundraising promise. The night before and the morning of, I thought about blowing it off. It's a normal nervous reaction, not something I consider seriously. Of course I thought of the Face Your Wall speeches so off I went feeling underprepared and out of my league. The morning was beautiful, blue and cool sunshine, not the rain we were anticipating. But it rained the night before so I knew we were in for a muddy trail. The crowd was mellow, laid back even. It was a different vibe than a road 10k, like people were happy to be in nature, they didn't seem as nervous. The elite runners even seemed more down to earth. The crowd was fairly small. Just about 150 runners were there for the 25k and 50k events and about 110 runners for the 10K. As they announced the start of the 25k & 50k, before my race, they explained the markings of the trail and that the Malibu Creek, which they'd be crossing, was about waist deep now. I thought, Whoa. Then I got myself all excited about the prospect of jumping in a deep creek, soggy shoes, the shock of cold water only to be told the 10k'ers would not be crossing the creek. Damn. 90% of my route was a single track trail with sharp, stair-like inclines, leveling out then steep descents. 60% of the single track trail was layered with four-inch deep soft, wet mud. We slipped and slid up and down the thousand foot elevation. And man, I laughed every time I slipped, every time someone else slipped. It was so fun. In my mind, I thought I was very strong on the hill especially in the mud. Good runners were tentative, but as a good athlete I just jumped in and when I slid I was strong and balanced enough to not go down and to keep moving. The last three quarter mile, the flat stretch before finish, was the most challenging part of the race for me and I got passed by a strong runner who I had passed on the mountain. I was tired and I questioned why I thought it was so hard at that point, but lord if I didn't keep plodding away. I slowed considerably, but I plodded along. I finished unceremoniously with the pleasant staff telling me good job. I got my tote bag, touched my toes, looked around and shrugged and headed home. I had had a complete blast. This morning I'm sore from the mud stair climbing and stabilizing my ligaments and joints on such an unstable surface, but I feel great about the whole experience. And when I got an email this morning listing me as the third place finisher out of twelve in my age group, my head swole up to the size of a hot air balloon. Man, that felt great. I compared my time to the 30-39 year olds and I would have come in 4th in that category. I compared my time to the youngins, the under 30's and I would have come in 10th. Head = swollen. Now I'm jazzed for the next race. Now I'm jazzed to get even stronger on the mountain.

Five minutes after I crossed the finish line.
5lbs of mud on each shoe is a challenge. The best was when I thought I'd lose my shoes entirely in sticky mud puddles.Here's the mountain we climbed. I don't know if the 10K'ers got to the top.Coming home with my fancy tote, which reads "Serious Fun" at the bottom; my girls yelling, "Mami, we're proud of you!"I represented the SAMO girls during the race.

The Secrecy of Women's History Month

2010-03-06T12:28:00.000-08:00

March is women's history month. Yea, I didn't remember that either until I saw a full-page interview with Gloria Steinem in the paper this morning. The interview was on page A23 and I accidentally stumbled on it when I flipped through trying to find the second half of a front-page story. I would have missed it all together had I not seen the unmistakable doe-eyed stare down of Steinem's photo. Man, she's great-looking. P.S. Saying that is hardly anti-feminist. It's just a fact. Also a fact: Steinem, who turns 75 this month!, is still very relevant and radical. I don't think her message is dated in the least, even when her rhetoric is laced with the same she has used since the late 60's. She's a goddamn hero even if she's hidden away during Women's History Month no less. At the end of the interview, I realized that this article was still not the whole interview, which can be found online. Below are excerpts, not necessarily in order. You too can read the full article HERE.

Here was the last question asked:
What does having women's history month mean anymore?

It means that every other month is men's history month. At least we have one month!

Here was the first question:
How do you pick your fights?

Poorly!

(Ha!)

On to a few of my fav answers:

There are people who'd suggest that when it comes to women's liberation, it's game over, a done deal.

That's ridiculous.

The first argument was, you don't need this movement, you're fighting biology, it's impossible. Then we did it anyway. Then the second argument was, it used to be necessary but it's not anymore. [That's] just obstruction, and the civil rights movement is suffering from it too, as if having an African American president has now meant that the huge disparity in health and income and employment didn't exist. It's a tactic to stop the movement.

Are the biases against women more nuanced now?

No, they're not nuanced at all. They're unequal pay, pink-collar ghettos -- 70% of women are still employed in primarily female occupations that are less well paid. A parking lot attendant who's a guy makes a lot more money than a child-care attendant who's a woman. We have moved forward from 59 cents to 70-some cents on the [male] dollar. By the fact that we value our children more than our cars, it does not make sense that a parking lot attendant who's a guy makes a lot more money than a child-care attendant who's a woman.

I wonder whether you think the war on terrorism may have elevated feminist awareness in this country because of how hideously the Taliban treats women?

We don't need martyrs and we don't need examples. I think we have a bad case of first-ism in this country. We seem to think that women here are better off than they are in any other country, and that's not true. We are the only modern democracy in the whole world with no national system of child care, no national system of healthcare, no system of family-friendly workplace policies. Women are a lesser percentage of elected officials [here] than in India. We are not "first."

You wrote critically about Sarah Palin for The Times in 2008. What do her political persona and Hillary Rodham Clinton's say about us?

She is, as I said in that column, a young Phyllis Schlafly. There'll always be a Clarence Thomas, a Phyllis Schlafly, someone who goes against the majority needs of their group. We create jobs for them too. If it weren't for the women's movement, there wouldn't be anything to sell out!

I do think Hillary Clinton's candidacy changed the atmosphere. I never for a moment thought a woman could win. It's too soon. But I do think that her candidacy made it possible for many more people to imagine a woman president. How she got up every morning and took that much punishment, I don't know. She was so strong.

Who's at the forefront of the women's movement now?

Now it's pretty much everywhere. The reason people know me is because there were so few of us. We were, like, 12 crazy women, and now there are all kinds of leadership going on. If I could have one wish for the women's movement worldwide, it would be to have feminist groups everywhere. We're communal creatures. We need to gather together once a week or once a month and discover that we're not alone, and to be able to tell the truth together

Rally & spread the word, my tired Sisters, that the movement continues. I mean, 75 cents on the dollar is not good enough for me or my daughters no matter how far we've come. And Steinem can't live forever.

Face the Wall or Bust!

2010-03-02T14:08:00.000-08:00

When I woke Mina this morning, she was wearing an old wrap-around dress of mine from my more corporate dress days, a contribution to her dress-up box. Mina was completely naked underneath the ill-tied dress. She likes to be free, she says. The best part is that wasn't what she was wearing when I tucked her in last night.

Y'know, parenting is a trip. There's no such thing as auto pilot or having it down or I got this completely. I mean, I'm working with complex human beings, as complex as me. How they process and handle things can be a world apart from how I do or the other child; or maybe exactly the same and it could be something I need to iron out myself. Sometimes it all feels natural; zone-like. Other times, I'm improvising like a motherfucker. Like when I realized that Maya has been shrinking a bit in the face of her biggest challenges. It has been a subtle shrink, barely detectable. Her personality is so upbeat and her social life is so on point right now it took me a minute with close examination to realize her shit hasn't been as together as would seem. Believe me, it ain't a major slide or anywhere near drastic -- I mean, she's juggling a lot right now -- but maybe it could have been a tipping point, or a crossroads of a possible, total Fuck Off. I don’t want to wait to find out. There's been a tiny slip in her grades; she's been blowing off difficult reading for honors English; she's been shirking her solo basketball skills practice. Her phone/text game is tight though! And her friends worship her. Boys flock and flounder around for her attention. She treats the boys perfectly; as her goofy, beautiful self, as a homie; "No, I don't want to date you. Let's stay friends!" But in the shadow of her social stardom, a tiny storm cloud looms. And I was all sitting back, admiring her sense of responsibility and the ease with which she handles everything when I happened to notice the lining of the storm, hidden, and I was like, Oh shit, that's my cue, right? I gotta get back in the game, full-press. She broke down a bit when I confronted her. First, she did a nice little teen push back by getting defensive about her chores, another thing she’s slightly blowing off. She told me I was overreacting about not being able to get to them all at the exact time I wanted them done and damnit, she was right. I told her so. I told her I was sorry for overreacting. But the meat of the whole problem -- the slipping and the shirking -- has been fear. A sort of freezing up when things get harder than she thought they'd be. Her English class for example. This teacher is no joke. He's challenging them at a near college level, I think, and she's freezing up more and more because of it. She's locked up, feeling unable to do good enough work or give any worthwhile analyses for this guy. I think she's doing well, but she's feeling the pressure instead of enjoying the challenge. More subtly, she has not been working on the more challenging skills in basketball -- improving her dribble left and right, shooting rhythmically and repetitively -- for fear of not making JV any way. There are only four spots for JV next year and she wants it so badly that she has sort of iced herself mentally. And on top of it all, she's pushing back on chores because, well who wants to do chores? So, man, I could only reinforce that facing all these challenges is the only way not to feel squashed by them. Fuck it; bring it on Charles Dickens and double-team defense. If you can't fully understand the language of Charles Dickens, then understand some of it and do the best you can, right? If you don't make JV, fuck it, at least leave your heart on the court trying. There is absolutely no relief in hoping it all goes away. I know she wants to impress her teacher and I know she so badly wants a spot on JV, but really giving it her complete all for herself is what matters to me. I know she will not be able to top that personal sense of triumph no matter the outcome. I hope she believes me until then. I told her I wish I had given her the genes that made us prodigy-naturals at things, but I don't have that. I only know about working hard. A lot of times, hard work makes me really good at things, and sometimes it makes me just ok. It's her lot too. I think it's a curse to expect to do well at everything you walk into. She has a little bit of that. She doesn’t understand why everything, at any level, isn’t at least kind of easy. The discomfort of realizing that this just isn’t the case is confusing to her. The thick wall of a really tough challenge holds her back. Very gently I asked her, "When was the last time you gave a 110% at something?" She was crying and said, "Tae Kwon Do." I said, "That was so hard, wasn't it? The tests, the tournaments? And you thought you wouldn't get through them, secretly, right? It seemed too much. And when you did, when you did well even, how did you feel?" And she cried and cried.

Y'know, facing it and giving 110% never gets easier, does it? I mean, sometimes it down right sucks ass -- it's so hard! -- but the best thing about being older is knowing what it means to one's sense of self, to defining who we are as a person. I love it/I hate it/Mainly, I love myself for it. Man, I hope it clicks and holds with her. She's so far from mediocre. I mainly wanted to let her know that. Extraordinary is heavy sometimes especially when you have to work at it. It takes a lot of courage.

I had a very similar talk with Mina the week before.

I often think about the speeches I give the girls. Like when I thought I was going to throw up on the spin bike this morning. Or when work seems too much sometimes, or when the (extra)chores get on my nerves, or when my writing waits patiently, again. Just the mustering of energy to be brave can feel too much. I started a new story. The novel became so demanding, and I was making myself feel badly about it until I just faced up and started a story, started to just write. No need to squash all the love out of something just because it's a challenge. My point is, I can't give such heartfelt speeches if it means nothing to me too. It means a lot. I know how important this kind of stuff is.

Speaking of extraordinary, our girls varsity basketball team is playing in the regional CIF final playoff game tonight! If we win, we go on to play for state. State! This is the farthest our girls team has gone in our history. We're all getting on the party bus to travel to Orange County to watch & cheer. Then, I'll give the president of the booster club the $650 you guys helped me raise for the program. Thank you so much. I'm so proud to be able to give that to him today. I run the 10K on Sunday. It's supposed to rain this weekend so that will be fun, on the muddy trail. Can't wait to tell you about that. Or about our win tonight.

Face the Wall or Bust, y’all.

Music Stuff and My Dog's a Sock Monkey with a Mohawk

2010-02-21T11:47:00.000-08:00

I've been true to expanding my new-music game, and I realize I always get drawn to old music done new. So, I'm now in love with the Carolina Chocolate Dropswho I heard on my alternative radio station a few days ago. Their new CD is in the mail to me as I type. I couldn't decide which video to post. This one doesn't show off their fiddle skills, which melts me, but the singing is just gorgeous.

Here's the other band I just learned about, Slavic Soul Party! They're a Brooklyn-based "gypsy brass" band with a lil funky back beat. Man, I love me some gypsy music. I am easily slain by an accordion, it seems.

Diggin around the internet after Slavic Soul Party! I then stumbled across the What Cheer? Brigade which is a 19 piece brass band, also with Balkan roots but with a punk, New Orleans undertow. They're out of Rhode Island. So, so good.
I don't think anything lays me out like cultural folk with a modern twist.

Hey, here's my new, little, bitty pastel piece. I'm practicing on farmers market flowers. It didn't photograph too well, but you get the idea.
Oh, and our dogs either love their lives or hate it.

Man, Was I Starving

2010-02-12T09:16:00.001-08:00

So, I pulled this shroud off my head -- or more like, I looked up from the dull, hard groove that is sometimes easier than being teased by creative yearning -- and I was starving. I mean, insatiably hungry.

During the last six days, I've slathered myself in contemporary art zines, read some stories from TinHouse and Zoetrope. I pulled out some paints. I watched Fellini's 8 1/2. I started Dharma Bums. I'm out of control. Hmm, I say I'm out of control to protect this side of me, I realize, when really, truthfully, I'm feeling more back to normal.

Allison's visit inspired me, but here's what else: I found this little funky shop across the street from our local cemetery on 14th Street. The shop has a benign, almost lame name, but inside there is a world of funky, fun items from hipster clothing to books to Peruvian tin art to stuffed toys in the shape of uteruses and anatomical hearts. It's the energy in there that feels authentic and warmly edgy, if that's possible. The woman who owns the shop is magnetic. She's in her 50's with a wiry, orange bob and 50's style eyeglass frames. She stands tall and very erect, but she is warm and talkative. It dawned on me that she was the woman who owned a punk shop in the late 70's and early 80's called Nana, on Broadway, in old Santa Monica. It was the coolest shop in town, other than the killer thrift stores we used to have. In middle school, I snuck into Nana weekly, self consciously, and fawned over the shop's items, and her. I idolized her to a degree, because she was unique and warm still; she was interested in being part of the community and catering to our town's uniqueness. 30 years later, she feels forced to keep this spirit alive in what she feels is the only interesting part of Santa Monica left; near the cemetery, on the lower-economic side of town. I said, "Are you Nancy from Nana?" And her red eyebrows shot up. "Yes!" she said. Then I noticed the LA Times article pinned up behind her with a caption like, "The original punk of the westside" or something like that. We reminisced about old SM -- she's more bitter than I about it -- but I do love this part of town a lot so there was no debating her points. She said, "I get so mad when the women above Montana Ave ask me if I'm scared to be over here." She said this loudly, but she didn't really sound angry. She said, "The people across the street don't bother me at all." She meant the dead. I laughed. They're cool with me too, I told her. Especially this cemetery. The energy there is very calm. Anyway, I've been back to the shop a few times -- took Allison there too -- and I feel an urge to stop by every day though I don't want to buy anything, and it dawned on me that when I first started hanging out a little too breathlessly at her first shop, it was when I was a weird kid who didn't mind being weird. I wore funky stuff without being punk or anything else and I thought about odd things for a kid; always unintentionally on the outside track of music and art and writing. I fit into nothing, but liked a lot. And god I've been missing that side of me. I don't let her stray off or get buried too deeply, but I haven't really fed into that side for a while. Last summer at Squaw, for sure, but I miss visual art -- paintings and film -- and I miss the act of painting and I miss music. It's obviously not weird, but I don't mind calling it that. So, Nancy, formerly of Nana, and now back with the cool people over on 14th street reminded me of all that because lord have mercy, she hasn't stopped herself from being weird. She's true to that.

This Fellini movie, 8 1/2, kind of put me in a spin. It took me three fucking days to watch it because of time and Duty Calls and all that, but I have the patience for that right now. Remember, I'm on the upswing of inspiration. I read some of the online reviews of the film and it seems an artistic vice-like pressure resonates with a lot of people, certainly me too, but the film seemed more about rejecting perfection more than anything else. The guy crumbles under the pressure to make perfect decisions then only feels better when he lets it all go. He rejects the perfect woman, and she is perfect in the most non-annoying ways, meaning she is genuinely, purely perfect. She was brilliant. So anyway, the guy is only happy in the ups and downs of his imperfect life, with the imperfect characters around him. There are scenes that floor me in the softest ways. Like: The children in the boarding house who make up a magical word to not necessarily squash their fear of the shadows, but to turn the fear into good luck. The scene with La Saraghina dancing on the beach for the boys. She is a transient prostitute; kinda monstrous until she starts dancing and flashing her eyes. And the guy, as a boy, gets caught by the priests watching her and he's put through this soul-crushing shame and humiliation, and still he goes back to see the beautiful Saraghina dance.

El Conguero used to say, Imperfection makes perfection tolerable. We'd talk about stuff like that, and I've spent years periodically wrapping my mind around this concept. We used to talk about how being off rhythm, naturally, is hard to do (it's when one tries too hard to have rhythm that they are thrown off). Imperfections in rhythm manifest as syncopation, which is often more interesting. And though I love the idea that perfection is barely tolerable, I think more that it's actually perfection that makes imperfection more likable, more interesting. Drives me to it anyway.

The story I read in TinHouse was by David Foster Wallace called The Planet Trillaphon As It Stands In Relation to the Bad Thing, and immediately I thought, oh boy. And when the first paragraph describes, in first person, how the guy is functioning on Planet Trillaphon vs. on Earth, I thought, god, stick with this if you can. And then the story became a very real, impactful and painful story about depression with a goofy veneer. I sank very deeply when this hit me. And then after 17 pages, the story ends, mid-story, mid-sentence (mid-sentence!) -- it just lops off. And I wanted to cry my eyes out. I'm not sure if anyone else could have made that work. I've read the end paragraph a few times since, though the words really don't mean anything. I was just kind of mourning the story, him.

I'll leave you with paintings. I've been checking out this German artist named Heiko Pippig. I think he's pretty famous in Germany and Europe, but I can't tell if he is here. Maybe. Like I said, I've been out of it. But I think this painting is just terrific. It's from 2007 and I think it's called Im Raderwerk.

It's big so here's the left side.
This is the right side. And here's a painting by Mina. In class, they had to create their renditions of a Picasso. Man, I think this is great. Which, p.s., every time I think genuine gushiness over my kids' art, I unfortunately get all filled with my mother's voice of meaty discouragement. She was the artist, y'all. I'm the athlete, 'member? That cog has been a motherfucker to shake loose. Splinter by splinter though. So, here's Mina's greatness because there's room enough for everyone's pure greatness.

On A Mountain

2010-02-08T15:57:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, Allison and I hiked a trail in the Santa Monica mountains. We veered off and up a side path to climb a hill that gives views of the ocean -- a magnificent, dazzling show of sparks on dusty blue water through the thin, marine gauze -- and, to the left, the spiked rise of downtown. I hike/run this trail regularly, but I don't ever get to talk about Salinger on it. I might think about Salinger, but I don't usually get to discuss him or Pema Chodron or Almodóvar out in nature, in the same discussion. I often think my verbal skills are weak compared to my writing. I mispronounced Holden Caulfield's name -- ha! I think I said Cauldwell, and Allison graciously said nothing and kept the smooth beat of what we were talking about. Feh, It didn't really bother me either. It wasn't important. I used to die inside when I did stuff like that; I was so self conscious of the cracks in my self education. I've learned to appreciate more my ability to deeply contemplate things even when my spelling sucks or I misremember shit. My grammar has come along like you don't even know. When we were at dinner with a couple of Allison's friends from Nashville, I listened, mainly, to the stories told with a beautiful southern spin -- a world that is foreign to me. And I tried to think if I even knew shit about shit. The next morning, I told my friend Page this and she said, "You know a lot of shit about a lot of shit." And I said, "I know. I just couldn't remember any of it then." Note to self: Hang out with adults more often. Wow. The rust really does build if you don't. But man, Allison's friends were charming and interestingly fun, even if one friend was laying on the charm with a thick spread (haha). I just really enjoyed being there.

I wanted to show her all the little pockets; show her the rough jewels of LA, at least from my perspective. We didn't have time to see much at all, but in that, I got all sparked up about LA myself, again. Parts are so interesting and beautiful in the most quirky ways. This whole entire, contrasting city, the highs and lows and hype and struggle, the grime and beauty -- I just feel similarly. Maybe not similarly; maybe I feel exactly this way. My connection to all of that got unearthed, again, this weekend. When I get in my parenting groove and work groove and when everything else seems impossible, my connection to what's really interesting downshifts to dormant. Man, keeping all the fires stoked - or balls in the air or whatever the fuck -- all the time is maddening, exhausting. But creatively I felt inspired this weekend. I felt deep satisfaction adding the third dimension to my friendship with Allison. She is every bit as beautiful and interesting in person. Our connection was fast and tight, easy and real. In a virtual reality, in a thoughtful fantasy, I hoped it would turn out the way it did. I don't think we're always prepared for the emotional impact when things turn out the way we want. I'm using it as inspiration though.

On the mountain, above LA, on the creamy, dirt peak lined in chaparral, Allison shared the Pema Chodron philosophy that failure and progress are the balance of practice. That the failure or the falling off of practice strengthens the muscle of it; makes it stronger, better. Holy shit, that pretty much catapulted me into thought for a good long time. I’m still intensely thinking about it. I was so thankful to be reminded of the sentiment in a way that resonated new to me.

All the experiences of the weekend made me realize that what we believe our blog circle to be, is. The deep connection to like-minded sisters who are diverse and interesting and have big love is real. It is as real as anything else.

The Highs and Lows of a Beginning Running Practice

2010-01-26T19:04:00.000-08:00

In the past, I would have considered what I'm doing, in terms of my running, training. As in, I'm training for this 10K. But I see running differently than any other athletic endeavor in which I've participated. It is a meditation or more specifically it is a reorganization of the physical as linked to the mental. When the book ChiRunning described running as a practice, I realized that's exactly how I felt. I've officially started a running practice.

Historically, I've always wanted to be a runner. I have always admired the simplicity, the high, the legs. But as a teenager and a young adult, I hated every drudging step. I thought it was like being tortured in a vat of concrete. How could anything be so dull and agonizing? Then last year, my friend and uber athlete Kellie gave me a few, life-changing pointers for better running technique. I tried it a few times and couldn't believe how much of a difference it made. I still was not ready to start a practice however. Then a couple months ago, I read Born to Run. Kellie's tips got me to the cliff and Born to Run push-kicked me off. Born to Run tricked me into believing I was a natural if I practiced and pulled up that instinct. ChiRunning is fine tuning the tips and keeping me from clawing back up the cliff walls and questioning if this is even a good idea.

In the excited beginnings of my practice, running seemed so easy that I couldn't understand why I had never liked it. I went for distances I would have never even thought to attempt so early before. Four miles on the road and five to seven miles on the trail. I couldn't believe it. But I'm here to report that the honeymoon is over now. The regularity of my runs has become a true practice and the excitement has deflated, though the drive to work on the form and perfect an injury-free lightness and endurance still pushes me out the door. But now four miles is tougher than it was before, oddly. And the one time I ran seven miles on the trails seems out of reach for the time being. The best part about considering running a practice is that I know to go with what feels doable until I can build upon the base. I don't log miles. I don't wear a watch. I have a loose idea of the distance just because I know my area so well and because Husband rides the same trails on his mountain bike, but other than that I have no desire to measure anything more about my running. I'm obsessed with form and the meditation of it; of being entirely absorbed by the process, and enjoying the after high . I'm dedicated to the pure practice of it. So far, this is working. We'll see how it goes.

There have been a couple situations though that have made me question the sanity of a pure practice. The day that I ran seven miles on the trail, I felt great. The route I ran was 3.5 miles up a slight grade, then I turned around and came back down. The trail is a dried creek bed tucked in by yellow-leafed oaks and green-grass hills. The trail is rocky, though not too bad, and side ravines rise and dip. It is stunning. When I was running back down that day, at about mile five, I had to go to the bathroom, poop as it were, and the more I ran, the more the pressure built. I stopped to walk, a little worried, and the pressure subsided. I ran - had to poop. Walked - it went away. I was feeling so good otherwise that I didn't want to walk, y'know? It was the first time I legitimately felt like a runner and the poop pressure was stealing my thunder. So, I ran until I seriously thought I was going to shit my pants. Like, seriously. So seriously that I frantically looked off the side of the trail. The phrase Does a bear shit in the woods kept repeating in my mind because -- I don't know why, I was just kinda panicking. Then I'd think, Really, am I about to do this? This trail is not a crowded one, but there are walkers with dogs now and again, very few runners and more occasionally mountain bikers who are either laboring up the path or whizzing back down it. When the thought of shitting my leggings no longer seemed funny and my throat closed and my face broke out in a cold flush, I jumped down a small ravine, ripped down my pants and squatted. I grabbed my baby-blue baseball cap off my head to blend more with nature though I was pretty well hidden. Two mountain bikers flew down the trail. Only if they had been jedi masters would they have seen me. When I was done, and it only took seconds, I looked around at the leaves. Large, splaying oak leaves were under foot and when I picked one up I was surprised that it was soft, not crumbly hard like I thought it would be. It was near luxurious as toilet paper. When I stood and looked around, I felt equally liberated and mortified. What kind of line had I crossed? Was I now in some sort of club? I finished my run, feeling physically great, but jazzed by embarrassment, trying to shake it off. I giggled all day about it.

I've taken great measure to get my poop on before my runs now. Kellie told me to pack handie wipes. I told her she should really try a partially-dried oak leaf. Luxurious!

So, last weekend, I did an easy three miles around my neighborhood, down to the ocean and back. To the ocean, there is a tiny downhill grade so I felt great going down and I knew after the turn around I would have to put in a little work. A few blocks after the turn around, I had to pee, but nothing serious so I plodded along, focusing on my form. It seems that when tightening the core and relaxing the limbs, the kegel muscle is rendered useless because I then proceeded to pee about a third of my bladder's contents into my pants. Not a spot in the chones, but a good 1/4c. right in my leggings. For those of you who know me, I only wear black leggings because I sweat so much it looks like I sport a pussy halo after working out. Wearing black leggings apparently comes in handy when you pee your pants too. And the thing is, though I blushed and couldn't believe what was happening, I didn't stop running. What was I gonna do, really? So I focused on my form and plugged away and out of curiosity, tried to do a kegel while running without much luck. I must work on that type of coordination. Four blocks from my house, I peed another 1/4c and didn't even flinch this time. I shook my head. Fuck it. When I got home, I shouted my hellos and sprinted to the bathroom and peed out the last of it, this time in a toilet. As washed out my leggings, I wondered what this practice was turning me into. Mainly, I felt that if I gave up on my practice now, THAT would be humiliating. One month I shit in the woods, the next I piss my pants all to give up? Fuck that. I feel I have to earn the right to laugh this off. I mean, right? Or does a practice entail the endurance of self humiliation; strip one bare of their faculties to realize it doesn't matter. The focus matters. The form matters. The connection matters. The tapping in, this is what matters. I dunno. This is what I'm telling myself anyway.

All this, in part, to raise money for a basketball program too. Lord, what I do for the kids. Speaking of which, thank you so much to those who have so generously donated to the cause. For those still considering, push that button!

I leave you with a few photos of my girls ballers.

Maya, waiting to inbound the ball during a game.Maya, waiting to defend during a game.I am invested in the Samo girls basketball program for Maya, for my own legacy and for the ones who will eventually take it over. Mina's ball skills are no joke. She is Samo's future.Mina plays in a YWCA league. She's at a little higher level than these girls, and she lives to hear the parents on the side line ooh and aah at her skills; her left, her right, her crossover, her steals. Last week she hit a buzzer beater and left her hand in the air like she was Kobe. We almost died from pride. Here she is on a fast break, after stealing the ball.

Anyway, practice makes practice; it takes and gives love. Perfection is bullshit.

Girls Basketball Fundraiser

2010-01-14T12:27:00.000-08:00

I'm going to run The Malibu Creek 10K Trail Run on March 7 to raise money for Maya's high school girls basketball program. Please read my previous post about how we parents and our athletes have to raise every penny for our teams. Details of the run are here. Looks fun, right?

Twenty-five years ago, I came out of the same girls basketball program that Maya plays in now. We weren't any good then. We got no respect, as a program. We played to empty, make-shift stands in the south gym. We played in shoddy uni's. We had nothing. The only time we made it to CIF's, we played Crenshaw first round, who I believe won state that year. When we walked into their gym, they asked, "Where's the basketball team?"

I watched the varsity girls play last night in a sick battle against our rival, Inglewood where our star senior took over by the fourth quarter, and we won to screams and yelling and clapping and competitive cheer squads trying to out-do each other. The wooden, north-gym stands were full. The UCLA head coach was there, taking notes. Cheerleaders made an alley way for our girl athletes to run down when their names were announced! They had warmups with their names on the back. It was a sight, I tell you. Nobody would ever ask Where's the basketball team when they entered anywhere and that's largely because they are branded now, marketed; they are announced and looked up to. I'm gushing over this. I'm not jealous or wish-I-had-it in the least. I know I helped pave the way. In any event, all this branding -- not mention the basics -- takes money, which is tough on us, but I'll do more than my part to make sure our girl athletes are kept on this pedestal. Not many remember what it used to be like for us old girl ballers at Samo High. The thought of regressing back to that level is not the main reason that motivates me to keep this program thriving though. Even though we had nothing, those times were still, by far, my favorite of high school; of my teenage years period. And of course, I'm still BFF with Betsy, who was on the team too.

If our 2010 varsity team makes state this year, that would be sick. If Maya, after three years, gets noticed by college teams, that would be beyond great. But honestly if at the very least she participates and contributes to a team and learns a lot about herself as a teammate, a friend, an athlete, as a strong young woman; if she burns best-time memories with her sisters, it will be worth every penny I'm about to scrounge and beg for.

Let the begging begin.

Please clickety-click the button in the upper, left column of the blog (above my profile) and help how you can. I absolutely know what kind of times these are. Any bit helps. I also understand if you can't.

If you don't want to go through PayPal, make checks out to Samo High Girls Basketball and email me at mamirivera1 (at) yahoo (dot) dom, and I'll give you my address.

Thanks so much, friends, and many season updates to follow.

For the Love of Girls Basketball

2010-01-14T07:53:00.000-08:00

I went to a parent meeting last night to talk about the state of our high school girls basketball program. There was good news and bad news. Or not so much bad news, but news that we just have to accept now. That news is that as a public school, the parents and athletes are responsible for raising every single penny for our three programs; varsity, junior varsity and freshman teams. When I say every penny, I mean it. We have to buy uniforms, warm ups, bags, we rent the vans for away games, pay for gas, we even have to pay for lower-level coach salaries. Usually, they don't get paid at all. If you haven't heard, California is an absolute financial mess. The state of our state is carving deep, deep holes into public programs, especially schools. It's devastating. I live in a bourgie neighborhood too so I can't imagine how hard-hit neighborhoods are offering anything positive to kids. It's pretty much all grass roots and community support. I could spew a long, obvious rant about the ramifications of this, on our children, but I'll stay on topic.

The good news about our basketball program is that we're good. The varsity girls' team is getting recognition and is turning heads. We had a chance at state last season. Our star senior has already signed with UCLA; another to UC San Diego. When I used to play, the girls team was sequestered to the south gym, then called the girls' gym. We weren't even allowed to practice in the boys' cool gym. (This gym is where 17 Again was filmed, incidentally). But now, the school has relabeled the gyms North & South. Maya was confused (rightfully) when I, out of habit, called it the girls' gym. The girls' program used to play on different days and seemed completely separate from the boys program, but now the girls teams play before the boys games. I think that's sick. The crowds come for the girls and stay for the boys. We used to have to beg the boys team to come support us and now they are in the stands, cheering, yelling things to their athlete friends on the girls squad. Our girls varsity team has a swagger that moves me. Entitlement, ladies. Grab it while it's hot.

Maya has melded so seamlessly with her freshman team. As a parent, we want many, many things for our kids: The obvious stuff, the priorities, the basics, opportunities -- the list is endless -- and this is what takes 24hours a day, but when the special extras work out, you want them to enjoy it full hilt. I couldn't guarantee her that high school would be enjoyable. Middle school was tough so I was prepared to guide her through high school too; to be herself, stay strong, build character, learn lots, enjoy what she enjoys. It's not always fun to encourage an effort-filled enjoyment of life, but sometimes that's how it is. But her high school experience so far has been just great. A lot of that has been because she is on this team. She's comfortable being herself. She's respected as an athlete. Boy athletes crush on her. She became fast and deep friends with two girls on her team, girls who I'd gladly call my own. They're on the left there; Mama E (they call her) is on the left, Messiah in the middle. If Messiah isn't the greatest girls name in the history of girls names, I'm not sure what is. These are the friendships that could last a lifetime. I know it did for me with Betsy. This is exactly how we were. Anyway, Maya's team experience is teaching her things about living and being a person that I can't really reach. It's like filling in the nooks and crannies of her growing up. She obviously has to fill in some of that stuff on her own and being a team member is allowing a lot of that.

So, in last night's parent meeting, when the conversation of fundraising was belabored and pummeled over our heads until many parents' lips curled in resentment, I got it. Even after the meeting, Maya bashed on all the emphasis on raising money and I told her not to. Our grassroots fundraising is the only way we can keep the program thriving. Her coach has said that he wants the girls program to be as respected as the boys. He's done a lot to make that happen and I anticipate that Maya will benefit from it all for the next four years whether she realizes how special her extras really are.

I'm going to run a 10K on Feb 7th to raise money for the girls program. Would this be something you'd support? $20 here, $10 there to encouragement me to bust it out for our basketball team? I wish I was ready to run in something more noble and impressive, but for short-notice fundraising ideas, this is what I can do. Any bit will help, seriously. The next post will have more details. Go Vikings!

The Thing About Sunrises

2010-01-05T10:23:00.000-08:00

The thing about sunrises is that they only last a couple minutes. I feel compelled to stare, blinkless with breath sucked, so I can actively absorb the couple minutes. I guess the washing over, that feeling of renewal shouldn't last longer. I mean, there is a point when inspiration should spur action or create cleansing, but I'm greedy I suppose.

But then I rode my bike home from my workout this morning. When I looked to the right, the sunrise had faded; the light had churned against the sky from deep pink-orange against lavender to a brilliant gold. But when I looked to my left the mountains and the thick, uniform line of palms still reflected the deep orange. They glowed against the morning blue. And I thought, holy fucking shit, the sunrise lasts just minutes, but the reflection of it against things willing to reflect it lasts considerably longer. So, I kept looking at the mountains and the palm trees because the beauty lingered there. The sunrise had passed itself off; shared.

We, easily, reflect all things beautiful. We, easily, can pass on whatever good we have/know, right? It won't be lost if we do; there's always more. I don't really mean our lives are a reflection of how we conduct ourselves with sincere work -- I mean, they are! -- but that wasn't the slap of info I received this morning, on the bike. What I understood was that without effort we can absorb and reflect. We can emit and share anything good, without effort. We are mirrors of beauty. We reflect and pass it on. It lingers on us, from us.

So, the thing about sunrises, I learned, is that they last forever. Or until the sunset makes me feel all sentimental about something else.

I just finished the book Born to Run. The book is so multi-faceted that there are many reasons to love it. There were a couple facets specifically I found fascinating, but what I wanted to share -- and it’s probably a subject the author didn't explore enough because it's kinda mindblowing -- is the concept that love & compassion makes ultra athletes great. Love. Not just the love of running, though that is part of it, but this sort of undirected, unmanipulated joy. And that this feeling taps into our true instinct as humans and running can get you there because it too is an instinctual and natural act for humans. The Running Instinct is an interesting theory explored in book, but I was blown back by the pureness of how great runners self-clicked into this universal grove; a sort of latching onto a thread. The author dived deep for a minute, but kind of retreated, but still it made eye-opening sense to me in beyond-the-conscious-mind kind of way.

Last year, when I was more focused on cycling and spin, I imagined myself channeling Lance Armstrong when I hit the hardest parts of my workout. Corny, I know, but there is no other athlete who can power triumphantly through some rough shit. I think Lance could muscle his way to any kind of win or achievement, and when I would gasp for air in my measly hour spin class, I would picture his face powering up the Alps with unfathomable focus and mind-boggling determination. This would yank me through like I was on a pulley. But this year, all 5 days of this year, I wonder how much joy he feels when trying to drive a stake through his opponents' hearts. He might feel a lot, and Lord, I still love watching him do it, but I guess I more wonder if this is my personality. I wonder if powering through it brutally makes me miss something important about it all, or if the powering is a temporary response to trick our minds and bodies into survival and it can't be kept up because it is joyless, and probably not sustainable because of the joylessness, not to mention the physical limitations. There are not many things I admire more than determination, but looking back at my athletic history, I realize that I have never aspired to an at-all-costs level of determination and victory. I was really good at basketball because I loved to go the courts and shoot for hours. I loved the camaraderie (and shit talking) of pick up ball. I did love the cheers when I busted someone out. But the minute it was suggested that I buckle down and become great, to play on a team that would get me noticed, I secretly cringed. I made excuses. I fucked it off. The fun drained and I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t go for it. Oddly, I look back and realize that though I was competitive, the desire to rip everyone else down to be first was never part of who I was. It made me uncomfortable. And until very recently, I thought this lack of killer desire was what made me a failure as an athlete, ultimately. I'm still sort of wading through my feelings about all of this, but this year I've decided to explore my deeply-buried runner instincts. What is that all about. I am seriously drawn to the whole idea. I have always been very attracted to the test of personal will, much more so than the intent to clobber an opponent. I do think, in general, that we are much tougher than we think we are and the idea that athletes push this to the limits in personal ways, moves me. I imagine myself now to be Scott Jurek who is featured a lot in Born to Run, and is quite possibly the greatest ultrarunner in the world. He is the example of the compassionate champion. He is a vegan, he doesn't own a car -- he and his wife commute by bike -- and though he has won most 100 miles races he has competed in, he has been known to stand at the finish line and cheer until the last runner comes across. He runs with joy and a gentle, but unshakable determination that matches Lance's ferocious one. I can only imagine how 50 miles or 100 miles breaks someone down to the most basic and instinctual sense of themselves. And for Scott, and many other runners profiled in Born to Run, it turns out to be joy and love. Jurek allows himself, through running, to be a mirror of all things good about the human spirit. I want to tap into this too; a sole physical endevor that connects collectively.

I took my regular spin class this morning. When the workout got hard, I didn't Lance my way through it. I didn't bully my mind. I didn't stop pushing, but I embraced the pain. I intended to love the hard push, and maybe I didn't gush for joy over it, but I was ok with it. It wasn't breaking me entirely so I intended to enjoy the process of the break-down/build-up. I used to believe that when I can simply break through the hard parts, the good things await especially the sense of accomplishment. I believe that a lot still, but I imagine that sometimes the good doesn't come at all in the end, and that, so obviously, the good is woven mostly in the doing and the pushing. We know this, right? Easy to forget in a way that any road less traveled is easily forgotten; the earnestness is a pain in the ass sometimes.

Here's a Charles Bukowski quote. This quote was an inspiration to a top ultramaratoner in Born to Run (who happens to be a woman):

"If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."

So, back to sunrises. It's all a wonder, isn't it? The anticipation, the actual thing, the afterglow, the staying still and reflecting all that we dig up and hook on to everything else. My future running instincts didn't know so much was riding on them. But, here I go anyway.

Gimme a New Year With Soul

2009-12-30T10:37:00.000-08:00

I'm gonna ask Mr. Billy Preston to bring in my new year because I want to do this dance every day of 2010. I can twine and jerk, yes I can.

Give it to me, Agent Double O Soul. (This clip is from a movie so I urge you to stop watching after 1:40. That just me.) Ok, sock it to me good, Double O.

Ug, that's too good.

I offer some emotional fodder for those of you who are feeling and needing other things for 2010. Commonly, we need similar things in a fresh year; change, letting go, renewal, love, hope, simplicity. We might need them at different times, but our themes, I imagine, intersect. This is why even when these aren't my particular themes for the year, I feel deeply for them. I feel your paths, friends. They are often my path too. This song below was a lifeline for me during my Adventist days -- my christian stint as it were -- when I was 17, 18, 19. This song saved me more than getting dunked did, though the entire experience was unbelievably worthwhile. This song was solely about surrender, for me, and I didn't know to who or what I was surrendering, but I just needed to lay down my troubles somewhere for a while. I appreciated the help, more so than any of the church members would ever know. This song was sung in my church very similarly to this version and I'd sit in the wood pew, alone; I'd slump down and cry my eyes out. (You'll notice in the video that two of the singers become overcome with emotion in the end). Back then, I needed so much. I needed help then, so much, I didn't know where to start or who to ask, and this song let me set it all afloat, for a little time at least. On me, suffocating me, it was too much, but drifting away, it seemed more manageable. Though I don't subscribe to fundamentalism now, I'm still all for giving in to something bigger.

Needing change is a big new year theme. I don't feel this personally this year, but usually change comes anyway. This song is for you needing it. It's hard to beat Sam Cooke's version, but my girl Lauren stabs me. I miss her, but I honor however singing conventionally tortures her. She's done plenty for me in her short career.

My themes this year are about simplicity; the soulful renewal of all things simple. It's also about giving more. I figure I have to work on that one, every year, until it's all given away. Oh and I'm gonna work on my running game; maybe tighten up my music game.

As a good faith downpayment for my tightened music game, I offer the amazing Bebe and Siempre Me Quedará (I'll Always Keep)

Happy New Year, my friends. Here's to socking it to ourselves this year.

Merry Christmas

2009-12-23T13:09:00.000-08:00

I'm not one for religious exclusionary-ism, but I have a soft spot for the term Merry Christmas. And I mean that in the most simple and old-timey ways, when saying it was like a personal, sincere wish for all blessings to gush down on the listener's head. Like, an earnest Merry Christmas was a present wrapped in gold-leaf with a maroon velvet bow and the receiver's heart melted and humanity was restored. Man, the simplicity of Christmas moves me; that melancholy warmth -- what is that, that thing that intensifies in a darkened room pulsing with the multi-colored glow of lonely lights. It's the reflection of Christmas that gets me, the slowing and the thinking.

My mother was very susceptible to the holiday blues. It's understandable, really, especially for her, but I fought that even when our Christmases were the most spare and grim and she had fallen below the surface, unable to claw back up. I couldn't raise her up either. We have always been so disconnected, which is extraordinarily regrettable since it was just the two of us. So, I fought this particular brand of blues; even overfought if for years, which is an empty way of dealing. Eventually I found a place right atop the surface; between the cheer and the blues. I realize that ache is not necessarily painful, nor does it have to act as an anchor around my neck, but it is simply reflection. I think we also feel a collective opening of the human spirit, more so than usual, and this gives off a universal feeling of vulnerability. We unwillingly mirror the collective vulnerability and that connection seems too much, so unknown. I know it's good. I do.

But part of the sadness, I think, is caused by an instinct to shirk this raw motion toward kindness. We want it organically, but maybe we're too out of practice. Or maybe we succumb to it happily during the holidays and then we feel disenchanted if we've convinced ourselves that the feeling is fleeting, temporary. Back to the bustle, folks.

I love to drive around at night and look at the Christmas trees in windows. The very small, lopsided ones placed in apartment windows pang at me the most. A struggled gesture to be part of the spirit; to raise their own spirit possibly. I look way too much into these things, but that's why I love to drive around and speculate. Mostly, I just suck it in, the care taken, the prettiness; that damn, sad warmth. It turns me over inside.

I believe in miracles. Maybe not in the most literal sense, but isn't it all a miracle if you get right down to it? And I'm sucker for a Christmas miracle story. The words Christmas miracle kinda choke me up. I'll watch all movies built around the predictable Christmas miracle. Feed it to me with a spoon. I love it. My kids are too old to be in holiday plays now or sing in the little pageants, but wow, would those kill me. Once Maya was in a pageant at her old, beautifully eclectic and creative school and she sang, with other five year old voices, Iz's version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. They signed the words with their hands as they sang so heartbreakingly pure. And it took every single fiber of me not to wail loudly during the performance. It was overwhelmingly beautiful. They were tapped into something beyond our recognition. I'm teared up thinking about it. That song was a miracle. Those kids rained down something perfect on us that moved us in ways we were not even aware of.

That song is like Christmas; an intense version maybe. It's so sweet, it hurts. It's hopeful, but possibly unrealistic. It's ideal and what does ideal have to do with reality? Unless you believe in miracles.

Merry Christmas, and I mean that in the way where a torrent of blessings is dumped on your head and the warmth is overwhelming in a soul-clearing kind of way and the beyond-the-woods clarity of the universal thread motors your boat and brings you the best of things like love and acceptance and more love and peace and kindness. Cheers to the vulnerability, man.

Love

2009-12-09T09:58:00.000-08:00

Husband called his dad a couple days ago to check on him. Big Papi said, "Just sitting here watching the game with Mom." And that's all he said about that. So Husband called Mama Luz the next day to get the full scoop and she said, "I told that fucking bitch from the laundromat to stay away from my man!"

And both sentences -- watching the game with Mom and I told that bitch -- mean the same thing: We love each other very much and we're working this out. Big Papi could have easily said, "Still in the car." And Mama Luz could have easily said, "I told that bitch she could have him," but they didn't. We're encouraging them to talk it out instead of glossing this over. They said they are. They said they want to visit us in February and we're jumping up and down to make that happen. We're just waiting to hear when the school year has a break for Mama Luz. She drives the school bus.

* * *

Monday was the anniversary of Mama's death. The date - Dec 7 - burns lows at the bottom of my psyche, like an eternal last light of a dying kerosene lamp. That date is kind of like my birthday, like, when I randomly hear someone say my birth date, I get a jolt of recognition. I get a current from Dec 7th too, the mention of it or anything related. I said to Husband, "My grandmother passed away today." He said, "I'm sorry, baby." I calculated the years. "It's been 27 years now. That's weird. 27 years is a long time." He said, "I'm sorry." I said, "But 15 is a hard age to lose the only person who liked you." I laughed. He said, "We like you, baby. You have big fans in this house!" I said, "Oh, I know, papi. Thank you."

For the splitest of seconds, I thought maybe Mama had something to do with bringing Papi and me together though, really, I don't believe in that. And I believe in a lot of wonky spiritual, unseen shit. I believe our cherished dead can protect us in subtle ways. I believe in the power and spirituality of nature. I believe in god, a flowing energy that connects anything living -- including plants and animals -- externally and internally. I really believe in that form of god. I believe in prayer even if its sole power is to make us feel better. I believe in good and bad luck, to an extent. I believe in the santos for the same reason I believe in prayer. I believe in not crossing other people's god because not only is that disrespectful, it's bad luck. And their god is probably from the same source as your god anyway. I think karma is overrated and misunderstood. I think karma just happens and it's ironic and missing the point to strive for it. You do good to just do good and you don't do bad because it's hurtful and bad. Then karma might happen. I believe in doing good. And I believe in the power of myself because I'm connected to that god source, and this is why I don't think Mama had anything to do with bringing my husband and me together. I did that. But she did teach me how to love. I love him well because of the smallest amount of time I got to be with her. And because of me, of course. Man, it was so short though, that time with her. It was a fraction of my big life and I am still so affected by the infinite spec of love she poured over me. I admit that most times I think of the absence of her, especially our painful seperation when she was alive, and I was wracked with a child's panic caused from being apart from her. I starved for the attention she gave me and felt quietly gutted out when I couldn't get it enough. I resorted to sad, old-soul tactics – and being an old soul is overrated too because a child is only told that when they dig too deeply into themselves to extract what they lack on the outside, what they need so badly, so they dig to tap into that god source for self comfort and this makes the eyes immediately age. So as I kid, I believed I could talk to her in my mind; I caved over the panic to calm myself down and I made it into a glowing pool, a bright and secret source of love. I stored it, and waited. I waited until a ton of years later when I was able to dump it on my girls, my Husband. Turns out, the pool keeps going, it doesn't run out. Just grows and grows. I did that.

Thank you Mama. Thank you for starting the pool-source and for teaching me that kindness and gratitude never run out either. I miss you so much.

Ancient Lessons In Coupledom

2009-12-02T09:34:00.000-08:00

I thought a long time before writing this because it hurts. And it's not my story. But in a way, it could be and is often any couple's story.

Mama Luz kicked Big Papi out of the house a week ago. She called us to tell us that they were done; it was over after 33 years. To say that we were floored is sparkles and sunshine compared to how we felt. We were stomped and pinned, breathless. Tears exploded out of us. They had been a united, anchored boulder in our eyes. They were not perfect, but perfect for each other certainly. They championed each other, for god’s sake, and this idea of championing is so comfortably key to a relationship. Not long ago, friends had put that notion to words and we believed it so fiercely, didn't we? From the just-married, to those seeking love, to me who has been married almost 12 years. I absolutely believed it a cornerstone. But it was not enough. It is not enough.

Husband's and my faith in love, in coupledom, in foreverness diminished greatly in the wake of her words. How does anybody make it, we thought. We looked at each other and with no hesitation clung to each other, said I love you's a hundred times as our understanding of a solid relationship crumbled and slid away from us. I suppose we could have questioned ourselves, but even more we felt, fuck it, we'll be the last couple standing then. In our instant and gut reaction to each other, we didn't know many details of their demise. All that became important was that our belief in each other was real because nothing else was, it seemed.

All the grown kids -- Husband, his sister Baby Luz and me -- have taken shifts on talking it out with them, mainly with Mama Luz because she's more vocal – lord, is she vocal. We take turns relieving the high-pressure steam that is her volcanic emotion, and Husband works on luring the petrified and frozen and near non-existent emotion buried so deeply in his dad. Husband is chipping away in a way that makes me well up with pride. He is a progressive and well-adjusted man saving his father. It's so beautiful it hurts. At the surface, there was an indiscretion. This time by him. In the past, by her. But the thing that drew the line -- a line which has cracked into a gapping chasm after decades -- is the most simple and complex of couple problems; communicating real feelings. She bulldozes. He withdraws. Both styles hem each other up. Over the years, they've glazed it all over with pleasantries and the mundane day to day. He retreats to the TV and she fixes the house. Talk of intimacy, of appreciation, of basic and deep love became cemented and trapped under the glaze. I think many couples are just a few quiet nights from getting here; a few sexless weeks, months, years and then it seems too hard to go back. Each year made it harder on them. Until last week when he decided to get shit off his chest in what he felt was a strong way -- a putting-the-foot-down kind of way -- and it came out so rusty and awkward and hurtful, like he was vomiting sharp rocks. And that sparked her to come back with her raw force, so hurtful and fierce. He tried to match her thunder, but that's not his strength because he was usually the balance of calm and love. She's the action and passion. They don't weave their strengths together anymore we found out.

What is the championing worth if after we've beaten back the hurtful world we can't tell each other how wonderful we make each other feel, how beautiful they look, how sexy they are, what do you need mami/papi, I love you. I'm crying typing this because it hurts to know they've gone so long without this.

Big Papi is sleeping in his car, in the NY winter. We cancelled our Puerto Rico trip to help them (I know -- more on that later. In short, it seems ridiculous to spend all that money on a vacation when family is in severe crisis and needs help.) We were ready to pay for a motel for him, but he refused. We stopped insisting when we realized he was punishing himself. And he knows her well because it's been the only thing that has cracked her so-tough veneer. Her conversations go from fuck that motherfucker, which we expect, to "At least he took his blanket," and "At least it's not that cold tonight," which almost brings us to tears. Old fashioned penance is working some sort of magic on her. And our hearts are breaking each time we talk to them and realize how much they still love each other. But they’ve mistreated each other; their silence the biggest abuser. If they can only crack the glaze, move mountains of resentment, forgive, talk, weave, love again. I'm not sure they'll get there yet, but there's hope. When I was talking to her a couple days ago, when she was spewing F bombs and yelling shit to me that I didn't ever want to hear about him, I told her that she didn't deserve to feel this hurt and I know she was angry, but we had hope for them; we knew there was love, that they need to talk it out more, get counseling. She said she'd cut him if he came by - sigh. It was the first seed planted about hope and she went bananas on me, screaming, "I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU DO IT OVER THERE, BUT WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU EVEN TELL ME TO THINK ABOUT GOING BACK TO THAT MOTHERFUCKER?? IF YOUR HUSBAND DID THAT TO YOU---" And on. I don't take this personally because I know that's just how she communicates, but I know I had to get forceful back. I yelled back that Hell yes, I'd be fucking angry and all his fucking shit would be on the lawn too, but I would want someone to tell me to just consider the years we've had, consider talking it out. To my surprise, she got quiet for like one second. Then I broke the news that he was sleeping in his car. And she quietly said, "Good."

My husband has been a hero. He had to track his dad down to talk it out. Big Papi is mortified by the whole thing, reeling in confusion, wishing he never opened his mouth or strayed. He wishes it would all go away now. He wants to come home; he wants his wife back, but Husband told him he can't have it like he had it. He shouldn't want it how it was and it will take a lot to work it out. My husband gave him such sound advice on how to be a fully realized man. The role reversal, son teaching father, was emotional. He was a beacon of light, a savior to a man who could have easily cocooned himself and faded away to crushing loneliness, poverty, sadness, nothingness. He said, "Dad, I'm your only son and I need you. I need you to talk more. We need it. Mom needs it." And Big Papi bawled his eyes out and so did Husband. The last conversation was a gem too, but more in a get-your-shit together kind of way. I heard things like, "That's your woman. Go get her, and treat her like your woman should be treated." I was like, goddamn, baby.

Anyway, it's all broken down to be built back up into something better and much more solid and loving, if they're both willing. There's so much shit through which to traverse though. I don't envy the work ahead of them if they wish to take it on, but god, we hope they do. The thought of them losing their loves while in their sixties is painful. But in the end, it is not our relationship to save. We can help them see some light, some hope, help pay for counseling. We can let them know that we want them to fight. Husband gave tremendous advice, but it will be their work that saves them. I can only work on loving my man the best I can, talking to him, appreciating him, staring at him like he's the last biscuit on a desert island, and of course, still championing him until the wheels fall off.

Fun Is Fun

2009-11-24T15:54:00.000-08:00

Man, am I smart. First, I put myself on this unprocessed food regiment, and whoa, I'm feeling super fly, in mood and just general, all-around flyness. Secondly, I elbowed my way into having some fun last weekend and that was a wise, wise decision. Thanks to Husband too for his surprise attack of romanticism and caretaking. Believe me, he got all kinds of hook ups for that stunt. I dug up and dusted off and packed a fire red corset that I haven't worn in years. I thought about bringing a fun adult accessory for laughs, but the thought of getting my bag searched at the airport sorta mortified me. I feel fly, not invincible. One time my friend and her girlfriend went to Hawaii with a toy . . .let's just say it was double headed and rhythms with big-ass bildo. On the way back home, when the bag went through the scanner, the customs people started a murmur that had to do with sugar cane. "Excuse ma'am, you know it's illegal to bring sugar cane back from Hawaii? We'll need to search your bag." They were like, "UHH, IT'S NOT SUGAR CANE, BELIEVE US." After another careful look in the scanner, they sent them on their way with winks and giggles.

Husband's tennis team is so fun, and each of them pulled me aside and said they were so glad I was there, and everything was so much more fun because I was there. Yah! They were pumped to have a great time on Saturday night too even though they had to be back on the courts at 7:30 the next morning to, you know, play in the nationals like they had worked so hard for.

We hung out in a suite, had some drinks, laughed a lot, then took our party to the streets. A big mixed martial arts fight was happening that night so we all counted the number of TapOut and Affliction tshirts adorned with elaborate crosses in iron-on foil. There were too many to count. We tried to guess the circumference of men's necks. But I told everyone to keep it down, because these dudes were strutting the casinos high on testosterone. I was worried that seeing the professional fight would inspire a hair-trigger rage. "We are non-violent people!" I told the tennis crew. They nodded and whispered. While waiting for our dinner rezzies at Nobu, a yummy, fancy "asian-fusion" restaurant, I played blackjack for 20 minutes and won $100!

Here's Papi and me, waiting to eat. Couple things: Isn't my hair shiny!? Dudes, I know what Mina's talking about now. When you get a great picture of yourself, you gotta tell somebody. I don't know if I really look like this, but I'll take it! Also, when I get dressed up and wear anything that remotely pushes up my boobs, they look humongous. Seriously, they didn't look this big in the mirror when I dressed. I look at the pictures of the night and I'm like, goddamn in an embarrassed sort of way. It's a little much, if you ask me -- you might already know about my cleavage shyness -- but it was Vegas so boobs away.Rochelle, Page and I waiting for dinner, still sober. Then we got to drinking sake, and it was all good. Page took this unscripted photo of Papi, which came out unintentionally and hilariously coy, as you can see.Then Page made us all pose for our modeling head shot. Here's her most excellent portrait.Here's Ron's, the team's oldest player. 25 years ago, he was the face of the Valentino print ads. No lie. He wishes he hadn't told us that because we brought it up a thousand times.Here's mine with my boobs pelted with edamame. Since I never really show them off in my real life, they couldn't stop talking about them either, or throwing things at them. Here we are up in the club. By this point, Husband left to go sleep for the next day's match because he's sensible like that. We carried on for him.The drunker Clint got, the more his face looked like a chipmunk.How YOU doin'? Time to go home, it looks like. What about tennis you may ask. Our team went to Vegas representing Southern California in 10.0 mixed doubles. This is one level below players just getting off the tour or college players that hold the one or two spot at a divsion one school. Our team is good and this level of play is exciting and competitive. One of the women on our team -- but not in our party crew -- is from France and went four rounds at Wimbleton in her day. She won the Italian Open in singles for god's sake! Page was a top player at Stanford. She's no joke and is one of the best on our team. The best part about mixed doubles is that if you haven't played a team before, you can't guess who the weaker of the two players are. It's stupid to assume the woman is weaker because then a ball is roaring back in your ass after a weak shot is hit to her. Most every woman on the other team on Sunday morning was the power house player. They were treeing off monster forehands and picking off volleys at their shoeslaces in miraculous plays. It was fun to watch Page and her female opponent try to out muscle each other. Husband and his partner won easily, but our other two teams lost in final set tiebreaker/hearbreakers. Here are some tennis pic's.

Husband and Clint waiting for first round matches on Saturday morning, before I came out.
Husband warming up on Saturday. He's hot.Papi serving it up on Sunday. More hotness.
After his win. Yay, team! Anyway, though the food changes have been monumental, the fun prescription was really just as important. Because fun is fun, y'all!

I Whined My Way To Vegas and Use Skills for Good, Y'all

2009-11-20T09:03:00.000-08:00

I told you that my husband has gone to Mexico for work three times in the past three weeks. Well, now this weekend just happens to be when his tennis team was scheduled to go to Las Vegas because they made it to nationals. So he was leaving, again, and while I was excited and proud that he made nationals, I was having a hard time suppressing bitterness. I was tired of holding it all down, plus work has taken such a serious upswing that I can hardly see straight. Not to mention that I was jealous that he was going to Vegas to yuck it while I'd be holding it down, again. So, being the mature and understanding and loving partner that I am, I text him, in short, "What am I? The help?" I mentioned other things that translated to me feeling like the frumpy caretaker while he jet sets, which is hardly the cast, but you know, hyperbole is my friend. Whatever. So, I crossed my arms in a HHMPF and waited for his text to tell me to chill or to say, sorry, out of my control, Mami, but he text, "Look under your mouse pad." And under the my mouse pad there was some cash and a note that read, "Please come to Vegas tomorrow. I miss you! I love you!"

Ok, so I felt a little stupid and ridiculous, but those feelings certainly didn't trump my feeling of Yipppeeeee! I'm gonna have some fun! And I need some grown up fun right now. A sister needs balance, y'know? Balance seems so fleeting though, but still, the entire weight of my world eased up off me the second I knew I had some spontaneous fun coming up. I leave this afternoon. Yippeee!

Mina and I had some fun last weekend. I took her and her BFF to see the junior division of the LA Derby Dolls and I gotta say it was the best time I've had in a long time. I had been a fan of roller derby as a kid in the 70's, when Skinny Minnie Miller was a star and the games were scripted like the WWF. Women's roller derby has made a big surge in the last couple years and now it's treated like a true sport where points are scored legitimately. The camp factor aside, these women are athletes and I got oddly teary-eyed when the intro music was blaring and the skaters were rolling around the rink in a warm-up pack, crouched and bouncing. Man, any kind of empowerment chokes me up every time. The skater's names were hilarious: Anya Handsanneez. Cherrylicious. O. Hellno. Eat-It Piaf. If it was raunchy or violent, it was incorporated into a name. Of course I spent most of the game coming up with my own name when I become a derby star. Here it is: Celia Cruzinforabrusin. Best name ever, right? Don't lie. I shouldn't have posted this! Don't steal it! Anyway, Mina and I were screaming at the skaters by the end, and she was begging me to join the little girl league, which starts at age 8. I'm seriously thinking about letting her do it, but dang if that's not one more thing on our plates. We got this terrible picture of her and her favorite skater, Slammin Amazon from the Hells Belles.
Speaking of Mina, I had her parent-teacher conference this week. I got good and bad news. The good news is that she's doing pretty well in school! She's learning how to juggle more and more balls and all in all, she's doing well. Tests scores are average, but again I got a comment regarding her thought process. Like, she was the only kid that mentioned the overall message of the book in their big book report project; she didn't just summarize facts. I do influence her to think like that, but she still processed it and put it in her report by herself. When making her auto biographical poster, she was one of three kids only, when asked what they'd do with a million dollars, who said they'd be charitable with it. She said she'd give half to the schools and spend the other half traveling the world, helping kids. Gulp. So proud. So, the bad news? Mina decided to get in a good amount of trouble on the playground the day before my conference. Demerits and all, which demerits really don't mean shit compared to the trouble from me when I heard the news. Mina is drawn to a particular girl who is doing poorly in school, but has the sharp, mean wit of a 30 year old. Who doesn't love that type? She's hilarious, but I told Mina that if this girl influenced her in a negative way, it would be lights out on the friendship. They had been doing well. We had even taught the friend a few manners when she was up at our house; she seemed new to those. But last week the friend decided during lunch that she didn't want another girl to be on the handball court and she instructed Mina to throw a ball at the girl to drive her off. There are not many kids in school, girl or boy, who can hit a kid with a ball on command, but Mina can. Her arm is laser-like in precision and impact. So Mina does it and the friend then demands that Mina throw it again, but harder. The victim tries to duck and hits her head on the handball court while doing so. The teacher told me she knew that this is not Mina's nature and that when Mina got caught, she welled up immediately, but still my jaw dropped a little and all I heard for the rest of our meeting was: My child has used her powers for evil, not good. She was a follower-pawn of evil. That and, ooo I'm gonna whoop her tiny ass when we get home.

I'm not one to get mad about many things. The girls can push me around to a certain extent as long as they're not nasty about it. As long as their school work is their priority and they are kind-hearted, good people, I pretty much lay down for anything. If they're slipping in grades or school work, that can be worked out, y'know? But when I hear that they have shown signs of maliciousness and bullying, that unglues me. That upsets me to no end. Fuck some algebra if you can't be a kind and decent person or can't have a mind of their own. If they use a great athletic talent to hurt and scare someone, that's when they see a mami they don't ever want to see. I don't get ragey. That's not my style, but I did spank her, which I haven't done in a long time, and honestly this upsets me enough to make me teary so when I gave her the big-picture, universal talk about thinking for herself, not being a robot and most importantly being a kind person, I was on the verge of crying, and that cut in her like a sniper bullet. Choked up, I told her that she was a great person, that I knew that like no one else did, "So, be great," I told her. She cried and we hugged hard for a while and that was that. She was back to being great. Oh and she can't hang with that friend anymore, which is a bummer because the girl was growing on me.

Here's her 5th grade school picture. When she gave it to me she said, "Aren't I BEAU-ti-ful?" She was beaming over the picture. I said, "You certainly are." She said, "My hair is so shiny and perfect, dang." Man, I laughed. I said, "You have a beautiful smile, Mina." She said, "DON'T I?" I said, "And I dig that necklace you picked out." She said, "I KNOW!" To say that these girls have extra helpings in the confidence department is the understatement of the year.
Here's Maya showing her confidence before her first, high school Homecoming dance!Now, give me a goofy dance move for good measure.
Now, work it out with AW. Off to Vegas, y'all!

I'm Back. Pretty Sure of It.

2009-11-10T13:34:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling pretty good. Thank you all for your fantastic comments and support. I felt the love. Thank you.

For seven days, I've eaten only fresh, whole foods; food not processed, purer food like fruits and veggies, obviously, plain brown rice, plain potatoes, raw nuts, plain beans. It's been about 60-70% raw. The only processed items I've eaten has been soy creamer and coffee, a cup in the morning. Breakfast has been dick-like fruit with raw nut butters and berries. Lunch has been huge salads with the homemade flaxoil dressing and beans. Dinner has been more raw veggies, some steamed plain veggies, brown rice. Fresh fruit for dessert, which I've never been able to say with a straight face because fruit as dessert has always seemed like a fantasy standard that I've never been interested in adhering to -- until now. I'm not fucking around.

If this were about my weight, I would have blown this off on day one. I woulda had a fair amount of real desserts by now. But dudes, I felt so badly the last 2-3 weeks. I don't want to feel that way again. Every-day stress and a super busy life aside, I feel that food is the the culprit as well as the cure to a great many things. Just like my friend's mom thinks that teatree oil is the cure for everything. Or that movie where Windex was the fix all? Whole food is that for me. When the girls feel badly, I run through this list: What did you eat at school? Have you eaten a fruit or vegetable? Why not? Have you had enough water? Did you sleep well last night? Within these questions, I think I can solve anything. Sprained ankle? Ice it and drink some tea. Heartache? Sleep. Tired? Water and more fruits and vegetables.

The majority of the time, I eat whole and healthy. But now I'm traipsing through purer territory where I believe most everything is too processed. The quality of packaged foods is so poor, but I can't say that I haven't mindlessly eaten vegan shit food. I go through periods where I don't realize how much, like recently.

People I know, but don't know very well, have anointed me their food parole officer some how. When they find out that I'm vegan and that I strive to be a healthy vegan, they like to blurt out what they eat or haven't eaten or how little cheese they consume a day, like I'm reporting back to Vegan Headquarters. I feel badly when they do this because this obviously isn't about me. Maybe it's a justification/defensiveness to decisions they feel might not be so good for them. Or maybe they think that I'm judging every morsel they consume when usually I'm the one that gets the tone and looks like, Great, she thinks she's all better than me with her fucking salad. I gotta say, it's strange. If I'm with a group at dinner, someone around me will tell me why they've ordered what they did or "I never usually eat like this," when I'm thinking, I don't give a shit. The thing is, I don't want to make anybody feel badly for whatever stage they're at with their food awareness or for any choices they make, period. If I positively influence someone, cool. If someone thinks I'm an uppity so-n-so, well, damn, that sucks, but fuck it. The dangerous territory is when I'm asked advice, which I'm hesitant to give. Unless I know the person really well, my advice is very general. One of Husband's friends asked me recently what kind of program he should go on to lose weight? This guy lives a bachelor life, fast food, drinking, not as active as he used to be. I told him to maybe go through the drive thru less and eat more fruits and vegetables. Maybe? Then I flinched for the resentment, but he was cool.

I really don't want to eat the majority of food that's out there in the market or in restaurants. I've felt that way for a long time and my body and psyche are wanting that more now too. But I feel that with this more limited way of eating, I'm taking another step towards being a bigger pain in the ass socially. Ultimately I will do what feels best, but I kinda think, ah man, nobody pay attention to me when I order or don't eat so much.

Seriously though, I'm not fucking around. I can only think about how I felt, and that's such driving motivation. I'm so serious, in fact, that I'm trying to coin a clever word for what I'm becoming. Wholefoodegan? That's lame,right? Help me. Freshian? Wholer? I feel better every day that I'm a simpletarian. I take little slides in my mood here and there, but I understand the detox process. I also understand the mourning process of mindless eating. I'm aware of the comfort in that, and the rebellion. All these things I'm trying to mourn properly. Wish me well in my more radical, pain in the ass step.

* * *

So, Husband had to leave again tonight for Mexico. They told him midday today. He just got home Friday. I'm taking it in stride. He is too. Where TeaCake at? Get the bed warm, buddy.

My sister in law is getting married in late January. In Puerto Rico! We were all so excited when we first heard, but as the weeks have rolled on, the financial burden of a trip for four weighed us down, squeezed out all the fun. I prepared my mind to not go, but last week, Husband got a bonus for working so hard. Out of the blue! And it was about exactly what the trip would cost. Things divine have the most impeccable timing. Thanks so much, Universe! And Papi.

I'm going to Puer-to Ri-co. I'm going to Puer-to Ri-co. In honor, here's a little video for you that plucks at the blood strings of every boricua no matter how faint or faded or mixed. "Hijos de liberdad!" Where Poundpapi at? I need an amen. I don't care what anybody says about Marc Anthony. I love him, and this song gets me every time. Nothing beats singing it at Madison Square Garden either. At 3:12, choked up, by 4:00, full waterworks. If you think this is cheesy, keep it to yo'self!

Bringing the Upswing

2009-11-05T08:46:00.000-08:00

I can't seem to shake this blasé dissatisfaction. I'm stuck in the in-between of a near upswing and tumbling way down. Something deadened my heart a little, y'all, and ooo I'm trying to shake it out, off, away.

Complaining upsets me. Because my life is a series of choices, right, and I've made all of these choices to be where I am now. And I'm sifting through my choices, thinking where the change needs to come and I like and am grateful for most of it, and I'm frustrated by only a part of it. So, who am I to complain, y'know. Then I settle back into the in-between.

Well, I just cried on the phone to Husband. He's in Mexico, again, for work. This is the second trip in two weeks. Actually we texted. I cried while texting. Don't judge. I express myself better when writing and I’d be close to mortification if I were to complain verbally; I'll gladly, toxically swallow it all away rather than say it out loud. But not when I'm justifiably angry though, or when clear boundaries are crossed or when it comes to the kids -- but this personal, unknown space of beat down and tired and robot-ness and random, unwarranted feelings of failure. These things I can't say out loud. Don't make me. I don't want to. Let me text them.

Husband and I don't often have emotional heart to hearts, just when absolutely needed, which is fine with me. I’m not sentimental in that sense; I want it parceled organically, in extreme moments. This way the talks feel magnified and hugely meaningful. We soften and are all-attentive, all-important, kind, melting. He stops the world for me, and tells me bottom-of-the-soul stuff. I rarely need that, but today I did.

And I feel better. Because the basics make me feel better; a base of love, cherishedness. Back to Maven's vows -- and it really is the base of a rock-solid relationship -- championing each other. He said, to my money worries, "Rich or poor, I don't give a shit. I just need you. We've been piss poor before. I just need you." So, that's the basics. That's all I need. Nothing else matters.

I will say that when I was younger, I wouldn't have allowed myself to feel dissatisfied. Not that that's healthy or better. I do feel that I'm way more in touch with myself, which brings awareness to the good and bad within. I allow that now. I realize this is progression. But, I think back on my young hardness to any bullshit emotions (I believed) and I realize that this is just the way it is for the downtrodden, the ones who have to really pound it out to survive. When I had real stress about a beater car or no car or the rent and gas money or food money, I felt I had no right to complain about a job or two jobs, or how long it took to get there or the hours I put in . That would have jinxed it all for sure. Just hustle and make that rent, and hope it gets better. It was a servant mentality. I asked nothing from my bosses, just tap danced as hard as I could, and hoped for the best. I'd get choked up at good reviews, when given a raise. The trabajadores of the world feel no sense of entitlement. We just hustle. And my life is far from that now. I shop at health food stores most of the time for fuck's sake. I have a buttery apartment in the greatest city, so what with 2 bedrooms and crumbling kitchen cabinets. I have lazy-ass, spoiled dogs! And really, my young self would be embarrassed. I mean, she'd be happy that all that she put in led to my life now, but she would be embarrassed that anything makes me feel failed in any way or sense. I'm sorry, young self. You did so stellarly with your half of life with hardly anything.

God, my husband made me feel better. And my tattoo makes me feel better. And my girls make me feel better no matter how much time they demand. And my cat, TeaCake, when he sleeps in my absent husband's spot on the bed at night, that makes me feel better. And my new favorite breakfast, pictured below makes me feel better. I have to admit that though I felt kinda low for a couple weeks prior, the Halloween baking/testing and pie eating really pushed my head under water more. It must be tiresome to read about my sugar darkness yet again (though they get farther apart), but to be honest, it didn’t occur to me (yet again) until a couple days ago. I have sugar amnesia. Or after the low feelings fade, I convince myself that I’ve hype up the sugar blues more than they are. But god no, I really don’t. Eating it is impossible. Anyway, after kicking myself again, it’s back to the food basics too. Starting with:And this picture makes me laugh.
And this song by Los Tijuana Five makes me feel better (posted by Lisa on her FB)

And you guys make me feel better. Thank you.

Resisting the Cave

2009-10-28T11:33:00.000-07:00

So, there I was, laying down my parental wisdom (again) on my girl, Maya; giving a fab speech about high school drama. She's been in the thick of it lately with crushes & breakups -- her own and in the middle of her friends'. I was telling her not to get caught up in what other kids say and not to tell them too much of her own business because this only becomes fodder for them to exploit, and then Maya stopped my speech and said, "Mami, you don't like ANY drama at all. But I like a little bit of drama." This stopped me in my tracks for a minute because I've spent 14 years teaching her to have her own mind, and I admire her for taking me up on that piece of sound advice, but for a second I was bummed that her own mind was separate from mine -- just for a second I felt that. I'm allowed, right? I did not express that to her, of course. Then I was proud of her for being so honest and self aware.

And then I felt lonely.

I can't express enough how parenting is an all day, every day, every minute venture. It takes a type of dedication that wins medals and cash money and nobel prizes outside of the parental arena. And I'm getting to that stage of parenting where we are supposed to know how to gracefully pull back the intensity. Where we give them space to be themselves, ease up on our gas and so delicately not dump any of our own shit full-load onto their heads. We are told to be prepared for all of this and it's just supposed to be so seamless to shift gears and watch them drift away. I mean, I know we want this. I know it will happen. But ain't that a bitch?

It's that I like them so much. The three of us are joined together and do so much together. And it's time that I peel away from Maya a little, unnoticed, and let her text out her dramafied scenarios by herself and hang out in her room with her ipod, while I take up something else that will fill that intense parental-focus hole. Cage Boxing, maybe.

In the scheme of all things teenage, Maya really is a breeze. I'm fully aware and thankful. We've just had a series of independent baby steps lately. I shouldn't be surprised by how lonely it makes me feel. I'm just very attuned to how loneliness feels, I think, and it doesn't necessarily panic me, but makes me shrink back a bit. Like, loneliness or aloneness is supposed to be my natural state. Like, I come out of a cave to connect with people just a little bit and then burrow back down into my mind. Husband is out of town too and his work, in general, is beating him down big time, so with that, I feel exposed to how much emphasis I put on the girls especially when Maya and I go through these natural and smooth baby steps towards independence. It makes me question the time I've put in. Like, was/is it too much. Obviously not, but I guess it's natural to question every step we've made as parents. I second guess, sometimes, making their emotional state at all times the golden number one. It wouldn't have happened any other way though.

Objectively, I gladly sling shot these kids into the stratosphere and without a trace of my bullshit smeared on them. And I know, too, that it's ok to feel how I'm feeling even if it’s quietly (other than the blog!) and even if I want to fight the loneliness for once.

Begone Woe Tattoo

2009-10-23T09:16:00.000-07:00

Hi Friends,

I've crossed over. I am the tattoo lady. I'm sleeve bound perhaps.

But this, this put a high bounce to my step when lately I've had a hard time catching a rhythm or any kind of spark. Here is my Begone Woe tattoo, right on the inner forearm. No hiding it now. Behold:

Bye woe, with her lil kerchief.
A petal on the bike wheel! Heartgush.

The details slay me. Look at the hem of her dress and her precious face, and the sash and the jewlery! I love her so much. And the details of the bike; the itty bitty shield thing on the frame. Happy Friday Familia. Feels good to be on the upswing again. Begone Woe! Come, Hope.

Impossible Motherhood

2009-10-15T10:14:00.001-07:00

A couple days ago I read an article in the LA Times about a book called Impossible Motherhood by Irene Vilar. The title of the article was: Memoir of a former abortion addict. The by-line: In 'Impossible Motherhood,' Irene Vilar, now a mother of two, writes of what led her to have 15 pregnancies ended.

Vilar writes of her fifteen abortions.

I was sort of stunned when I read the title because as an adamant pro-choicer and a feminist (are we comfortable with this word yet? I am) I still felt squeamish and light-headed by this notion.

Before reading the article, I tried to imagine what would lead Vilar to this level of self-abuse. Standard and societal judgments leapt to mind. It's easy to dismiss someone as careless, ignorant, which I could not keep myself from initially feeling. When I stopped myself from this sort of judgment, I considered that we fight for rights period, right? We don't fight for rights to then judge the extent by which they are exercised.

Then I read the article. The complexities of Vilar are so entangled that simple judgments of her are trite, insignificant. I have not stopped thinking about her. One publisher -- one of the 51 who had first rejected the book -- said that the memoir was too painful to publish. The reason the book finally did get published was because it is intelligently written even if her story hangs in the balance of an undeniably complicated issue.

Vilar's abortions were a protest of sort; self-abuse as revolt. That is my interpretation, and this thought hurts me. Much of Vilar's revolt seems subconscious, a sickness that she was unable to stop for a long time. She explains it like another other addiction. When I learned more of the complexity of her rebelliousness against her ex-husband (she was 16 and he 50 when they met; he insisted they have no children) and even more compelling, her familial and cultural history, Vilar's story became a multi-generational, gender-encompassing tragic flood.

Vilar grandmother was Lolita Lebron, the Puerto Rican nationalist who moved to NY in the 1950's - leaving behind her family -- and then shot up the U.S. House of Representatives, wounding five congressmen. She was convicted of trying to overthrow the US government and served 25 years in prison. Lebron left behind Vilar's mother in PR, an infant at the time of the shooting. Vilar's mother eventually killed herself by jumping from a moving car while 8 year old Vilar tried to hold her back. Several factors contributed to Vilar's mother's severe depression: Being abandoned by Lebron, her cheating husband, and a coerced, unneeded hysterectomy at age 33.

Here's a passage from the article:

"Puerto Rico, at the time, was a living laboratory for American-sponsored birth control research. In 1956, the first birth control pills -- 20 times stronger than they are today -- were tested on mostly poor Puerto Rican women, who suffered dramatic side effects. Starting in the 1930s, the American government's fear of overpopulation and poverty on the island led to a program of coerced sterilization. After Vilar's mother gave birth to one of her brothers, she writes, doctors threatened to withhold care unless she consented to a tubal ligation.

These feelings of powerlessness -- born of a colonial past, acted out on a grand scale or an intimate one -- are the ties that bind the women of Vilar's family.

'If there is something that is intersecting across generations -- my grandmother, my mother and me -- it's the issue of control," said Vilar. "I chose a very private drama to show my problem of control, my mother chose a personal one, not as intimate as mine, and with my grandmother, it was the ultimate political control.'"

I'm so heavy-hearted about the depth of this story especially as the book starts to kick up a duststorm for the Pro-Life movement. They use Vilar's story as an argument for them, an example of how we women cannot control ourselves. Women must need governmental parenting. The push for their own agenda demeans any significance in relation to our historical damage. This is not to say Vilar has nonchalantly experienced her abortions. Many were followed by suicide attempts. If she is brutally honest about her experiences, she is also very humbled by the feminist movement which kept abortions safe and legal in the US. She is alive because of the movement, she says, because she would have aborted anyway, by any means. Her addiction and struggle with self-determination and control may have been a painful revolt, but they were still exclusive from the positive gains that the feminist movement championed. Vilar's revolt was strictly personal, yet it still makes me think of our long history of oppression. I feel it so deeply with her story.

Anyway, I wanted to tell you about the book because I think it will be kept pretty low key, except by Pro Life advocates, which is unfortunate. Pro Choicers seem to be fairly mute on Vilar's story, but I could imagine that the basic battle to keep abortion laws in place is difficult enough without having to debate Vilar's situation.

Here's the LA Times article here if you want to read a bit more.

Gonna Ramble Myself Out of a Rut

2009-10-13T11:31:00.001-07:00

John Wooden was a little ahead of my time though I still bow down to him as the basketball god that he is. He turns 99 tomorrow. He might be waiting around for another UCLA championship, but he'll be well past the century mark if that's gonna happen. Though Wooden is rightfully revered, Chick Hearn was the old basketball dude who I loved. I pretended he was my grandfather when I spent plenty of nights alone, watching Laker games of the Showtime era on our thirteen inch black and white TV that got three channels. And one of those was channel 9! Thank god; home of the Lakers and home of the voice of Chick Hearn, my fantasy grandfather and long-time Laker announcer. Inches from the screen (because that shit was still kinda snowy) I'd eat toasted almond ice cream by the bowlful, enraptured by the drama that was playoff basketball of the 1980's. Man, I would laugh at Chick's sayings (THE JELLLOOO'S JIGGLING!) and whoop at the TV when the Lakers kept my hope buoyant. Chick Hearn was the only celebrity that got a tear from me when he passed. He was good company for a lonely kid.

Hope, my specialty, is kinda waning lately. I'm not sure what it is. I mean, I kind of know, but it's the kind of know that I'm not good at talking about. If I talk about it or complain about it or let it in too much, then what? I dunno. Good, healthy complaining is not what I'm good at. I get frustrated and embarrassed. I get self conscious. I feel weak. Suck that shit up, y'know, because then what? I take a road so high, I'm out of sight. I'm on high, lost road. Where am I?

I took the girls to a couple more writing workshops at 826LA over the weekend. They were split in different groups on different days this time; more in their own age group. Mina's was back in Echo Park. While she wrote about Creatures of the Future, Maya and I went to the second-hand store across the street and browsed. I tried to convince Maya to get a navy corduroy jacket from maybe the 80's that had a huge sew patch on the back of the University of Wisconsin Eau Claire. On the front, in yellow, the name Andrea was embroidered and underneath was her title (I don't remember it now) in the Agricultural department. Then I tried to convince Maya that bowling shirts used to be the main reason we went to thrift stores back in the day. I held up a shirt for her to try on, and she said, "I can't wear that shirt. It says Lorraine on it." I was like, Yes! That's -- you want to -- Lorraine! It says Lorraine, dude. She wasn't having it. But she did go for the old blue Boy Scout shirt with the many patches. So, I got through a little. On Sunday, Maya's workshop was called "Secrets & Lies." Nice! It was about telling truth through lies through dialogue. How cool is that? This workshop was at the Venice location, in an upstairs office of the SPARC building. SPARC is the creation of Judy Baca. Baca has been the premiere, political muralist of Los Angeles for three decades. This is the building my mother worked at for years in the late 70’s, early 80’s. SPARC used to be the old jailhouse in Venice and I remember as a kid loving that some offices were actual jail cells, with bars and everything. While Maya was in workshop, I wrote a bit. But then I wandered the halls of a closed SPARC, swearing it used to be bigger and still awed by it. I didn't have my camera, but I took a few photos with my phone. Baca's work is still so relevant and interesting and phenomenal. She exudes power, mainly. Power in dissent. Power in cultural and gender self acceptance. It's the feeling I had there as a kid; these halls makes one feel powerful:

Here's some outside:

Usually, I would feel waves of inspiration from these, but I don't. I feel a warming, a homecoming, a deep resonation for sure, but I'm worn out. I wanted to curl up at the foot of the Goddess Tree painting and feel nothing. I guess the comfort was good. But inspiration is lost on me right now.

It's raining. We've waited for rain since June around here. There has been no rain since then, and the anticipation of the cooler weather and the bluster -- and the rain -- was temporarily uplifting. The rain is nice, but not as good as dancing around the house yelling, "Rain is coming!" It's been a long time since I've heard the syncopated clank of the roof drains and the constant ringing of Molly's wind chime. It's nice. I don't feel much more.

We watched a movie called Chocolate. It's a Thai movie about an autistic teenage girl who could pick up martial arts moves just by watching them -- then it was time to avenge her mother! It was awesome. The movie had some of the best fight scenes we've seen in a long time. The film was on the cheesy side - it's martial arts flick -- but seriously, that girl kicked ass, Muay Thai style. Mina watched it twice. One of the best fights, though one of the shorter ones, was between the girl and the bad guy's pawn who was more severely autistic for Battle Autism. The boy fought in a series of unpredictable twitches and B-boy moves. He wore Run DMC glasses and an Adidas track suit! The girl was taken aback until she picked up his moves - because that's her power! She was so good.

Writing a novel jammed in limited amounts a time -- and in the time that is the leftover dregs of the day – feels a tad futile and insignificant. It feels rushed and tangled. But maybe I'd think that with all the time in the world too. Plugging away . . .

I'm getting a new tattoo in a couple weeks. I'm excited, but because of how I'm feeling, I'm worried about it too. Like, maybe it's too much money to spend on fancy skin decoration. But it's going to be super dope. But as I get older, is it lame to keep getting tattoos? Don't answer that. I know how I would answer that, but still. I dunno. Then I think, maybe I should get a full-body tattoo because I think that looks better than old lady skin. I dunno.

I'm ok. I'll feel better soon. Got to, right? Where my high road at?

Queen of the Setting Sun

2009-09-30T12:00:00.000-07:00

That's the third line from my high school anthem, where Maya goes now. I went to Back-to-School night there last night, and though I experienced much trepidation when visiting her/our middle school, I felt energized on the high school campus. I do have very fond memories from the place. I didn't exactly realize that until the class reunions, and now, spending a fair amount of time on campus and reliving it through Maya.

All of Maya's teachers are great, but I'll make special mention of her honors English teacher who is young and smart and funny and puts literature on a golden pedestal. I almost begged to audit his class for the year. I wanted to hear every discussion about the books they'd read. Of course, this is Maya's time to sort out and discuss and fall in love with it all, which will certainly happen in this class. She and I are going to read some of her assigned books together so we can talk about them. I say it's to discuss together, but really rereading these classics has been so joyful for me. I told you how I felt about recently rereading To Kill A Mockingbird. Now I'm reading The Great Gatsby and man, it's so good. Why was it not this good before? Oh, it was? My mind just hadn't busted through its young fog yet? Maya's teacher is a leading authority of Steinbeck's work; he gives lectures across the country so, whoa, cool. He's going to be great for her, just like my high school literature teacher was for me.

Did I tell you Maya made the freshman basketball team? That experience has been pretty magical in itself. I don't think you can beat the whole budding-into-adulthood-team-bonding experience. Maya's thrilled about it all and so far, the girls have been great. Maya's jockeying for the JV team already, which I heard from the head coach. He said that Maya told him straight up she wanted to be on JV. And I threw my head back and laughed. I told him, "Good for her." He nodded, "Yea, I liked that." The JV coach told Maya, "Someone's gonna be a leader of my team pretty soon." And Maya said, "Oh yes I will be." Haha, man, I love hearing about the bravery of my girls from other people.

The high school football games have already been seriously dramatic for Maya. She attended the first game of the year, her first game ever, and she was jazzed by the whole experience of rooting with her friends. Tragically, during the game one of our players was seriously hurt. His neck was accordioned in a tackle and he lay motionless on the field for 30 minutes as the paramedics took their time getting him carefully onto a gurney and rushed to the hospital. It's been three weeks now since it happened. He's still in ICU, his breathing tube just recently removed, and they aren't saying much about the long-term effects. That does not sound good, but we can only wish him the best of thoughts. The whole school rallies for him; this is obviously very impactful on the students. The USC football team and Pete Carroll have called him, encouraging him. Last week, Maya went to the football game again. It was a close one against a long-time rival, and right after the game, outside the stadium as kids filed out, a non-student was stabbed by another non-student. Cops were already there monitoring the exit of crowds and the kid was immediately arrested; the stabbed boy will make a full recovery. It was gang related, apparently. The two towns, ours and the opposing football teams', have always had a latin gang history. The cops and the school acted perfectly. Their presence already there during the incident, but still, another big-life/near-death incident for these kids to ponder and secretly stress about.

* * *

During Back-to-School night last night, the parents had to file into the auditorium to hear, I'm not sure what, because I jetted - ditched the entire meeting -- when after looking at the night's program I realized that my favorite teacher of all time, my literature teacher, still taught at the high school. By the light of my cell phone, I saw his name in the program and I ran out to find his class as the choir was singing a lovely rendition of the national anthem. When I found his class, I knew he'd be alone because all the good parents were in the auditorium still.

I remember him as a little hemmed up, soft-spoken but with a dry, tight humor. His neck was potmarked and his mouth smaller than most people's, so were his eyes actually, but he laughed easily. He was probably in his early 30's when he taught me and he wore brown corduroys and brown oxford shoes and buttoned-up plaid shirts and horn-rimmed glasses. His age was only revealed in his hair, which displayed a youthful wave. He probably was unaware of the good bounce to his hair. Most importantly, he loved literature and he displayed a thoughtful and kind examination of it that unlocked my own unique and thoughtful examination. He read things similarly to me, obviously on a more advanced, less foggy level, and he held out his hand to me to pull me deep into the full and meaningful view of literature; not always the straight-on perspective. I had him every year for English because I picked his classes as electives too, which included Mythology and Folk as Lit and Bible as Lit. He also ran a lunchtime ping pong club that I frequented. This ping pong club also ran a few games of pickup basketball in the park. I never missed those. He still runs the Ballroom Dance Club at the high school. See? He's perfect.

Last night, when I found his class, I spied into his room from the hall. He was standing over his podium, reviewing papers, and I felt a sudden crash of sadness. His hair was gone, shaved to a too-close buzz cut. And I was sad because he was older and I didn't want time to pass for him. I wanted him vibrant and perfect still. I said his name walking into the room. I was wearing my glasses which is an instant disguise for me. Hardly anyone recognizes me with glasses, even people I see regularly. Though his hair was gone, his face looked very much the same, effected only by a bit of a time sag. His attire, his glasses, his small features and potmarked neck, all the same. I said my name and his tiny mouth smiled in surprise. I hugged him though he wasn't really prepared for that and his voice jump started into an easy excitement. We reminisced fondly. I told him about Maya, and he shook his head. I looked at his hand for a wedding ring and saw none. The school rumor back in the day was that he lived with his parents, a man-child with never a love interest. He told me his parents had died a few years ago. I didn't ask about a wife or a partner. We did not have that type of relationship. I was sad again for him. He walked over to his class filing cabinet and without effort pulled out a file and sorted through some papers and 8x10 class photos. He pulled out the photo of my entire 10th grade Lit class circa 1983, and I laughed hard when I saw myself looking earnest, trying not to smile, trying to look scholarly but it was just a parody of that look. I was wearing a bandana on my head, 1940's style, and I was holding a ping pong paddle in my hand across my chest, pledge-like. He said, "See? You were a stand out." I knew not to say, "I was?" because when I was younger he had made me feel like all my comments had been insightful and ahha! worthy. He asked me what I did now. I said, "I'm in technology, but really I'm a writer." He said, "I knew it." Just then a parent came in with a student forcing us to end the reminiscing. I got his email address and went on to Maya's first period on a high, but mad I didn't get a chance to tell him, You were the best. You were my favorite of all time. You encouraged me to love things how I love them now. But I have his email and believe me, these sentiments will get to him soon enough.

I honestly believe that Maya will feel the same about her young and vibrant Steinbeck scholar. She has already cried to me about the ending of Of Mice and Men, and I'm already forever grateful to her teacher for that.

We’re in month one of high school, people. It’s going to be a profound ride as it was for most all of us.

826LA Echo Park

2009-09-21T15:19:00.000-07:00

For those of you with school-aged kids, do you know about 826 started by Dave Eggers? It's a free tutoring program, usually language-arts specific, for all-aged kids. The original is in San Francisco, but they've branched out to many major cities. The building he originally rented for the tutoring/publication space was a retail-only space, so he had to come up with a shop idea, as a facade. They turned the front part of the building into a pirate supply shop. They sold handmade peg legs and evening-wear eye patches, all types of funny and clever pirate things. The store is really just a front to the meaty, inspirational stuff that goes on in the back, though the store does very well now apparently. Eggers' old Brooklyn neighborhood then demanded an 826 center, where one then sprouted with a super-hero supply store facade. The one in LA, in Echo Park, has a Time Travel convenience store front. I've posted a TED clip of an Eggers lecture about the whole deal at the bottom of this post. It's long (20 min), but definitely worth it, especially if it will help you steer your kids in the direction of a (hopefully) local 826 center, which are all around the states now.

So, as Maya is getting more interested in writing and Mina has been overly worried about the level of writing now demanded of her in fifth grade, I signed them up for an 826 workshop last weekend. The fantastic workshops are also free. This one was called Writing for Pets, where kids of all ages wrote a story specifically for an animal. In fact, volunteers brought in two dogs, a cat and fish as inspiration. Kids read their stories directly to the animals. I chose this particular workshop because it boasted that even the shiest of writers would feel inspired, and this was most important considering Mina's building anxiety about her ability to express herself well enough on paper. But 826 was right on the money. Mina bounced out of the workshop squealing and pumping her fists. Oh my gosh, I was over the moon. The workshop was a little young for Maya, but she still enjoyed it and we all got a huge kick in the pants about the time travel mart. Here's an online sample of what they sell there. It's all so thoughtful and hilarious.

While the girls were in workshop, I went next door to the cozy Stories Books & Cafe where I scored a $4 used copy of Mrs. Dalloway illustrated with a great 1970's cover, complete with coffee-ring stain. I love it. I then wrote for over an hour until a group met in the cafe planning how they were going to fight some Medieval Renaissance battles around the Echo Park Lake. Not even kidding. I saw velvet costumes on hangers.

I snuck back over to the kids' workshop and they told me I could listen in on the last of the readings. I heard pip-squeak voiced kids reading tales of Jonesy the Dog and whispers of fish adventures. Pure heaven. After workshop, the girls ran to me rattling their stories so I'd read them right away. I wasn't allowed to stand up until I had read every word. Their stories were funny and great. Mina was relieved and pumped. Here are the first few lines of her story:

Once there was a princess cat named Lucy and she lives in China. Lucy loves to torture any animal that lay foot in her castle. One of the things that she does for torturing is to make the dogs dance a hard dance or clean the castle until it is cleaner than her.

Maya's was about an Egyptian cat that became a detective to solve mysteries of the pyramids. Both so great!

After mulling around the time mart, we headed across the street to a thrift shop and I scored a light grey men's suit vest. It was made for a small man and it had pockets high and low. Maya got an owl t-shirt, and Mina tried on 80's crocheted dresses. As much as I love the Echo Park neighborhood, it was one thousand degrees on the street so we headed home, towards the ocean, for lunch and to plan which workshop they'd take next.

Check out Eggers' awesome talk about 826.

Me Like Daughters

2009-09-11T10:20:00.001-07:00

Only two things are certain right now: School and Writing.

1. School has started. And this means a rigid schedule is back in effect and it's putting the screws to everyone. Holy shit, it's tight! We've been very graceful about it considering because we've pumped up the Start of School for weeks. Maya's a high schooler! This is huge and wow is she good at it already. She's so responsible and getting in her groove. She’s equal parts maturity and goofiness. So great. Mina's a fifth grader! This is also huge because she's ruling school this year. She's the big cheese. I did not tell you guys that I received her state test scores in the mail a couple weeks ago. We all know the Infamous Second Grade Debacle, how she was tagged as remedial and "not cut out for school" and I, shocked beyond belief, was all, the fuck she ain't and you just don't understand her is all! and I'll take matters in my own hands thank you very little . . .For fourth grade Mina tested advanced in math and just shy of advanced in language arts. It was her best year yet. I rubbed the test paper all over her when she came home. We sang “You did it! You did it!” for days. She was thrilled with herself.

So, anyway, school . . .it's all consuming. Riding their asses is exhausting. Keeping them engaged, very tiring. But seeing them rocket on their own has been transformative for me. You hope it will all pay off but really you can't think about it too much, you just have to do it no matter how it will turn out. They'll still have to make decisions on their own. But honestly, they really are amazing people.

2. Writing. I'm writing so a bunch of other balls have dropped. I get obsessed and then whoa, I wonder if plants need water to live and if so, why haven't they figured out how to do that on their own? Or is toast a legit dinner? I like it. But is it good for everyone else? It's not like I'm at the computer 10 hours a day writing this novel. It's more that I'm thinking about it 10 hours a day so tasks that require, oh, remembering stuff or too much cognitive awareness is challenging. Some of the things I'm still able to do while I'm internally piecing together a plot are: cleaning/laundry, walking the dogs, cracking a homework whip, uh, let's see what else, working (it's robotic work anyhow), buying food at the grocery store though haphazardly because the meal-plan side of my brain is a little soft right now, working out. That might be about it. Everything else is shot.

My blog writing is kind of shitty too today. I should've just written Me Like Daughters and called it a day. Bear with me. I'm sorting it all out. Just wanted to say hi.

This & That

2009-08-30T19:38:00.000-07:00

God killed my patio garden. Though I'm sure, as usual, god can't take all the blame. I left the garden to go to Squaw and when I came back, it wasn't the same. The garden was well cared for by my neighbor Molly, but this didn't relieve the abandonment issues the garden was apparently harboring. All the leaves turned a celery-yellow, and all the snap peas came in while I was gone -- cheap shot, Garden. When I left, zucchini were budding, about three good-sized ones. I was excited to harvest them when I got back, but all evidence of them had been erased when I raced to the garden to check their progress.
I asked Molly how the zucchini were thinking she had plucked them off the vine and enjoyed them, and she said, "What zucchini?"
I said, "The zucchini disappeared?"
She said, "What zucchini?"
I shrugged and said, "See? I know absolutely nothing about gardening."

It might have been Mina's tutor who dog-kitty-house sat for a couple days, but she has since flown to Paris on an exchange program and it seems silly to ask her about three zucchini gone missing when she's all Eiffel Tower and Champs-Élysées and shit. I don't need to embarrass myself to that extent. It really is about making sure I'm not completely hallucinatory and/or a completely incompetent gardener. I may never know. Secretly, I think god killed the patio garden so I'd stop fucking around and write the novel already.

Just like god gave my bike a flat tire and gave me an intolerance to baked goods. Well played, god! I'm on it.

The tomatoes survived the trauma of my absence and they are fantastic. Thank you tomatoes. And the bell peppers were kind enough to stick around. It looks like I have some pole beans and cucumbers still coming, but the supporting plant, the leaves and stalk and such, look so sickly I'm not sure what the outcome will be. I stare at the garden like it's a mystery, like what will unfold has nothing to do with me.

* * *
I bought this Ecco Bella Lotion in Vanilla. I stole the idea from Lisa because she had it at Squaw and she was kind enough to let me get a squirt. She called it her pastry lotion because that's what it smells like, sweet, flaky pastry. Uh, it's intoxicating. I told Lisa that I was going to steal her scent. After I slathered it on at home, I asked Mina, "Don't I smell like a glazed donut?" And she said, "No, you smell like PlayDoh." Motherfu--- what does she know about smelling like pastry! I do think Mina meant it as a compliment and her comments have not kept me from smearing myself twice a day with the stuff.

* * *
LA's burning down. It's scary. Every year we know we're going to get fires in California and we only pray that the damage will be at a minimum and that they won't last long. But the heat is not helping. They are burning in every direction. Yesterday I told Husband it feels as if California is on the constant verge of catastrophe. Like when we rode our bikes on a stretch of bike path that goes under the pier yesterday; when we were directly under the gigantic wood pier, it creaked from cars and pedestrians above. I looked at the support columns and thought, if an earthquake hits now, forget it. My husband looked at me -- we were in the pier's shadows -- and I know he was thinking the exact same thing.

We rode down to the beach as monstrous smoke clouds billowed behind on the horizon near the mountains. We parked ourselves on the sand and I marveled at the waves which were as reflective as glass; I haven't seen that in a long time. It was such a contrast to the smokey skies and the ash rain, how the waves of the ocean were extra clear, shiny and perfect. It was perfectly LA, where everything feels at conflict; paradise on the brink of disaster. So, I was on the sand thinking of fires and earthquakes, when I see fifty yards from the shore three dolphins threading in and out of the water just beyond the small break. Mina was in the water, closer to them, and she yelled to us to look. Her body was silhouetted against the glass water and fins cut up, just above her head in my line of view. More dolphins looped passed, about ten in all, and then they turned around and came back. They lapped back and forth for a half hour. I didn't take my eyes off of them once. I watched them the entire time.

Wish us well, sibling states.

On Our Sexuality

2009-08-25T08:55:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to write about my mother in this post. Because she could easily take it over, and though I sat witness in the sidelines of her sexuality as a kid and suffered near-blackout discomfort about it, I interestingly developed an independent and relatively healthy sense of sexuality despite that. Almost. Actually, hearing the sounds of sex makes me light headed, nauseous from swirling embarrassment. It is instantly horrifying. Any porn I've ever watched has been on mute. Sexy breathing, even, in music or jest will give me hot flashes of rage. But god has been kind in that any noises I personally make, I am deaf to. Man, that's merciful.

So, I won't write about my mother here. Or not too much.

In my forties, I find it fascinating, and sometimes funny, remembering my history of sexuality with its accidental buoyancy and occasional pitfalls. I'm fascinated most about the whole concept of female sexuality; and I do mean concept because I'm not one of those women from say Real Sex who would go on a masturbation retreat or swing unabashedly with the neighbors. I don't even sleep naked. I don't write this post to put my sex life on display, past or present, either, but to express that my main interest in women's sexuality is purely in relation to our empowerment, our sense of freedom, our comfortableness, our confidence. Isn't this connected to our sexuality? Or more, isn't it related to not the overemphasising of it, but our lack of self consciousness about it?

This has been dangerous territory for us, hasn't it? Since the beginning of time? Because our sexuality and the appropriateness of our sexuality has always been open for judgement, which, in general, is fucked.

This grows in interest to me not just because I feel so comfortable with myself at 42,but monumentally as my daughters bud into their own. And oh lord, there's the rub; here's where the entire history of sexuality, personal and worldwide, becomes overwhelmingly important because I'm determined to make them feel at ease. And confident. And beautiful. Mostly, I want to obliterate the shame. And all this without embarrassing the shit out of us.

Handling menstruation was a first step. I mean in the mechanics of it all because the first steps start from the second they observe you, as a baby even, and they do watch. I mean, we did, right? We watched our mothers and aunties and grandmothers fumble around about themselves, sometimes gracefully and more often not. But when crushes start and they attract attention and when their flow beings, a hands-on approach goes to a new level. So, when Maya started her period, no matter how much I emphasised the shamelessness of it, Maya still felt it. I can't block the outside world and waves of perceptions, you know, which is why even the most well-adjusted kid has to be armed constantly with our reassurance. Especially in terms of their bodies and sense of self. It never ends. I knew this going into motherhood. I'm in the thick of it. I can't say I always feel prepared, but I will say I never back down from it. I can't trip on my own issues. I'll hollow myself out and get pummeled with every personal fear, secretly, to help them build their own foundation stronger.

So, tackling menstruation was not so hard, but their looming and unstoppable sexuality is on the horizon, and I'm honestly not too worried about it because it is unstoppable, it will come whether I'm of help or not so my nervousness lies more in preparing them enough. Strengthening their base enough. Eliminating enough of the shame no matter how much everything on the outside wants to injected it back in. And it started with: No, menstruating is not nasty or evil and it is what it is and you tell me what boy in school is giggling, tell me if his mother doesn't get her period. Then we'll be interested in what he thinks.

My boobs went from budding cute to god-damn! in a matter of months, the summer I turned seventeen. It was like that Skipper doll where you pulled down her arm and her boobs grew ta-dow! and then she was Barbie? That entire summer I was selected to work for a mini Peace Corp-type project on a West Indian island. The first time our group went down to the beach, I rocked a white bikini and one of my group mates, Will from the Bronx said, "I'm gonna take a picture of you for the boys back home." Unashamed, I said, "Knock yourself out." I didn't pose or look coy. I stood there, impatiently, because I wanted to get into the water. That summer I also lost my virginity, on the island. It was the influence of the sun and island breezes and the remoteness and my body bursting into curves which were photo-worthy, apparently, though my want of touch was completely an internal decision. Nothing was put upon me. I had zoomed in on a man I liked, a 23 year old from the island, who helped tour around our group. He did a double take on my interest and we connected. I did not want to be his girlfriend. I wanted the connection and the experience with him. And it was the ultimate empowerment to go after what I wanted and have the exact experience I wanted. I look back on it -- not him exactly, but the experience -- with great fondness.

That was all by accident -- or more by absence of thought or conditioning -- because on that island I was not my mother's meek shadow of a girl. I was not shackled by her overt and desperate sexuality, nor hindered by the few violations I had experienced, experiences that were not completely life-depleting, like what many of my sister-friends have experienced. I don't mean to downplay the violations against me because had they happened to my daughters I would've ripped somebody's fucking throat out, but I do know worse things have happened to so many girls, my friends included. Anyway, on the island, all that stuff fell away like cracked egg shells and I stepped out a beautiful woman, lit with a self-piloted desire.

Maya's boobs are growing. Bigger than mine at fourteen. She is unaware of how beautiful she is and unaware, for the most part, of the womanliness of her shape. She wears old tank tops where her boobs spill out and I blurt, "Dude, they're not little anymore. Might want to cover them more." And then I wonder if that embarrassed her. Or am I teaching her self respect. I do say those things in the name of self respect. Then I wonder if the whole concept of self respect (for women) is sexist.

Maya is not self deprecating because that's never been allowed in our house, and she's not very self conscious for a fourteen year old. She just Is, which makes her all the more radiant. That's not to say that's the ultimate type of beauty -- this unconscious beauty -- because Mina, at only 10, knows exactly how beautiful she is, and it is a gorgeous quality as well. She is confident and a tad wicked. I feel they are both coming down the shoot, y'know, on a tight rope and I have to teach them to stay true to what they naturally are, and let them know they are beautiful no matter how that beauty manifests which is every which way in terms of women as far as I'm concerned, and that they are just as smart as beautiful, and strong, and they don't have to be one or the other because as women we not only can have it all, but we simply ARE all. Period. And I have to do all of that when most of our outside information, and sometimes our inside information, is conflicted and jumbled and telling us otherwise.

Growing up in the center of the first-wave feminist movement, I was hardly ever told I was beautiful. That was not important. Our strength and our mind was important. And I did believe that only those things were important until I wondered if I was desirous at all or appreciated in a full spectrum kind of way. I don't believe that's solely a woman thing either because I tell my husband constantly, sincerely, how fucking beautiful I think he is, his body, his hair, his smile, and he says Thank You shyly, but I see how it revs his engines even when he appears to be the most confident dude on the planet. Our partners want to know they are desired and wanted, and so do we. So, as a kid my mother didn't like people telling her how pretty I was, which I understand in theory. At fifteen, a grocery store clerk told my mother while looking at me, "You are in such trouble in the coming years." And my mother said, "Why?" though she knew exactly what the clerk was getting at, which made the situation awkward. I laugh about it now because I did like that about my mother sometimes, when she just cut people down awkwardly, against the grain of normal thinking. But mainly, I didn't know I was beautiful for a long time, which might have been a good thing. I'm not sure. See? Confusing.

Being among the feminists of the 1970's, I did learn that whatever women wanted to wear was fine no matter what, army pants, ties, cowboy boots, but the conflicting part was their judgement against women who wanted to wear anything revealing or wanted to express their sexiness in more conventional ways. It was perceived as sexist and degrading. I told you the high heel story; how I was told high heels were invented so women couldn't run from rapists. I've never been too much of a high-heel person, but when I have worn them, I generally feel bad-ass in them, not victim-like. But when they hurt my feet, then fuck that, why wear them. Comments about how good our legs look in high heels have never had an effect on me. I feel no pressure from shit like that. Men sound like fools to me when they say things like that.

That's not to say I can't strut when I want. It's a conscious switch to my hips that makes me feel theatrically sexy. It's not to say that I can't lower my head when I walk into a room and split the air, leading with a sonic-like vibe. I don't always turn it on like that. The 70's feminist voices nag at me, about using anything physical to get attention. "What if it feels good to me?" I fight the voices. I don't think it's different from when a man knows how to stand in a room or sit in a chair with his sleeves rolled up and lower his head and split the air and fully look at someone he's attracted to in big swallows. So, I've made peace with strutting and splitting. But not while showing too much cleavage because I can't get the feminist voices out of my head about that.

I witnessed the ultimate convergence of strong feminine sexuality at an art fair once as a kid. She was a hippy type who straight-lined passed any perceptions to honest earthiness and she oozed free-spirited love. She was all hair and brown shoulders and boobs and hips in flowing skirts, but mostly she was true smiles and sparkling eyes free from judgement of herself or others. She was all acceptance. That was ultimate beauty for me as a kid.

Her, and Brigitte Bardot.

I rented And God Created Woman during high school and couldn't believe this film and this woman was not on the lips of everyone. Granted, the film was from the 1950's so most likely it was talked about then. I thought I had discovered my personal guide to sexuality, which included free dancing to live drums! and rebellion against men AND women, in all forms I knew. I wanted to be Brigitte Bardot. Inside at least I did because I was not even close to being that rebellious. I didn't share this with anyone because I wasn't sure it was ok to admit that I wanted to be sexy. My friends were athletes. My mother, a conflicted feminist. Would the feminist counsel say that the Bardot-level of sexiness was degrading? I kept it to myself, deeply buried, until I landed on a West Indian island a few summers later.

As a mother, I know that expressing ones sexuality is not the safest of endeavors, emotionally or sometimes physically. It is an exploration of dicey waters, fine lines and murky definition even though the other side, when it all connects, can be phenomenal and soul deepening. Not that I'm encouraging them to express it anytime soon obviously. I know they'll have to figure out most for themselves no matter how much I hope for nurturing and healthy experiences for them. Most of all, I do hope for that. I want them to feel good for themselves and love all aspects of being loved. I want them to cherish their role in that love. I can only think that building the base is the thing. A balanced and strong base of their womanhood and every aspect of that, inside and out, around and through. To know that the sexiest women are the ones with their shoulders back, with self-lit smiles and the eyes that spark all acceptance. Or however else they want to be.

Near Convergence

2009-08-19T13:23:00.000-07:00

I've always loved the number 42. I balled with it, as you can see to the left. I was 42 because James Worthy from the Showtime Lakers was 42, and I really loved him. That was before he was caught with hookers in every city. Sigh, but that time in my life was untouchable and basketball held salvation. 42 became a magic number for me.

I'll be 42 on Monday. I'm far from a freak out. I think it will be a magic year or at the very least, a good one. In the past, I've had themes for the year starting on my birthday. A couple years ago it was Finish What I Start. Last year was Love What I Got, a variation on love the fuck out it. I've done well with these themes and they really stayed relevant throughout. This year it's Be Brave and Work. This is all in relation to writing, of course, because I know how to work as in pay-the-rent work or suffer-through-it work. I've always been good at that.

When I was in my mid twenties, I went to two different psychics within months of each other. They spoke of my children coming and a relatively good life and when I asked if I'd ever be a successful writer, they told me yes, but not until I was in my forties. One psychic said 42, the other said 45. Man, I was pissed. I was determined to prove them wrong, that hell no was I gonna wait 20 years for that to happen. That didn't work out.

But look everybody, 42 is almost here. I waffle between believing in psychics and not. Honestly, I hadn't really thought about those predictions until recently because I thought writing was a washed-up notion for me about six months ago. We have yet to see if the psychics were on to something, but unless I'm brave and put in the work, I'll just prove them wrong for sure, and not in a good way.

I just want to give a shout out to the forties. Aging has been such a relief to my emotional mind and the clarity of my thoughts in general. The mental self editing has been a miraculous thing in my forties. For that, I'm grateful. I'm just trying to cheat the physical aging now with that food and exercise thing. I can't promise I'll be graceful in all forms of getting older.

Come on! Converge, All Things!

Connecting & Crashing Back

2009-08-16T16:37:00.001-07:00

I waited too long to post about the camaraderie of Squaw because now I'm too sentimental about it. I miss them. I miss everything.

The high points of Squaw come from the professionals and from the natural surroundings, but the sustained good times come from the other participants. We all come bug-eyed and eager. We're scared. We huddle together, and we talk. Lord, do we talk. We encourage, we critique, sometimes we're awed, and we connect. Mainly we tell each other stories. After the workshops and the lectures, after we've read the manuscripts for the day and made our notes, we merge back together. We call it party time, but my non-writer friends wouldn't call what we do partying. They don't believe a party entails earnest interest in everyone's exact progress of their novel, or reciting parts of books, or talking about which characters in literature we wished we were, or which books inspired us to become writers. We play word games for god sake, and parties usually don't include readings; funny, serious, good spontaneous student readings. (Of course we all brought something!) We do drink, ok, we drink quite a bit, we stay up late and sometimes we dance. We burst out spontaneously, unprovoked. Like the night I danced alone on the deck of a house that overlooked the valley. The mountains were black and the valley was blue and sparked with moonshine. I danced directly to the white moon (and Los Orishas on the iPod) while other participants sat on the deck too, talking and not phased at all by what the moon and I needed to work out. There was another time when a Russian woman, a poet, who is enamored by salsa music asked me to dance because she wanted to show off her moves. I was like, sure, knock yourself out. She led and I let her, though, to be fair, I don't know how to lead. She's was all elbows and smiles and tight curls in her hair. She was endearing, and we cut a rug something fierce.

Mainly we told stories.

Friends who I've known for years told me how they answered one of those spam emails from the Nigerian dude telling them they'd won $10,000. My friends emailed the guy back, knowing it was scam, and they went back and forth with the guy asking him how they could collect their winnings. The Nigerian dude, as predicted, instructed them to wire $3,500.00 so the money could be released from a secure bank account, then the full $10K would be sent. My friends wrote that they would do that as soon as he wired THEM $5,000 as an act of good faith. It went on like that for twenty emails and man, I laughed so hard at this story.

I told the story of how I spent two years baking feverishly -- like a mad person -- thinking I was going to become a great vegan baker, and they said, To avoid writing? like it was so obvious to them when I haven't even fully admitted that to myself, but I did answer, Yes, to avoid the inevitable. They laughed at that and I guess I had to too. They patted me on the back and then told me their stories of procrastination and bullshittin'.

I have to say that reconnecting back to the real world after being at Squaw for seven days was not smooth, and in fairness to every real relationship out there, I want to report that I had a complete meltdown on Husband our first night back together. I liken it to crashing back through the Earth's atmosphere. Husband and I hardly ever argue so when I pulled a complete outta-left-field emotional attack, the likes of which I haven't done in about a decade, he was blindsided. He doesn't respond well to blind siding. I didn't even know exactly what was welling or brewing and I just let it rip. Fuck it. I let it run its course when usually I'd be rational and thoughtful and logical. In the moment, I did not know how to articulate my own monumental self doubt. I didn't know how to tell him that I was worried that I won't ever have time to write anything of value and that's embarrassing mainly because I think that's just an excuse, and I hate when excuses fade away the things we say we love the most. I couldn't tell him in a rational way that I know I'm a good writer, and I have a lot of people rooting me on, but maybe I can't do it. I wanted to hear that he didn't think being a writer was a useless endeavor, that it is pointless and frivolous. Did he even think I was interesting (because, I was thinking, I was just so goddamn interesting to many people just days before). This was the question that pissed him off the most. It was a tornado of feelings that I don't feel now. They were feelings I wanted him to know I felt, but as I was feeling them and expressing them in incongruent and tangled ways, I was slipping into an abyss of isolation. I panicked at the thought of feeling alone in these thoughts. It's not that I mind being alone, but I don't want to be alone from him. It was like I was unanchoring myself from him and floating away and god! That's the last thing I wanted. After two hours of melting and crying and confusion, I asked him to just tell me it was going to be ok. That’s all I really wanted. He turned towards me, finally, and I could feel his energy soften. I nearly cried harder at the relief of that. He put his arm around me and said,

"It's going to be ok, baby. I love you. You're the most interesting person I know."

Almost instantly, the steam released from my meltdown. I had missed him so much. The crashing back together, in hindsight, was worth the severe closeness I felt for him right then. I love this man more than any adult I have ever known. Trying to put myself on a misunderstood island was a terrible idea, but the vomiting of the rawness felt good then, afterwards, in his arms.

Anyway, I have heart, again.

Home From Squaw

2009-08-10T19:07:00.001-07:00

When I baptized myself in the Truckee River on day two of the Squaw Conference, it wasn't a full immersion. I needed a simple promise, not a full epiphany. I needed something more relative and not so manic. A solid and sustainable promise is what I needed.

I put my feet in the water and forgave myself. I washed away the notion that I've wasted my time in regards to writing, that I've squandered my talent. I haven't. I haven't stayed focused and I haven't put in the work, but any regrets for time passed, I sent afloat down the river. Dorothy Allison told me personally that it took her twenty years to build up the courage to write Bastard Out of Carolina, and ten more years to actually write it.

Honestly, I don't know if I could have written anything complete and of real value before. I haven't been brave enough. I'm talking about the kind of bravery that allows one to edit out all the crutches and bullshit. The type of bravery that lets "the bones rise to the top" as Dorothy told it to me. Also, I hadn't copped to the work it takes to hone talent, and it takes a lot of work. Writers -- underdeveloped ones -- seem to think that natural talent will magically form into books and stories. Trained musicians and dancers don't think that way. Their lives seem rooted in practice. Why would it be different for a good writer?

Courage didn't suddenly fall upon me. It has taken years to coax myself to this point. No time has been wasted at all. Now a new promise begins.The Truckee River stayed alive for me in photos, but the valley did not. It hid its full shimmer from the camera. The valley holds out for personal visits only, apparently. The magic of the Aspen trees especially didn't come across in still pictures. In person, the leaves shake and reflect light like round, strung-together mirrors. They sounds like the shelled anklets of far away African dancers. But when photographed, they are still and flat. I will question what I saw the Aspen leaves do when I go through all the photos, but that sound -- that rainstick rustling -- stays with me.

So, the river: I think of bodies of water as protective women in my life; the Pacific Ocean, a mother. The river, an aunt. That second day, I rode my bike along the river path. The Truckee was gentle and pretty and lined in long grass. She's an intimate river. The water rolled with a soft, thick ripple when it was not speeding over scattered rocks, creating small white water.We talked this week about rivers as symbols in literature, a line dividing things: Cities, classes, past and present. I might have made up the past and present thing because maybe that's what the Truckee is for me.

There were many places to turn off the bike path and join the river, and I went to a small opening with good rocks for sitting. I flung off my flip flops and considered jumping in, but I wanted to keep it a calm visit and I decided to have the feet baptism.The first thing Dorothy Allison said to me after reading my story was, "Are you willing to put in the work?"

I had learned early in the week that my one-on-one conference would be with Dorothy Allison, of all people, and I alternated between nausea and ecstasy after hearing the news.

"Yes ma'am," I said, and not confidently.

We spoke with our faces twelve inches apart, and we bore holes with our eyes, hers into mine and me syphoning from hers. She speaks in a fading drawl which revives when she reads stories aloud. She emphasises words with a raspy, loud inflection, an almost whisper-yell.

She said, "You have STO-RY and VOICE and PAS-SION, but your mechanics are breakin' your knees, crippling you as a writer." We stared. She waited for a hint of resistance from me, but I waited, opening my eyes as wide as possible to let her in.

"First thing you gotta do," she said, "is when a character speaks, make a new paragraph. For a whole YE-AR anytime someone talks, a new paragraph! Make what they say count."

"Yes ma'am," I said.

She did not appreciate all the sentences I began with "and" and "but". She objected in general to my frivolous use of "and".

She said, "So often women are afraid of the declarative sentence. STATE. IT."

I thought, Hell Yes.

My mechanics problem stems from not putting in the work. I don't read enough. I don't read out loud enough. I sure as hell don't write enough. The basic question loomed: Was I willing to work.

She placed my story on the table. She asked me if my mother was still alive. Was I still angry? I didn't have to pretend that the story was all fiction. The conversation we had from there is a private one. She got me tearing and choking over truths. She shared a couple intimate details about her step father, but mainly she told me it was time to write the story.

"Be RUTH-LESS," she said.

Dorothy hugged me hard with her big, soft body. She told me to keep in touch with her because she wanted to hear how it comes along. I believe she meant it. Then I went outside and cried my eyes out for a half hour.

The staff at Squaw -- well-known writers, agents, editors from publishing houses --spent a lot of time erasing the line between them and us. They were generous and discerning. They were honest. After workshop, we went to panels and talks and, our favorite, readings by the staff writers. The most comforting lectures were when published writers described their intimate relationship with Self Doubt. It never goes away, they told us. It can be paralyzing, they said. Amy Tan's closing talk was all about this. She detailed how she thinks her brain is shrinking, and she fears that she has peaked, that not one more word will ever come to her. Karen Joy Fowler, who wrote the The Jane Austen Book Club, hilariously described how she procrastinates. She was on a panel called Sustaining Momentum. She leaned into the microphone and said,

"Having me on this panel is like having King Henry VIII lead a panel on the Keys to a Happy Marriage."

She described how she used to spend hours spinning her wedding ring atop her desk, going for personal bests. Her husband then bought her a ring that wouldn't spin. Karen said she had a friend remove Solitaire from her computer, but only when she wasn't present to prevent Karen from tackling the friend as she did so.

Besides Dorothy, the other staff writer I connected with was Dagoberto Gilb. I'm reading his latest book The Flowers, which is written from the perspective of a Mexican-American middle school boy from LA. The language of the book is exactly how a kid like this speaks. When I got to know Dagoberto, I realized this was his voice, he speaks just like that. He and I confessed our fears of embarrassing ourselves in front of all the MFA'ers and the college-educated people, but we both know that this doesn't keep us from telling a damn good story.

During one of my workshops, the staff facilitator of the day schooled us on greek terms. He said shit like,

"The syntax demonstrates parataxis," and immediately I thought, Whatever! But really I didn't know what that meant until he schooled us.

I came out out of the work shop and to Dagoberto I said,

"Today I learned that I don't know shit about shit."

He said, "I just LED the workshop and I realized I don't know shit about shit either."

Dagoberto had a stroke three months ago. He's in his fifties only, I think. Three weeks before Squaw, he started walking again.

He told me, "The left side of my body died."

When we were at a party though, he had me dying, laughing, about how when he was reading from The Flowers at the conference, he thought he was going to fall a couple times.

"I was reading, thinking at the same time, OH FUCK! I'm gonna fall! WHOA! DON'T FALL! And sometimes my face does shit I don't even know about. I DON'T EVEN KNOW ME, MAN!"

We laughed, near tears, and he took a drink from a big, red party cup.

"Like now," he said, "I'm fucking crushing this cup and don't even realize it. FUCK!"

We doubled over. Then for one moment, and not longer, he got serious.

"But I won't let myself fall. I'm not falling, man." He was staring passed the cup that was at his lips. I knew he could clown easily about what had happened to him, but I knew more that he was not a man about to fall because of it.

Buy his books. He ain't traditional -- I love that -- but his work is important. Though his syntax displays plenty of hypotaxis and shit.

I want to write another post about the camaraderie of Squaw, but I'll save it. I've written enough for now. I did tell Dorothy that my friends love her, you too, Trasherati. Mainly, I wanted to tell you guys that I did love the ever-living fuck out of every minute of all seven days.

Miss you.

Here's Dorothy Allison.
Dagoberto Gilb. My good friend and mentor, Lisa Alvarez (Rebel Girl). Amy Tan is behind us.
I'll post more photos on flickr soon.

Squaw's Eve

2009-07-30T10:29:00.000-07:00

I leave Saturday morning for Squaw, the writer camp/intensive program I got into this year. As my friend Honduro says with despair, "I'm too excited about it." We're nervous about loving Squaw too much. Why does the excitement feel explosive and doom-like? Like I'm preparing to die from happiness there. Honduro says he looks forward to having conversations with the aspen trees along the Truckee River. I said, Ooo oo, I'll work on my hawk call and hope to get answers back from them. We happily surrender to our inner nature-word geek and we feel unashamed about it, though Husband looks at me with side glances as the time nears and says, "ookkaayy" a lot. My geekdome is busting at the seams. It's ok. Because during this week, diving deep to string words together well will be unobstructed. I'll get to freefall into understanding them. I will be un-obstacled by work, by any regular demands. I won't even be blocked by the self consciousness of my charged sense of observation, a trait I usually try not to put on display. And I won't be hindered by the self-consciousness of obsessively wanting to assemble words until they click together perfectly. It's safe for everything to be a wonder there.

I'm bringing Loops too, to commute to workshop in the morning, in the summer-mountain air, and for overwhelming rides around Lake Tahoe where the sheen of lake water will blind me. Wait until you see pictures of this place. I'm also going to meet one of my favorite writers, Dorothy Allison, who has been on staff at Squaw a few years now. She's going to sign my crinkled copy of Two Or Three Things I Know for Sure, and I'm going to be awkward, bursting with nothing to say. And I'm going to ask Rebel Girl if I can stow away in a back cabin room for the rest of the summer, well beyond the seven days of the intensive. Just until I can sort out my feelings and compose myself. My stomach hurts from loving too much what's about to happen, even when I told myself I wasn't going to let anything lilt too high or dip too low. But really, I just want to release it and let me feel it and pay the consequences later. Go ahead. I'm down for the ride.

I thought of something recently, about the corralling of feelings and why it's destructive. This has nothing to do with writing, but it has all to do with real emotion, and writing falls in that category for me. I was remembering how people used to tell Mama not to baby me when I was little. She would've coddled me to death, and I would have gladly let her, but the advice from everyone else deterred her. She'd spoil me, she was told. Don't baby her, they said. I didn't see her that often and I didn't know why she wouldn't just let me sleep with her or at least fall asleep with her, until my stepgrandfather would tell her to put me to bed to keep me from being spoiled, which is really exactly what I needed. Man, I ached for it. And Mama, who was not strong, didn't let me in her bed, she pulled the reins on how much she wanted to love me, but she did baby me as much as she could get away with. Then she died when I was still young. So really, what was the point of rationing the love? The absence of it hurt more after. And I kind of feel that way about anything where real emotion and love is felt. Like, why be scared to love Squaw or anything or anybody too much. Love the fuck out of it for god's sake. Love it now.

Come on. I'm ready for the ride.

My First Anthem

2009-07-28T09:56:00.000-07:00

Here's Linton Kwesi Johnson singing Five Nights of Bleeding from the Dread Beat An' Blood album. I listened to this cassette tape so often in my early high school years that when the cellophane of the tape finally got eaten by the tape player and unravled into a glossy, useless pile, I nearly cried. For all my revolutionaries at heart out there, can I get a Madness!

Almost 10 years ago, I bought the album again on CD and I listened to it on my way to work this morning. It made feel better.

Grandmutter's Here

2009-07-27T07:50:00.001-07:00

It's really not anything in particular that she does that scrapes against my nerves. She is very nice, doesn't want to be a bother in the least. Maybe it's the smacking of the lips and mouth when she eats. Loud smacking. Why does she do that? Or maybe it's the constant, bored droning. Or the restlessness. It's probably the chronic, high-intensity, east-coast neurosis deeply ingrained in her; she's a Woody Allen movie packed tightly into a fifty-something Puerto Rican woman, though the PR in her has nearly faded completely away. Every once in a while she'll say something in Spanish and it's shocking, like the Queen of England just muttered some PR jargon.

Grandmutter is visiting, Husband's blood mother (Note: not Mama Luz, who is really Husband's step mom), and I do love Grandmutter because that's what family does, right? We love them unconditionally, but to be quite honest, I'm not used to family etiquette and allowances and consideration. I was raised a lonely wild child; there was erratically random strictness, but other than that I made my own way. Time with my kin was irregular and sparse, and I didn't learn much about familial tolerance.

I've been a quick study, I think, but sometimes I question if I even like people in general, especially when they come to stay at my house.

It's not the fact that she's a Jehovah's Witness either, because we all steer clear of this topic. We all edit our conversation; Husband and I carve down our usual loose, irreverent way of talking -- all f-bombs are gone -- and Grandmutter doesn't shove a Watchtower in our face at every waking minute. She'll subtly leave one or two in strategic places, but nothing more, which we appreciate immensely. She'll read the bible to Mina -- Husband and I are a lost cause -- and that's perfectly fine with me because, really, I do love bible stories. Not the misogynistic and clearly propagandous tales that were indicative of the perception and time in which the stories were written, but there are some classics in there. I took a Bible as Literature class in high school and I loved it. And there was that Seventh Day Adventist trip I went on in my late teens. So, this morning when Grandmutter read to me a passage from a Watchtower about what the Israelites ate back in the day, I was all ears. You know I have my own agenda regarding whole, healthy food -- that's what I'm preaching -- and our worlds meshed this morning. The Israelites ate mainly a vegan diet of bread and olives and figs and almonds and fresh and dried fruit and all kinds of veggies, 30 different types she said. And I was all, see? And Grandmutter was like, yes. And I think then she was willing on me that I (re)accept Jesus, and I was willing on her that she not eat Walmart pot roast and oreos and boiled-to-mush broccoli.

This morning went well because usually she reads the newspaper and she has a knack for finding the most horrific stories. Yesterday morning she read to Mina and me at the breakfast table. "Oh my dear," she said, and you have to imagine the most nasally Bronx accent on earth, "four boys raped an eight year old girl. Took turns on her." I looked over at Mina. I'm not opposed to her hearing such terrible stories, but usually I follow them up with long talks and discussion. "Oh my, the boys ranged from nine years old to fourteen. They lured her into a shed with chewing gum." I stopped eating, anticipating where this was going. Mina, thankfully, had tuned her out because she has already mastered this trait which she learned from her dad. "The fourteen year old boy is being convicted as an adult. Oh dear, this boy has ruined his life," Grandmutter said. I couldn't say nothing. "The boy?" I said. "Forget that boy. What about the poor girl?" And then Grandmutter read the rest of the story which almost crushed my will to live because it turned out that the girl's family was from Liberia and when the father found out about the crime, he told the police he didn't want the daughter back; she had brought shame on them. The girl sits in protective services, unclaimed, unwanted. I almost blacked out from the panic of the situation. Good Morning.

When she drones out Husband's childhood name in a long, slow Bronx drawl, Husband's neck jerks into his shoulders. He closes his eyes and puts his head back. Grandmutter will repeat the name until he yells out, "What is it, Ma?" She says my name the same way now, with the slowest, most nasally emphasis on the second syllable. Repeatedly. And it's that she calls for you the second you've just sat down with a book, after the dogs curl up on your lap. Or after Husband has just gotten into bed. Or you've just sat down with lunch. Or gone into the bathroom. She says the sinus-toned name and then apologizes when you come to see what she wants.

You know what it is? It's that she doesn't want to do anything, but she's clearly bored out of her skull. She had visited a few years ago, and she was on a "health kick" back then. She had spring in her step. She loved exploring all of Santa Monica on her own by bus, on foot. She seemed alive. And I'm not sure what happened. She admitted that she was on a "diet" back then and now the diet is over and so is everything else, it seems. Her leg hurts. She wears ridiculously painful sandals to walk around. Her feet hurt. It's hot. She's bored. She doesn't like TV though I see her watching medical examiner shows where they reenact autopsies. Last night's episode was about a teenage girl who died from a tubal pregnancy. "Oh my dear." No conversation interests her. She doesn't want to sit by our new community pool. "The life guards can't always see drowning children. Sometimes they drown when they are excellent swimmers." She will go to the mall, but everything is so expensive. I thought she would enjoy the Santa Barbara farmers market. She did like the drive up, but the only thing that sparked her interest was a Marshall's she spotted along the highway. Could we go there on the way back? If it's not much trouble. "Look at the strawberries!" I said, trying to spark some enthusiasm. Nothing. She did raise her eyebrows when she heard how much they were. She really liked a tamal she bought from a vendor at the market. "I've never had tamales," she said. I told her they were like pasteles (a PR equivalent) but made out of corn. "Have you ever had one of these?" she asked me. I told her that Mexican food on the west coast is like Chinese on the east. Lots of it, cheap and good. I said, "What about this lettuce though, huh?" And she wandered off.

She wanted to fly back home earlier than her scheduled flight on Wednesday. She said at home she's always doing something. And by something she means cooking or cleaning (and going to the Kingdom Hall.) But here she can't relax. She's so restless. We're driving her nuts too, apparently. And usually Husband would have changed her flight by now, but the thing is is that she's taking Mina back to NY for her annual NY Family Visit. And if Grandmutter leaves early, then so does Mina. And I'll brave the neurosis and droning and smacking (loud smacking!) to get two more nights with my love child. So, Grandmutter is going to have to suffer two more nights with us too.

Tour de Growing Food

2009-07-14T12:14:00.000-07:00

I wanted to show you this:What?? I'm made things grow from the ground. Food is budding! I don't understand it, but I'll take it, gratefully. The carrots were a bust and yes, the eggplant didn't feel like coming out of the ground either. But look at this beauty. This may or may not turn into a green pepper at a later date.First tomato babies:I got a little baby Kaffir Lime tree. The stacked double leaves are the thing; ground up, they make a Thai-inspired dish magical.And here's the big sister dwarf Meyer Lemon tree. Can't wait for this to mature more.I'm mesmerized by the zucchini leaves.
I think there's Grow Food Fever going around, which is the best of all recent sickness. In the alley behind our apartment there are a circle of pots next to a carport. Food is growing inside of them. There are long-ass tomatoes, swiss chard, chili pepper (?) and strawberries. The pot arrangement looks junky until you walk up to it. Then your heart melts. Empty wine bottles line the concrete wall behind the plants, left for the recycle collectors, and the garbage smells and the asphalt is potholed in crumbling formation, but when I hover over the tiny alley farm witnessing a neighbor's efforts and how they put it on public display to root on the tiny plants, I feel a large sense of triumph. The pots all but scream, Isn't this a good idea? This is about the best form of food advocacy as any.

Except for maybe this which I saw when I walked the dogs down the alley next to Mina's elementary school the other day:Who are these people smart and cool enough to plant alley farms and hop a fence to graffiti Grow Food in perfect beet colors? I love them.

So anyway, I've been watching every minute of the Tour de France. It's so good and riveting; drama filled and yes, I'm drunk on Lance Armstrong's drive, but every time I open my mouth to talk about the Tour de France with people who are not watching, which is everybody, I'm embarrassed. The majority of eyes glaze over as I try to explain a Stage 3 crosswind attack -- I mean, it was brilliant! -- but still, who the fuck cares. But I so want to talk about it!! I have to restrain myself. Husband pretty much cuts me off and says, "Who's winning?" Yea but-- You can't just -- UUGG. This much restraint is cruel on me.

Grow Food!

The Queen of the Cali Farmers Markets

2009-07-05T21:13:00.001-07:00

Molly and I were talking about the farms she has visited near Santa Barbara, about the amazing work some of these organic farmers do, and the next thing you know we're putting in motion an early morning drive to the Santa Barbara farmers market. That drive is an hour and half from us and on fourth of July we just got up early and went. That long of a drive to a farmers market seems ridiculous especially when our own Wednesday farmers market, just a mile a way, is the type where LA chefs come early to fight over the first pickings. But let me tell you, a market that is set up near the actual farms is a fresh-food geek's technicolor dream. I'm considering going back so often that I'll have to conveniently redefine my concept of buying "locally." Eesh.

We arrived at the opening of the market, and once through the threshold of the parking lot lined with overflowing booths masterfully displaying gorgeous produce, Molly and I stood erect and become illuminated from the inside out. We are the ultimate admirers of such a fantasy farmers market. It was like entering a secret garden and we wove through the lanes smelling and touching and oohing and aahing, wide-eyed and floating. After fawning over a berry booth -- crouched low for microscopic views of soft, sweet Loganberries -- the farmer said to us without any lead in, "You guys are adorable." We were like, huh?

I've never considered lettuce artful. Until Saturday. Molly knows the most prolific lettuce farmer in the area and his lettuce is not just inspiring, it's jaw-dropping. Molly says he's the type of farmer who stares at the rows of lettuce for long periods of time to get a sense for what the lettuce needs. He'll weed them at one in the morning, nurture them to no end. He does nothing to prevent bugs because he believes whatever bugs come are there to balance out what the lettuce needs. And this level of mastery shows in every single head of lettuce. It was astounding. Each head was larger than any I've ever seen. Each leaf was perfectly and purposefully placed, thoughtful in design, though obviously not designed. When I sampled the butter lettuce, it tasted creamy in texture. How can that be? Creamy! I couldn't' get enough of the lettuce.Though the lettuce moved me the most, I have to say that every item at the market seemed an accelerated display of farming. It was the best in show; the lettuce taking top billing in my mind, and these taking a very, very close second: These tasted like candy. I'm not joking. No, seriously. These are what strawberries taste like in heaven. They were mind blowing, and I would've eaten all three baskets myself if I didn't keep giving them away saying, "Holy shit, you have to try one of these . . ."

Here's a collage of my day. I can't wait to go back.

Patio Farmers, Black Out and Squaw Valley

2009-06-24T12:14:00.000-07:00

Santa Monica has a growing number of community gardens spread throughout the city. The most famous is on Main Street, south of downtown, and has been there since the 1970's. I remember staring at them as a kid and wondering how people got so lucky to get a garden in a pack of gardens in the middle of town. It didn't occur to me to call the city about getting one of them myself until a couple months ago. I applied for a plot, told them I'd take any size at any of the three locations. I'm 250th or so on the waiting list – that’s what the lady told me! It will take years. I can wait.

Mina and I drove past the Park Drive Gardens, the closest community garden to our house, last weekend. We walked all around the locked lots and tried to identify all the food coming into harvest; tomatoes, strawberries, basil, corn! They were fantastic. Some of the lots were tiny, maybe a 100 sq. feet, and it occurred to me that my back patio is only a little smaller than the smallest of these lots. I said, "Mina, these gardens are tiny, right? Don't they look the same size as our patio?" Her eyes lit up. "Yes!" And in that moment we decided to become patio farmers.

For the record, I know not a thing about the soil. In technical terms, I know not what makes it tick or what would move it to miraculously produce something so perfect as zucchini, let's say. Or a watermelon. I mean, that's nuts, right? A watermelon grows from a seed, y'all! So the thought that I could somehow coax the earth to do the same for me is a bit mindblowing. It's logical to believe that anything living needs nurturing, nutrients, love. I know that much, I suppose.

When I was 13, Mama lived in a trailer in Westlake with a bit of a yard. One spring she planted strawberries seeds in high, holey terracotta pots. We sat on the back trailer steps and waited for things to grow. Quail families ran through the yard with small bobbing head feathers. When jagged green leaves crawled out of the holes of the pots, I was impressed. But when small red berries exploded in bloom between the leaves I thought Mama was in on something godly. Of course she was, but I was not moved to try such miracles myself. I didn't think it was possible for me, in an apartment. Growing food was for people with land and with a calling.

I've been called now, or I self appointed a calling to myself. It's yet to be seen if I can lure food from the ground. I did successfully keep some herbs alive from existing plants last summer. That alone was chest-puffing for me.

Mina and I started our patio farm with some plastic planters that had been in storage or discarded.We spruced them up with good dirt, and seeds and some seedlings though these bell peppers are a bit more than seedlings.Hey, 'member I got this Envirocycle rolling composter a year ago?Yo, talk about miracles! Did you know -- and I'm really just talking to my city folks right now -- that scraps of food, over time and mixed right and rolled around in the above contraption, really turns into a dirt-like substance? It's crazy! Here's a cupful. Check it:Don't ask me how the worms got in there; I'm just a bystander in the natural ecology of things. We added our homemade compost to our soil and apparently our lil' plants are gonna eat it up and dig us for it. You know who else is diggin' the project? Patio Farmer Mina. Here's what we have so far: Tomatoes in the corner, herbs from existing plants, seedling bell peppers and sugar snap peas, and from seeds (hopefully) will come carrots, zucchini, pole beans and I have some eggplant getting started indoors. (I read the packets very carefully.) I'll keep you posted because, lord have mercy, when I see the first hint of an edible substance coming from our p. farm, I'll be snapping pictures like it was my first born.
In other news . . .Husband has been staging a bit of a silent protest. He is the production manager for a clothing line and he works really hard, too hard really. He works 11-12 hours days, every day. He works Saturday mornings most weeks and since they've added a factory in Mexico, he's had to make trips there twice a month. He is a machine. But it's too much. You know when the hardest working person just ends up taking on most of the work? He's that guy. And I tell him that they'll work him as hard as he'll let them, and he says I know I know, but still he works until the brink anyway. About a month ago, he unceremoniously started wearing only black to work; black t-shirts, black jeans, black sneakers. Every single day without fail, all black. I don’t want to worry, but I don't see an end in sight, and coworkers are starting to make comments. It's as much of a protest against the work load as Husband can muster. It's like he's telling his work, "I'm saying fuck you in my mind right now." Kinda. Poor Husband! I love him so much.

And in other other news, I got accepted to the Squaw Valley Community of Writers Program this summer (!). I've attended this workshop before, a few years ago and many, many years before that. 'Member when I was Janet Finch's personal DJ last time? Oh man, she's great. Anyway, Squaw for me has been an amazing experience and the alumni and staff are intimidatingly impressive, but really the valley itself is magic for me. Squaw Valley in the summertime is the most beautiful place I've ever seen in person. I can't tell you what staring at the velvet valley does for me. For 7 days, I will get to geek out on writing with a good mix of budding brilliance, pretentious gas bags and straight lunatics. I love them all. I applied with my new story, which is the first I've written in a while and I'll get it workshopped during the program. In the past, I've held high expectations for myself when going to the workshop only to disappoint myself even more later. After the program, I have felt huge crashes; tumblings down after hoping to retain the hope and highs I felt at Squaw. Writing good fiction takes everything from me. It's the only thing that I do that takes complete silence and full concentration. That's a tall order in my house. Anyway, no expectations this year. I'm just gonna be myself and geek out and appreciate what I was able to churn out lately. I’ll ride my bike next to Lake Tahoe and of course stare at the valley. That's all I really want, is that valley to hold me still for a while.

Onward, Upward

2009-06-20T14:31:00.000-07:00

Maya graduated from middle school on Friday, and though I could do another post about how great I think she is and how proud I am of the person she continues to evolve into, the thing is, she's ready. She's completely ready for the next level. I'm not worried or even nostalgic. She is ready for high school, and she'll be ready for beyond. I can't deny that mothering her and Mina has been an every-minute-counts kind of job that has drawn almost all of my energy and effort and brain power. I can't deny that I've been 2,000% committed to them, and that being a mami is probably what I'm best at out of all the trades of which I'm a jack. But I also can't deny that Maya has had some amazing people who have also helped clear a path to her success. She has been loved and supported and cheered on from every which way.

For Maya's grad ceremony came the following fan base from Las Vegas and San Diego: Maya's blood dad BD, his wife Sanne, their beautiful girls Rae and Baby Gabby, Grandma Carmen (BD's mom) and three cousins, Jonathan, William and Chelsea. I don't say this lightly, but besides Husband's family, these people are the closest I personally have to family as well. BD and I have always gotten along well, sharing the same brand of decency and respect for each other, and sharing a similar philosophy in parenting. I have never not liked him as a person even though we split up before Maya was a year old. We easily and gladly accommodate each other and figure things out. The ease with which we glide through custody issues is nothing short of magical. It is communal raising of children at it's finest. We are nothing short of a insulating unit; a unified force supporting our children to be their best. I know we are fortunate, Maya especially, -- I've heard plenty a nightmare story about split parents -- but it's not like we just keep face for Maya's sake. We just all genuinely like each other.

Most heartwarmingly is when Maya's summer absence started to take a toll on Mina a few years ago, and they then told Mina should could come to Vegas whenever she wanted. Mina has been there quite a few times, the longest being a week and including a trip to a family reunion. It's funny to explain the situation, but in the end all the uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents fall in love with Mina too; she is easily accepted as no less than family.

So, out they came driving five hours from Las Vegas with two small children without a second thought to celebrate Maya's graduation and to hopefully too gloat a little in the tremendous role they've played in creating such a great kid.
Maya assisting Grandma Carmen to the car with Rae's help.Awesome cousins Jonathan, 15, and William, 14.Sweet cousin Chelsea and Baby Gabby.Beauty Rae. Ok, so I do have to leak a bit of pride for Maya. She won an award called the Pride Award though I call it the Pleasure to Have in Class Award. The teachers had to pick only 15 kids out of hundreds who they ALL agreed made teaching pleasurable because of the kids' enthusiasm, attitudes and general awesomeness. Maya was one of the fifteen! She was also honored as a member of the college club and for blowing past the required Million Word Challenge where, in English, students were pushed to read a million words this year. Maya killed that. I do want to mention too that Maya's BFF, El, received an award for keeping a straight-A average the entire three years in middle school. El was also awarded an Outstanding Citizen of School medal. El kicks serious butt.

And special mention goes to Mina. Every year, since the infamous 2nd grade fiasco, she has improved nearly a whole grade higher. This year was no exception. Fourth grade was her best year yet. And this chokes me up as much as Maya's ability to stay at the top of her class. It is a non-stop and emotionally-taxing job to keep Mina motivated and plugging along and striving. I've cried about it, yelled about it, created different ways to keep her going. And she did it. I'm over-the-moon proud of Mina because in the end, no matter how much I guide and push, it's her by herself doing projects and homework now; she's by herself in her classroom making the final decisions about how she will approach her learning and handle her work. And she totally came through for herself.

Fair Food is Freshest

2009-06-14T09:54:00.000-07:00

What concerns me about the organic, whole-food movement - a movement with which I am completely devoted to por vida -- is the food caste system that has been created. I know the exclusion of poorer people by the movement is unintentional by those driving the movement, but there has to be more recognition that the fairness of food is as important as its quality. And I don't mean just for the growers here and abroad, but for the inclusion of all people in the accessibility of fresh, healthy, affordable food. More and more visible is a fight for the smaller (and growing) local organic farms. Rightly so, but what about neighborhoods where Whole Foods Markets won't venture or farmers markets aren't organized? Can't we drive for all of these things at the same time so we don't have to come back and fight again for those left behind? The fight for all these issues together should go hand in hand since fresh healthy food should be a right not a privilege of a higher few, and historically every culture's poorer class were the ones originally connected to the land and who harvested the food for themselves and the community. California, the largest agricultural state, provides the entire country with produce on the backs of people who are told to get out of the country whether citizens or not -- but, y'know, after they pick the grapes and strawberries and lechuga for a tiny wage. . .this is a whole 'nother issue, but my point is fairness.

As an advocate of the movement, I don't find it enough to just ponder these social-organic divides as I spend a good chunk of my own money on fresh, organic foods for myself and my family. Awareness is important. It is the seed of action. Supporting those in action is the bridge to eventually digging into a solution personally. I want that for myself. I'm studying holistic nutrition, right? So I can volunteer all the information away at places like the Venice Family Clinic, right? And I imagine myself making suggestions to a single mom in regards to organics and whole foods, but then I can't always imagine her being able to manifest that information to her family affordably and conveniently. The information is important; the ability to apply it frustrates me.

My mother, like many single mothers, did her best to make a food stamp stretch and the cheapest foods that could go a long way were processed meats and cheeses and milk, all things that were/are believed to fill basic nutritional needs. I ate Plain Wrap hot dogs almost every night for dinner. (Do you remember Plain Wrap?) Eventually -- I'm sure I've told this story before -- I regularly started to experience symptoms where I would see spots, then lose my peripheral vision which ended in vomiting; at school, at the bus stop, at home. When my mother finally took me to the doctor I was diagnosed with migraines as a result of nitrate poisoning. I wasn't allowed to eat hot dogs regularly any more. This is why information is important, because how was my mother supposed to know that high levels of the preservative could become toxic? But with the exclusion of this convenience and no guidance to what could last cheaply and be healthier, especially with the long hours she worked and not being a cook, I could see how she would feel limited and frustrated. Something as cheap as hot dogs meant I didn't skip a meal at night and at least she could say I didn't go to bed hungry.

Last year I read an article in the LA Times about the Urban Farming efforts in LA. In general, Urban Farming works in cities across the country to take over abandon lots to cultivate community gardens that provide fresh food to the neighborhood and sometimes food banks. LA's history of city farming is a heated one especially when the owners of the land of the South Central Farms took it back in 2006 and evicted 14 acres of community farms so a Forever 21 warehouse could be built instead. The South Central Farms fed over 300 families with its harvest, mainly poorer families in the area. It was an outrage and the battle to Take Back the Farm continues. The South Central Farm still runs a CSA program. The food is grown in Bakersfield now, disconnected from the community, but at least it's still alive. So, I read this article on the Urban Farming Food Chain Project where architechs have designed gardens to be HUNG ON WALLS, concrete city walls especially welcome! LA is the pilot city for this experiment of no-space food production in fresh-food deprived areas. The project now has four thriving locations, most of which are grown on transitional housing walls and the residents learn to cultivate the garden themselves. I'm overwhelmed with the genius of the idea. Check out a before and after picture of the Skid Row Housing Trust's 'The Rainbow' at San Pedro & 7th. Some of the plants they grew during the first season: Bell peppers, hot peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, tomatillos, strawberries, spinach, parsley, leeks, edible lavender and a variety of herbs.More before and after photos here.
It's one thing to provide information, quite another to say here are some organic cucumbers off the vine from the parking lot, aren't they delicious? Here's a quote from the site: "During World War II twenty million people planted 'Victory Gardens' at their homes. They grew 40% of America's produce supply. They did it then. We can do it again!" I am so inspired and motivated by the project that I looked into how I could volunteer. They only really need experienced farming and irrigation-type people and I am far from that. The other thing they need is money, and I don't have a lot of that either, but I could raise some. I decided that in October I'm going to cycle a century (100 miles) to raise money for the Food Chain Project. I'll hit you guys up later for some collective, communal love so tuck away some pennies for me and the gardens.

The other thing I did was join the Slow Food movement, who's base philosophy is that fresh food is a right and they deal with this issue on a sweeping, grand level.

Lastly, I just want to acknowledge Bryant Terry again who sort of gelled together the idea of food justice for me. He is the chef who wrote Vegan Soul Kitchen and he is very much a food activist. Before digging all through his blog and discovering that there is an alive food justice movement, I couldn't seem to organize my thoughts and actions regarding this subject even though it's been on my mind since I was a kid. Terry recently collaborated with Oakland-based artist activist Favianna Rodriquez to create these posters. I think she's amazing.This one has to do with the balance of cooking by men; how men and boys shouldn't just learn to garden but to cook too and be self sufficient. She addresses men of color specifically, but I think it's true of all men.This one is about how the accessibility of fresh, healthy food is sparse or nonexistent in low-income neighborhoods and it affects the under-represented, the poor and people of color. Inside our bodies are chemicals, not real food. She calls it "a war on our bodies." And this last gorgeous one is self explanatory.I find the posters so relevant and beautiful. If you do too, you can buy them here.

LA River & Cycling Love

2009-06-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

I wouldn't say that staring at the LA River fills me as tightly as staring at the ocean, but it's close. Very close. Which would seem odd to the majority of Angelenos because the LA River is basically considered an iconic eye sore. The property around the ocean is coveted and the most expensive in the world. The property and neighborhoods around the LA River just as soon be forgotten, and often are. These neighborhoods are some of the poorest in the city and often experience the highest crime. But I find the most extreme beauty in the aftermath of a social-economic-political backturning because in these neighborhoods there are still people; mothers and fathers who want well for their children, people who want comfort and fairness for themselves and their community. Beyond the struggle, and criminal frustration, a fiercely organic hope emerges; beauty blossoms that is rooted in the collective, if minimal hope of people. It's a beauty that cannot be stopped. This can be witnessed in any neighborhood, anywhere.

On Sunday, I rode my bike 50 miles in the 9th Annual LA River Ride which is put on by LA Bicycle Coalition. The LACBC is a bicycle advocacy group that champions our issues as cyclists whether for sport, transportation or recreation. I think they do amazing work and I'm thrilled to be a member and really, if you live in Southern California and have a bike, be it collecting dust or used every day, please become a member to support them. Lately they've been relentlessly staying on the city to follow through with our huge, planned Bike Path program that would create many more bike-only roadways in LA.

Not only do I love the LACBC, but how lucky am I that they put on a fundraising event to be almost entirely ridden near the LA River?

I want to now admit that I was at first regretful I had signed up to ride 50 miles. Pre event, I kicked myself for not starting smaller with the 36 miler or maybe just the fun family ride. Maybe I should just watch! On Saturday night, my stomach was in knots. I didn't feel prepared. I felt I hadn't put in enough road work on my bike. This event is not a race at all, but I didn't want to feel like shit out there, y'know? Then I just resigned to it. I'd just go out there and roll around and take pictures and fuck it, right? I figured a 50 mile ride would take me at least 4 hours, maybe more, especially since the route would only be half bike path and half open city streets with traffic. I could deal with that. I made homemade energy bars from Brazier's book Thrive and rolled them into individually-wrapped balls to stuff into my fanny pack. I filled two water bottles with electrolytes, packed my camera, my phone, sunblock, lip balm.

Sunday's sky was uncharacteristically full of character for LA. Our skies generally like to stay clearly blue or muted silver and not much in between, but the shimmer off the clouds onto the water and neighborhoods was a breathtaking back drop. Here we are starting out along the river near gorgeous Griffith Park, downtown LA in the far background. Here, on the bike, my nerves had evaporated. I was thrilled to be there.

Heading out into the streets on the peripheral of downtown, we crossed a classically inner-LA bridge, over the river.

I sighed going over the bridge and said aloud, "Ug, I love the river." A gentleman who was riding near me and who had exchanged plesantries earlier said, "Really?" I said, "It's so beautiful." And he said, "Huh. I guess you have to have a lot of imagination to find it beautiful." I looked at the river again just incase we were looking at different things, and thought, Do I just have a lot imagination? Thank god for that, then.I think what moves me a lot is the clash of industrial with natural, or the emergence of the natural no matter what. The broken down factory-like businesses along the stretch of river between Commerce and Compton were dinosaurish, but I saw wild lilies growing in unkept grounds around them. Cattails had been planted to line parts of the path, just underneath barbed wire fences. Even the river itself is contained in a human-made concrete vice, but the graffiti keeps it alive. The touches of expression burst and compliment the river. There are a lot of industrial businesses in these neighborhoods, and whoever constructs these steel and concrete monstrosities, no matter how hard they try to make them look so drab and unappealing, they can't stop plants sprouting through the cracks or kids releasing their art onto the banks, the awnings, the tractors, the steel-bolted monster buildings.

There's nothing in this next picture really. It just appeals to me. Rolling along at 18mph, it was hard to get all the photos I wanted. I couldn't capture a fraction of the images that moved me. And looking at these photos, and thinking about what that guy said, maybe it doesn't translate as Beautiful to many others, but maybe you guys could use your imaginations too.
Here I am, riding along sola, just after at the halfway turn-around point in Compton.This was the last picture I took(with my Post Punk Kitchen tshirt on!) because I told myself that if I felt strong, I would pick it up in the last half of the ride. And at 25 miles, I did feel strong. I told myself that if I still felt good in another 12 miles, I'd bring it on even more. With about 20 miles left I caught up with a man wearing a Tivo cycling jersey. He rode a decent bike at a decent pace and he and I exchanged leads through the streets near downtown. We passed a bunch of tiring riders and we caught up with another rider who wore an event jersey. He became our new pace car. What I learned about myself as a cyclist is that in the streets through traffic and over rolling hills, I was a very strong and confident rider. The endless amounts of railroad tracks and manholes and crater-like pot holes did not bother me in the least, while I heard many a "serious" cyclist grumble about the bullshit going on in the streets. (P.S. The biggest obstacle I wove around was a huge pile of horse shit right in the middle of the bike path in Lynwood. Lynwood! Where are these city horses at?) So, obstacle courses and cars didn't phase me because I've mainly ridden my bike in traffic since I was in 3rd grade. But when the two jersey dudes and I got on the flat, empty bike path, they smoked me a little. They gained a good 75 yards on me that I wasn't able to recover. When I finished the ride, I was a little breathless, my legs felt fatigued, but I felt like a billion bucks. With all the traffic lights and the one time we had to wait for a passing cargo train which lasted five minutes, I finished the 50 miles in 3 hours and 15 minutes. Seriously, a billion dollars and all the worrying for nothing! I kissed the frame of my bike while waiting for my goodie bag.

My car was parked about a mile away and I slowly rode back to it, elated. The last 200 yards to the parking lot was a steep hill. I decided to walk it, but half way up, where the road leveled a little before it got steep again, I decided I should just ride up the freaking hill already. Walking in my clip shoes was almost as hard. I clipped in my left foot, went to accelerate and realized I was still in a big gear, so big that the bike did not move, only leaned left. When I realized I was doomed, I just relaxed and resigned to the fall and I timbered over onto my left side in the empty street. I was laughing and unclipping myself when a grandma drove up next to me in a minivan. She rolled down her window and asked if I was ok. I love how I can feel so badass one minute and be so not badass the next.

I love you LA River and LACBC. Thanks for a great ride.

Fashion Non-sense

2009-06-04T10:06:00.000-07:00

I'm having a blast with What's Mina Wearing Today? I love how easily it all comes together for her. She's like a magnet and clothes are drawn to her and assemble themselves in interesting ways. Maya too has an easy cool, colorful style that's perfect for her.

I'm not saying I have no style or fashion sense. I think I just came to the conclusion a few years ago that it's too exhausting for me. And quite honestly, shopping for clothes weighs me heavy with unnecessary guilt. Being fashionable seems like an endless, worrisome and expensive pursuit and giving it up -- like jumping off a express train -- brought me relief. My style now waffles between workout-pant-cardigan casual and for dressier days, jeans-tshirt-cardigan glossed up a little. And flats. Heels begone! Molly says my outfits don't look totally complete until I’ve rolled up my right pant leg. I can’t have my pants getting caught in my bike chain! Aaahhh. I love being me.

But why is it such a long road to being yourself sometimes? I was the coolest dresser I knew, until high school started. Then I struggled. For a long time. It never crossed my mind then to keep it simple. The 80's and 90's were a bitch on keeping it simple.

The Christmas of 1970 was a fat one for us. There weren't many fat ones, but this was one was relatively plentiful. The presents I received that year allowed me more freedom to explore my early fashion sense. This picture gives you an idea that at three years old, I was on an ambitious path fashion-wise. It's hard to keep up with such trendsetting What-the-Fuckedness.
My elementary years were filled with Catholic school uniforms and frankly, I don't remember much else. Except when there's evidence that someone else dressed me. Like for this wedding circa 1973. I'm super thrilled about this look as you can tell. Or I'm wishing I was rocking that cool, plastic football helmet again. I love the socks though.But when middle school came my way in 1980, I was somehow on the top of my game. I shopped at the Salvation Army and garage sales because that's what I could afford and serendipitously I was fashionable. The original wave of punk was making it onto our scene and though I didn't feel moved to egg-white my hair into gravity-defying do's, I was inclined to self-sheer my bangs. I wore army-surplus parachute pants and aprons as accessories and brightly-patterned Nigerian woven skull caps. It was all aimless and rad. Here I am in 1981 at 14, I think, and it was just before I pierced my nose with an ice cube and a sewing needle which in 1981 was out there because even the punkers weren't too much into piercing yet. I self pierced my nose -- which took several excruciating attempts -- after I had gone to an African festival at UCLA. I couldn't get over how beautiful West African women were with head wraps and long patterned dresses and nose studs. I was a far cry from that with sun-bleached hair and a 60's vintage moth-eaten-but-still-awesome men's sweater shirt.>I wish I had more pictures from junior high, damn. I just found this one. I think it's from 1982, at YMCA overnight camp, where I experienced some of my best childhood memories. I'm wearing a thrift store men’s sweater. Hey, there's a safety pin in my ear! And this classic . . .the kelly green garage-sale score with the lavender vinyl belt and the vato slippers. So on my game then!It's been pretty much downhill since 1982.

Except I've been rocking this again lately:I bought this ring 22 years ago from a street vendor when I lived in Berkeley with Betsy. Ok, I didn't buy it, I traded for it. The ring cost about $30 and there was no way I could afford it. But I always stopped by to look at it. Finally the guy said, "Do you know how to cook?" I said, "Sure," which I really didn't back then. He said, "Make me a tuna casserole, and the ring is yours." I said, "DONE!" The next week I brought him a full tin casserole tray of tuna slop and he happily handed me the ring

So, I got that going for me. And a rolled-up pant leg trend I'm trying to ignite.

Rawness Rivera

2009-06-01T09:34:00.000-07:00

My yearn for rawness comes in waves. Kinda like this: GUNGHO! Settle back, but more raw than before. GUNGHO! Settle back with more raw tricks up my sleeve, and on.

I'm kinda gungho again. I picked up Brendan Brazier's book Thrive and it fired me up. Brendan is a triathlete and ultra marathoner (Canada's champ) and he's been a vegan for 17 years. As he's experimented with his performance levels over those years, he's gone primarily raw especially while training. What I like about his book is that he speaks in terms of food strictly as optimal fuel for optimal performance whether as a top athlete or as a busy, regular person. I like that his approach is not from an animal-rights come from. To prevent animal suffering is a huge reason why I don't eat them and there are many more books that address this side of veganism, but a non vegan can easily emotionally justify why they eat meat. It's hard to argue with Brendan's performance & energy-based experiments concluding that whole vegan food, primarly raw, is the best fuel for you. It's hard to argue when the guy has won ultra marathons. WON! The main theories are that ANY processed foods (vegan included) are a stress on your system, and that raw foods and the enzymes in them rejuvenate cells and tissue at a faster rate allowing an athlete to recover quicker than a non raw vegan. Recovery is as important as full-tilt training. Raw foodies talk all the time about the power of the enzyme, the anti-cancer properties, the spark of energy they provide, but I love reading about it from a pure performance perspective. Brazier is non judgmental in his writing, but you can tell that he is anal about his own diet -- just like any top athlete would be about a successful regiment.

I think the best advice he gives though is to simply add more fruits and raw vegetables to the preexisting diet. He optimistically believes adding raw fruits and veggies will start to edge out the shit. I'm with him 100% on that.

How'd I get off on a Brendan Brazier tangent . . .? Oh, yea, he's got me gungho! I've been playing with raw recipes again, and I took a class at reportedly (reported correctly) the best raw restaurant in LA, Cru. The class was Italian Comfort Food. YUM! On the demo menu was lasagna, caesar salad (though historically Mexican, not Italian), Nutella figs and tiramisu. Uh, sick!! Everything was pretty fantastic, but I gotta say the Nutella Figs were a mouth explosion, y'know, in a sophisticated kind of way. My friend Emilie has written glorious and eloquent novella-style posts dedicated to the fig, but I wasn't a believer until these came into my life:
These are dried white figs smeared with the raw vegan nutella (basically soaked hazelnuts, raw cacao powder, agave and coconut oil). The ones in the back are topped with the mascarpone cream left over from the raw tiramisu I made. I want to marry these.

You don't just whip up raw food -- other than a salad or opening a banana, I mean. But to make raw crackers or bread or "entrees" or desserts one needs to plan days in advance. It's crazy. Soaking nuts for a day, dehydrated for two . . .When I fall into the flow of the method, it becomes meditative. The appreciation of food intensifies. (Though sometimes you just want to scarf down some toast over your sink, I realize.) Here are some pictures of my recent raw food gunghoness:

This is a creamy mushroom soup. I learned this recipe when I took a course last year over at Leaf, another great LA raw spot. I added fresh tarragon and chopped veggies. I went on a RAWvolution recipe rampage. Starting with Coconut-Carob Haystacks, which are fantastic. You keep them in the freezer and they taste like candy. I've been trying to wean the girls off of refined sugar, or at the very least make them more conscientious of how much is going in their mouth. Puberty and refined sugar are a bitch of a combo. Maya is totally receptive, but Mina? She can talk the talk, but the walk would be a beeline to the candy shop if it was all left up to her. She's Papi's girl. Anyway, I'm planting seeds, godamnit! Or that's what I tell myself. Mina does love these though and she doesn't like a lot of the raw stuff.Then I made RAWvolution's "Famous Onion Bread." These are almost all onion mixed with ground sunflower seeds, flax meal and raw soy sauce. They took 36 HOURS TO DEHYDRATE. Damn, but they are pretty great.Then I made the "Mock Tuna Salad" to go with the bread.The flavor in concentrated raw foods is so intense. You don't really need a lot to feel satisfied especially when balanced out with a some leafy greens. I don't think we are used to the strong flavors that occur naturally in foods because most of the flavors in a standard diet are processed out and added back in. The processing leaves food more devoid of nutrition and we end up eating much more than we had intended because our body is trying to fill itself with nutrients even when we're full. We beat ourselves up for eating too much when really your body is just trying to fill nutritional blanks. This is an important point for me too because prepared raw food is far from cheap. Holy. But I figure it lasts longer because I'll eat less of it. And I can't justify enough spending a big chunk of my money on nutritious food.

Whoa, did that sound all instructional? All robotic and ideal? Darn you, Brendan Brazier!

Mainly, my friends, I just wanted to tell you: Peace, Love and Leafy Greens.

What's Mina Wearing Today?

2009-05-27T09:04:00.000-07:00

After checking out yet another genius outfit that Mina had put together for school, my neighbor John threatened that if I didn't start posting Mina's daily outfits, he would.

So, here's the official launching of What's Mina Wearing Today?

Fourteen Is Ripe . . .And Fun!

2009-05-26T09:27:00.001-07:00

When I was 14 I wanted to run away with a devout Rastafarian named Jah-Leel. He dressed in white only, wore dreads to his waist and had sparkly black eyes shaped like half diamonds. We talked one afternoon into the evening at an outdoor concert and we made an emotional connection, and nothing more. The running off part was all a fabrication in my own young mind that I clung to for about a year. I would convert! And crochet tams to sell at festivals. I'd never cut my hair and wear longs skirts and cook simple, earthly food; maybe draw water from a river with a gourd . . . I never saw him again though.

Maya turned 14 yesterday and she's just now becoming interested in boys. I don't think she wants to run off, though it's not lost on me that most of my Jah-Leel wishings were just escapist fantasy that didn't have a lot to do with him.

My point is that 14 is super ripe, ain't it? The land of independent absorption and budding resilience; the beginnings of true maturity. And Maya makes for a spectacular 14 year old.

Her party was Sunday and as much as we planned to play and have fun, I was still a little worried that the party would morph into a group of girls sitting around and talking/whining/gossiping. It did not. Play we did! And I'll add that the girls who came seemed relieved in the freedom to play even with big ol' bras and size 9 feet. (They make middle schoolers on a larger scale these days.)

They started with an impromptu game of three-on-three football. I felt a sense of pride when I had to tell the girls to play touch and not tackle football. They let out a collective groan and decided touch would be ok too. Here's Mina wishing she could tackle Maya. Don't let the fashion sense fool you.Then the girls took the soccer ball to the softball field and as they organized a game of kickball, they recruited about eight boys to join the game. It looked like a movie version of Sandlot kickball with every type of kid and personality on the field. When they argued about a foul ball, they squashed it in a matter of minutes -- ignoring the adult reffing from the sidelines -- and went on with the game. Maya was mowed down blocking first base and girls caught balls rocketed towards them off of boys' size 11 feet! (I asked) Mina caught anything that neared her vicinity and the girls bogarted the pitching mound. There was not one mention or whine from the boys about the girls and how they played. Well, not until they headed to the basketball courts for a game of Knock Out. When Maya smoked everybody, one of the boys said, "She shoots like a boy." That, unfortunately, can still elicit pride in a young girl athlete, but I jumped in and said, "You shoot like an athlete is what it is." Maya innocently blurted, "He just meant I don't shoot like AW here." She was pointing to her BFF who then blushed.

After KnockOut there was a fierce water balloon fight and then we played with one of those high soaring frisbees which was retrieved from the trees twice, a backyard once, but when it got stuck on a high, flimsy branch of a pine -- despite a gallant, climbing, shirtless effort by one of Husband's friends -- the game was over. It was time to go home then anyway considering we had played beyond when we said we would. Here are Maya custom-made kicks that Papi & I gave her yesterday.
Happy Birthday, Baby! You do 14 so well.

And Yet More Kid Goodness Leading into Memorial Day

2009-05-22T11:01:00.000-07:00

This year, every fourth grade class at Mina's elementary school was given a musical to practice and perform. One class was given the Sound of Music; another Oliver. Mina's class was given Hairspray. For weeks, they practiced diligently. Maya and Mina had already seen the current version of the movie at least five times (I did make them watch the old one once) and so each song was practically committed to memory already. Hearing Good Morning Baltimore BELTED by Mina, with accompaniment and quite often bogarting by Maya, was joyful and grating. After fifteen times at a single sitting, I was tearful in my utter resignation and nearly hallucinating. The tolerance of noise that a parent can bare is award-winning. Though I gotta tell you, it was all worth it come play time. Mina played a smaller role, but lord if she wasn't the cutest thing ever up there. Other mothers would disagree. WHATEV. (Notice Mina's man, FB behind her. Mina said, "It looks like we're holding hands here.")Man! Did she have fun, and the all the kids were just great. Here are a few beaming, post-musical shots.

Mina and proud sister. You might remember FN, the class cut up, from Mina's party. He played Tracy's dad in the play, and he sung his heart out. He was awesome! Here's Maya's Crew supporting Mina; AW on the left, El on the right. Can I talk about how beautiful Maya is? I obviously don't mean just outwardly. She'll be fourteen on Monday. 14! And next year, she's starting high school. Which is strange because I was just asking Betsy, "Weren't we in high school, like, just last week?" Maya really is one of the best people I know. She's so responsible and hard working and caring. I couldn't be prouder of her. I love this picture. Today Maya's animal rights group is holding a bake sale right after school. I hardly did any of the baking. Of what we're contributing, Maya baked the majority of the stuff and she did such a great job. The group will hand over the money earned to the teacher who has allowed the group to use her room for meetings. This teacher volunteers at a Boxer Rescue and all the money will go towards food and care for the dogs. Maya thought it best to thank the teacher by helping her organization. This is what I'm talking about: Fair and thoughtful!

Maya's English class is now reading To Kill a Mockingbird. I'm rereading it along with her so we can geek out about the book together. I recommend rereading classics when you're older because wow! what a spectacular piece of writing that is. I had a sharp and open mind when I was young, but there is something about savoring art more deeply, more dimensionally when you're older. When you're young, or when I was young, I wanted to be Scout so badly. Maya wants to be Scout. And now, I want to be Atticus. The shift to loving Atticus is just as profound as the love I personally once had for Scout. It really is like reading it for the first time. So, it's been fun diving into plot and undertones of the book with Maya. Scout's innocent sense of what's right, the race issues, Atticus' unflappable sense of fairness are all big topics at which we grind away. Seeing Maya's mind dig deep is a pleasurable kick in the gut. She is amazing.

Stay tuned for Maya's big 1-4 birthday post.
Happy Weekend and Memorial Day, mi gente.

Maya's Crew

2009-05-15T15:49:00.000-07:00

One of Maya's best friends, El, is a lesbian, and at thirteen she is bravely out to everyone including the playgrounds of middle school. She is a true beacon of progress. I ask Maya if El ever gets harassed at school, and Maya says no. There was one cowardly, anonymous cyber incident but other than that, no. Everybody knows and it's no big deal. Except to El's mother. El's mother is not accepting the news well and their relationship is in severe crisis. The relationship took a steeper downward turn after El told her mother that she's transgender; she is a boy trapped in a girl's body. El is a quiet and handsome girl. Sad and confident. She's very sure of herself but a little distrusting except of her closest friends, Maya being one of them. I get choked up when I hear Maya talking to El sometimes. Maya tells her that no matter what, she supports her; that whoever she is, it's all ok with her.

Maya worries about El in private, about her home life or about how hard it must be for her sometimes. She doesn't understand why a heartfelt talk doesn't patch things up immediately between El and her mother. I tell Maya it's not that simple for El. We can't know exactly what either is going through. We can only be there for her as a friend. I tell Maya though that I think El is going to be ok. I believe that. I've never seen a young person so aware of the big picture and sure of who they are. But in reality, she is still a child, and a child shouldn't have to beg and pray for their parent's acceptance. I can't imagine the stress El feels at home, and sometimes I worry about her too. She comes to our house as often as she can, and when she does, she's at ease. I told her that our house is a safe one and she's allowed to be herself and that we love her the same. She relaxes, takes it in. Then she eats plates and plates of food. She's a growing boy, she says.

El is involved with a group called Safe Zone which is run through our local high school. It's a group committed to promoting awareness and sensitivity regarding the issues of sexism and homophobia. El is the only middle schooler who attends the conferences and meetings and she is driven to the Safe Zone functions by one of our middle school teachers who sits on the Safe Zone board. Through the program, El was invited to attend the Gay & Lesbian Prom given by Safe Zone for high school students. And El asked Maya and their other friend AW to go with her. Maya came home excited about the news. Then she asked, "What if I'm asked to slow dance by someone I don't know and I don't want to." This is a question that stems more from a general slow-dance apprehension at thirteen than anything else. I said, "Then you say no thank you, I'm with my friends. You don't ever do what you don't want to do no matter the circumstances." "Ok, cool," she said as she pulled out dresses from her closet. She began to imagine how her hair would be done. Then I said, "Uh, sweetheart, this is a prom, not an 8th grade gym dance. Did you ask how much the tickets would be?" Her face grew pale and surprised.

The tickets cost far more than Maya could have imagined -- it's prom! -- and the price was too expensive for even El. I said, "The prom should be a fun thing in high school anyway. You guys are young yet." Maya agreed and she fastened her helmet to go skateboarding with her crew. And a good, smart, funny, grounded crew it is.

El, Maya and AW.

The Leanness of My Tree

2009-05-11T10:24:00.000-07:00

Last week, I thought my mother had discovered my blog. My initial reaction, as it has been in the past, was sheer panic. I wanted to shut it all down and hide it away. I wanted to burn my writing, including my most recent story. I wanted to disappear back into nothingness. I didn't want her to be upset. And I free-fell for a minute. But then in the most intense moment of clarity, the panic dissolved and floated away. It was the first time I folded up the fear and set it adrift on a burning barge. I mean, really, I'm a grown ass woman and, surprisingly, I'm allowed to feel what I feel and write what I want to write. It's the silliest and simplest of epiphanies, and frankly one of the more liberating ones for me. I am not nothing.

The fact is, she may have discovered the blog. I'm not sure. I hadn't communicated with her in a long, long while, until this weekend, and then it was only by short and blues-filled emails. I can tell she is on a downward spike. This is something that also induces panic for me and my reaction was that it was because of me. Thinking clearly now, it's obviously not. But, lord, I'm so slow at all of this. Each time, I shake a bit more free the stuff that's tangled in my tree.

Here's another story of simple realizations. My spin gym invited a Bod Pod to visit and conduct testing throughout the weekend for members wanting such a thing. A Bod Pod is a space-capsule-looking chamber that apparently is one of the most accurate tests of body fat, lean muscle mass, resting heart rate and metabolic resting rates. That last thing means the minimum amount of calories one should eat even if you're lying in bed all day. If you eat less than your metabolic resting rate one runs the risk of burning off muscle, not the kind of weight you want to lose. As an athlete, I was beyond excited to see where I was. As a woman not unaffected by the bombardment of "ideal standards" and having fought a life-long battle to deflect and reject my enslavement by scale #'s and jean sizes, I confess I was a bit anxious. The athlete in me most certainly dominated in that I wanted to know what could improve and set a realistic path on how to improve it. When the practitioner said, Ok strip down to your speedo bathing suit, the enslaved woman in me, no matter how small, choked me up for a nanosecond. It was not a noticeable choking by any means. I didn't hesitate. And I certainly refused to act coy and say self conscious things. That, in my mind, adds two fold to any private embarrassment. Besides, I'm an anti-shame kinda girl even if I have to fake it.

After a series of questions, I slipped off my sweats and put on a bathing cap, and I did not say a word or skip a step when the practitioner instructed me to step on a high-powered, fancy scale where I had to be very still. I couldn't see what the number was, which was fine with me, and I then stepped into the space chamber to complete the tests. Outside of the chamber, I heard the results print and I dressed, quelling fears and mapping out worst case scenarios. I was not anxious then, only accepting what was to be told to me. I had even asked the guy if people freaked out going into the little bod pod and he said, no, only when they heard the results of the test. People like to be in denial, he told me.

When I was younger, the last time I took a body fat test, I was about 23-24%, which is healthy and fairly average. I prayed that my current number wasn't larger than that though I had to have been about 15 years older from when that test was taken. I have wondered a lot about the changes our body goes through as we age. I work out a lot, but my weight has not gone down much at all. Where my fat is distributed too is different. That doesn't bother me, much, though I do wonder about all of that. I will admit that I prefer the bigger butt-flat stomach days of my youth more than the shrinking butt-softer stomach days of now. But what can I do? I think a lot about what am I not doing correctly, not so much in a vain sense but very much from a performance sense. It all fascinates me really, which is why I couldn't wait to hear about the Bod Pod results. Though as I waited, my anxiety climbed.

As the papers came out of the printer, the practitioner said, "Impressive." And for some reason I said out loud, nervously, "Uhoh." I was mad that I inexplicably blurted that because the guy looked at me, puzzled, and handed me the papers. He said, "You're the leanest woman I've tested so far." My body fat was 17.2%. I stared at the number simultaneously stoked and suspicious. My resting heart rate was 60 (excellent), my blood pressure very low. He pretty much told me awesome job, keep it up. I said, "So, my weight not going down even after all the working out?" He told me my muscle mass has taken the place of fat. Who cares about the scale #, which embarrassed me because I say that kind of stuff all the time to myself and other people.

I wondered, after all my self love and low-level self consciousness, if I had still become a woman who can't see herself clearly in the mirror. Having a piece of paper that told me how strong and healthy I am made me incredibly sure of every decision I've made health wise; being a vegan, commuting often on my bike, putting down and passing on my baking talents, working hard at cycling and strength training. I plug along because it feels good and right, physcially and emotionally, but I was oddly suspicious of the validation. Light headed, I unlocked my bike and took a ride to the beach after the test. My shoulders were back and I checked myself out in every window and thought, man, right? Look at me. I'm strong and low-fat, baby! Though duh, right? My clarity seems foolish and elementary sometimes. But I just gotta say again that each time, I shake a bit more free the stuff that's tangled in my tree.

Where Were We?

2009-05-07T10:21:00.000-07:00

Yes, Mina's birthday . . .we had a party last weekend at this killer park that's crammed between Santa Monica and Pacific Palisades. The park is hidden behind eucalyptus trees and tucked down into some hilly residentialness. It's a gem when you can find it. When I was a kid, my summer camp would go there now and again, and I told the girls that we campers would play Wolves up behind the tennis courts on a little woodsy path that circles the park. The good wolves would get chased by the bad wolves. We'd run on the rolling dirt, ducking branches. We hid in trees. I told the girls, "It was so fun, but I can't really tell you why or the real object of the game. It was just a blast."

I think that was the point of having the party there; to just play. Husband comes from an outstanding tradition of childhood made-up games; stick ball and Ninjas (kids just really kicking each other in a dirt lot) and on. And I used to pretend my bike was a horse or I'd set up a fort out of cardboard behind the apartment building next to the car ports. So for Mina's party we didn't want themes or gimmicks or the Entertain Me pressure. Deep down, kids still want to play it turns out. Adults too.

Papi grilled up tofu dogs on the park BBQ's and brought some Hebrew Beef Nationals for guests who wanted those, which worked out perfectly for the Kosher and Muslim kids, we found out. The tofu dogs were devoured first, I will add (propagandaously). Maya and her BFF AW baked four dozen vegan oreo cupcakes for the party, which were just enough for the kids who wanted thirds and fourths; most of them. Maya and AW are taking on the baking torch passed to them quite famously. I heard them talking about the vegan bakery-cafe they'd open together when they get older. I love that.

Here are some pictures of our day! They're about to run off and find the gift bags that Maya & her friends help me hide along the woodsy path behind the tennis courts. We made these kids work for their bags, which were filled with 99 Cent Store stuff. The most coveted item was the 99 Cent swim goggles. Score! Does anything beat a water-balloon toss? The answer is, No! Some of our grown friends and neighbors joined in.Here are the winners of Water-Balloon Toss, Round One: the boys of Mina's party FB & FN. Mina's crush is the gentle-natured half Peruvian, half Italian blond on the left there, FB. He's one of the best soccer players in school. Mina likes that. FN on the right is the class cut up. He's half Israeli, half British with eyes (and accent) that will devastate in a few more years.Here's our friend and neighbor Drew with Mina about to go long with some water balloons.Here are the winners of Water-Balloon Toss, Round 2: Margaret & Molly! Nice third balloon boob, Margaret.The water-balloon toss turned into a full-on water-balloon fight, which is really inevitable. Here's Maya post pelting, I think by our grown friend John.Maya got him back pretty good though. I think this is after ice went down the back of his shirt. Then we took it to the trees. Here are Maya's best friends, AW, Mina, Maya and El.El, Maya, AW. Mina's BFF Kai.Had to get this one (for Mina) of FB on a branch.
And of course my birthday Beauty, Mina.

We all had so much fun, we decided to do this again in a couple weeks for Maya's party!

Ode to a Girl's Birthday

2009-04-24T08:42:00.000-07:00

I want this post to be, for the most part, positive because today is Mina's birthday. Ten years ago my brilliant baby came out all head and hair. Papi, Maya and I were over the moon about her. Look at Maya's face with newborn Mina. You couldn't pry that smile off with a crowbar.
Here's Mina this morning, freshly 10, in her new birthday outfit with a Carmen accessory. Not suit, though. Not birthday suit. She probably would love to be photographed naked. She's a bit of a nudist when not adorning herself in high fashion.In honor of my girl -- both girls --I want this post to be a feminist one too --- wait, don't leave . . .we're reinventing this concept, haven't you heard? Pumping new life into it. We might even freshen up the word. We're having a meeting about it later, but the point is the cause can't be forgotten. Not as long as women are still being born, which they are, like, daily I heard. I know we're tired, sisters, but can't we keep up the fight just a while longer for ourselves, our sisters, our daughters? For our even more tired mothers and grandmothers? So many hard-fought issues have wilted over three decades and women’s rights issues get more and more blurry and we're left scratching our heads, at odds with each other, clinging to protective laws. I don't know about you, but as a mami to girls, I feel it my duty to put my girls on a seesaw while I sky-jump on the other end catapulting them into the stratosphere where they are not diminished or disempowered or told this and that about themselves. And if you're not a mami, you should want to jump on it with me too. Those girls were once you.

We watched Girls Rock! last night. It's a documentary about a rock and roll camp for girls ages 8-18. It was almost a great movie, and just from a film standpoint I think it missed some marks, but the concept of the camp had me choked up from when the beginning frame rolled. Seriously I wanted to burst into tears many, many times. It's that uncontrollable crying like when I watch the girls play basketball sometimes or when they used to do TaeKwonDo, or even at holiday pageants when they sing their hearts out. Something about the breaking down of self-consciousness to just let yourself be something. Kids are so pure about that and girls seem to learn to be self conscious and coy and withdrawn so quickly that when they are open without pretense in the most natural of ways, I get the waterworks. And this camp was all about checking all of that and breaking down and through what girls should or shouldn't be. I'm a stone-cold sucker for an awkward and unique girl. I can't help but think they are granted a halo of specialness and this camp was full of those types from troubled girls to girls completely on their own planet. I loved them all. The camp counselors floored me the most though. They were the coolest most patient and mixed group of women ever. They spoke to these girls like we all ache to be spoken.

The documentary would rattle off facts such as a boy will name a talent as what he likes about himself best while a girl will name a body part. And Maya and Mina would say, "Really? That's weird." Or a girls ability to say "I love myself" diminishes from 60% to 29% between the ages of 9 and 18. And Mina said, "Shoot, I love MYself." And Maya said, "I love MYself." And I said, "I love MYself." Or that girls tend to bottle up how they feel and I said, "Do you guys let out how you feel?" and they said, "Uh, yea." As in, duh.

And I'm left to wonder about the perpetuation of the squashed female spirit. How empty do the overused and well-marketed slogans of You Go Girl and Girl Power! seem? Does this still raise our daughters' esteem? I think so. But do they address any real issues of a girl feeling ok to speak up loudly in school or not keep crap bottled up or to not feel so self conscious. Do girls feel any sense of real entitlement yet? I'm not talking about the Queen Bees of school who bully themselves into that place of power. I'm talking about girls possessing a natural, comfortable, confident empowerment. Do any of us?

Why the hell not yet?

I wish the awesome rock and roll women from that camp would hold a national forum and help us change this. I mean, they are changing it 100 girls at a time every summer, but I mean . . .help, all of us.

I often ride the line of empowering Maya and Mina as girls and teaching them a solid sense of humanitarianism. I think being a decent human being is a priority, being thoughtful and respectful and compassionate and polite. And the fine line is teaching them that it is ok to be selfless yet still feel empowered. We are selfless and compassionate because we have enough power to share and NOT because we feel we are less deserving of anything, especially because we are women. If I had a son, I would teach him the same lessons of being a human. I would not teach him to be less selfless because he was a boy, and I say this because I want the girls to know I don't teach them these things because that's how girls should act, but anybody. I think they know that.

I think the girls have never felt disempowered because they are girls, but we are starting to navigate through the most tricky of territories, which is their observations of women in videos, on TV, in magazines and how these fabricated and cookie-cutter looks relate to their budding relationship with boys, and other girls frankly. Girls are told to be modest, be a lady for f sake, yet every woman on public display is tramped up. I'm trying to buckle on life preservers for my girls to wade through these treacherous waters. I tell them it is ok to reject what everyone thinks is the way you should dress or look. I tell them that this may not be easy. It takes a lot of bravery to be the awkward and unique one no matter how special you are or feel.

I can only have constant conversations with them about everything all the time. I can only let them know it's ok to question everything and have constant conversations about everything all the time. And this really is the only real gift I can give them.

Oh Mina, you are definitely my shining unique soul. Ain't nobody squashing you! I love you so much. Happy Birthday, baby.

And Sisters? I'm in your corner.

Bullet Points Are Efficient

2009-04-20T12:59:00.000-07:00

* Spring break just passed for the kids which is a head-scratching 2 weeks long. I've been a slave to Mina, basically. Let's face facts, on the real, I am shackled to their schedule y ya! That's that.

* I don't mind being bossed around by them, for the most part. My heart's a little too soft for them. Mina's getting outta hand though because the world is hers! don't you know. Lately, she's been trying to leave the house every day wearing bright crimson lip stick. Papi ain't having it. I kinda don't mind it. 'Cause I'm a sucka for her!

* But I drew the line on Saturday. Mina and I were meeting people at a restaurant and after exiting and locking my car I heard clumpedy clump on the parking lot pavement. I turned to see that Mina had slipped on some silver, spike-heeled ankle boots that I had left in the car, and she was seriously trying to wear these out like nothing. I said, "Have you lost your mind?" And she shuffled back to the car to put her converse back on.

* This just in regarding triathlon training: Swimming can go F itself. Ug. I'm head over heels about cycling, of course, and I'm even liking the running ok - que sorpresa! - but the swimming? Ug. It can jump in a lake. And swim itself. I ain't diggin the swimming, y'all, and I was a competitive swimmer when I was younger. I mean, if you call being mediocre competitive. I'm trying to figure out a way to swap out the triathlon for a cycling event instead without looking like a punk-quitter. Punk this, Swimming!

* I've been writing. Writing on the real. I finished a story. I'm over the moon about this. Thanks to all of you for your ridiculous encouragement. Seriously.

* I'm almost done with my second nutritionist's class, Traditional Naturopathy. After my next test, I have to do a project! Like, write a paper and stuff. Awesome.

* Husband recently said, "Holy, you're efficient with time." I beamed about that, but then realized I'm anally efficient. I'm close to having a problem. Like, I'm boiling water and soaking almonds and loading the computer while taking down the trash and laundry on the way to walk the dogs and making a biz call and signing a school note efficient. It's all calculated and planned so every minute fits together like a puzzle. And I have to write every single thing down or I forget the second the minute hand clicks on something else. In fact, I better write down to examine this problem a little more when I have time because am I present during 75% of what I'm doing? Who cares! I get a shit load done!

* What were we talking about?

* Happy Monday.