The Crying List

Sometimes I make lists because they’re succinct and communicate a lot with very little effort (or the need for horribly difficult transitions). Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about how often I cry. I’m a PhD student and it can just get a tad bit overwhelming. Since going to therapy a few years ago, I’ve begun this crying bout. It’s hard to put into words, but there are moments I find myself crying because I am raw, so vulnerable with emotion, that I have no way to formulate or make sense of the world, me, or anything really. No, I don’t cry every day, but at key moments and below I provide you a glimpse into them.

• When something really small hasn’t gone right (and it’s always usually gone right). Maybe it’s just that on top of everything else, this rather miniscule task must be attended to and I’m the only one who can do it. Honestly, it’ll require maybe an email, a quick phone call, or the submission of a form, and I am left crying as though everything in the world wants to work against me. Dramatics… I know, I bring on the dramatics.

• When I wish I weren’t such an introvert and didn’t have to work myself up to make a phone call or have an in-person conversation. I can’t explain what exactly is so difficult for me. This goes for nearly anyone in my life, maybe except my mother. My social anxiety takes over and paralyzes me – sometimes on the phone and sometimes in person.

• When I finally write something I have been thinking about and processing for months. There is a true sense of catharsis that takes over my body and mind when I can find the words (the moment and time) to formulate my emotions, my thoughts onto the blank page.

• When I find myself in the car on a highway and a song comes on, grabs my make-up and me and tries to make me a mess before I ever arrive at my destination or officially begin my day.

• Immediately after a very large project or a series of tasks have been accomplished. For a moment I can breathe again and my shoulders fall, no longer tense, and my heart finally catches up with me.

• When my partner holds me and I try to communicate how I feel about him and describe what he means to me. I’m forced to take his face in my hands and repeat it so he never forgets.

• When I miss my niece and nephew and imagine all the experiences I’d like to have with them but distance and time make it nearly impossible at the moment. I promise myself I’ll do research, I’ll plan, I’ll do more, and then I look at my bank account, my calendar, my to-do list, and I’m stopped in my tracks.

• When someone probes just a little bit to try to reveal what is keeping me so stoic and essentially non-responsive. I’m trying to hold it together and when someone sees I’m not doing it too well or I’m carrying the load rather poorly, I break.

• Almost every month, like clockwork, I double-guess all my life decisions and choosing to get a PhD. Anxiety takes over and I try to make sense of what brings me joy and why I decided to begin this journey nearly 2 years ago. I fear this won’t ever feel quite right, or maybe that the only place I do feel quite myself is right here, on my own page, creating art with words.

• In a tender moment with my partner, when he can be present. He reminds me of how precious it is to find people who will hold your hand, stare into your eyes, and be present.

• When someone pushes me away in a moment of need or pain. All I want to do is help or at least be present, especially for those close to my heart, so when they retaliate or say “no” you’re not allowed here, I’m at a loss. I’m in pain because of the rejection, but mostly because all I want to do is be there and care in whatever way I may be needed and I can’t be or worse, I’m not wanted there in that way. Maybe it’s most difficult too because I know that’s exactly what I do to others and so I must be ready to take a dose of my own medicine.

• When I catch a rather funny episode of The Golden Girls during my nighttime ritual, and I laugh so hard just thinking about the women in my life who fill my life with so much joy, laughter, and love.

Evolution of the Self

What do you do when you no longer recognize the person you love? I have asked myself this question so often, constantly remembering that I am also not the woman I once was either, or the girl I was. Love is a stronghold for only so long, when the person whom you love does nothing but continually pain you. And it’s not like an intentional pain, something they set out to do, but the person s/he is literally becoming in front of your eyes causes you pain. This is the not the person you shared moments with or whose tears you wiped when life’s heartaches got too hard. Ever since going to therapy like 3 years ago, the floodgates have opened, and I am just so soft; crying at a mere whim because I am no longer able to hold in the impact of pain imposed by another. I spent so much of my life holding everything in that I’m assuming God is letting me spend the next stage of my life crying, so I don’t cause myself more pain by stifling it even further, even deeper.

There are glimmers, moments in which I see this person come back to me. In the midst of a serious conversation about partners and love, s/he returns, reminding me that it’s O.K. to embrace and enjoy the happiness of the moments passing me by. When I see this person play and enjoy time with others I am reminded of a familiar soul. Even when this person gets upset or angry with life / world / people, I see the person planted squarely where I always thought s/he was standing.

However, I am left disillusioned when other decisions, choices, and ways of speaking are taken on as though this person were trying to mimic someone else. I wish I could tell you who that someone is, but I really have no clue. Whenever one of these moments arise, I imagine this person trying on a suit, a costume, that works in the present, but something we know is simply temporary and is certainly not suitable for the person living under it. When I get especially frustrated with not having the language to fathom what is occurring, I try to be forgiving, and the only way to do so is to consider my own evolution (if I could use such an odd way of viewing the development of the self).

I think about how I have changed (or maybe not so much) and how the people around me despite these changes (or not) have chosen to stick by me. They have seen some hope beyond the present moment of where I am situated. I just imagine myself as a clueless teenager in college, encountering new ideas and ways of being that were completely foreign to those closest to me. I imagine the woman nestled in a rather large closet of emotions, refusing to touch them, acknowledge them, or even hold herself. These are all me – I am them, but at the same time, I am no longer any of them. I wonder what has stayed consistent, what do I believe in that never falters? Do those closest to me know that those tenets are still very close to my heart? And so, instead of giving up, I try to find it within myself to stand at an adequate distance as this person continues on their journey, because I have to admit, one of the most important tenets I live by is loyalty. But, I won’t allow myself to be pained, and so I keep an adequate amount of space between us so I am not spending all the days of my life crying, but close enough to know that if I died tomorrow, I know I gave enough of myself to say I tried. Another important facet of my thinking, if my life somehow ended tomorrow, would I be happy with what I gave to others? Would it be sufficient or reciprocal to what I’ve seen given to me? Some days I go to sleep knowing I did my best and others, I pray God gives me more time so I can do all these special people justice.

La Reflexión de una Dominicana

It’s best to actually listen to the song that’s responsible for the post as you read (if that’s feasible for you)… Click here for a good bachata oldie…

Hector Acosta’s “Sin Perdon” inspired this post. I heard this song twice today; once on my way to school as I began my day and again on my way home nearly 12 hours later. This is my attempt at trying to encapsulate for you the comfort and meaning this man’s voice provided. Because for as much as I had many successes this past week and especially today there have also been many a great struggle emotionally as I battle “imposter syndrome” while pursuing a doctorate degree in my 30s and manage the financial implications associated with taking that risk a little later in life. The tortured voice of this man and the iconic old school bachata beat grabs me by my sensitive heart attempting to make sense of the mountains and valleys of my progress in graduate school (and life for that matter). Amidst things that really aren’t as important as life’s basics, this song floods my mind with some of the tenderest memories of my upbringing and a deep connection to my Dominican culture.

The first memory that arrives is my baby brother (not so childlike but a teenager) dancing bachata so smoothly across the dance floor of the night sky keeping time carefully but swiftly moving his partner so she can catch and lasso the moon with her hips. My baby brother absolutely loves hearing the tortured Dominican men cry about how women just refuse to forgive them for their transgressions or who just down right reject them. Ironically, as a man who would never actually take part in these actions, he enjoys indulging in the sadness those voices emanate about life and it’s inevitable message: “I’m gonna screw you good enough and so its best you just dance through it.” The second image is of my mother enchantingly making her way around the house on Saturday mornings, cleaning, dancing, and sinuously making it seem as though those two things could never be separated. They were partners that helped make the special sweet agony of cleaning after others bearable. The other memories encompass the numerous family parties with sleeping babies behind closed bedroom doors, adults sweeping away the struggles and torment of working hard jobs, and small living rooms with bodies close, hips moving in time, music booming through the neighborhood or apartment building. Family parties full of food that the women spent toiling and providing for everyone, but especially la empanadas, or el pernil, or even my mom’s lasagna (evidence of the only woman in the family who mastered a dish that defines the mission of assimilation). Holidays full of cheer, Dominican rum, and sometimes specially-made mamajuana run through my mind as I imagine exactly where I’ve been during these parties.   The spotlight is on the sidelines, I sit on couches or linger in the kitchen far from the dance floor but within eyesight so I can observe and admire from a distance. I remember watching couples whose red cheeks finally revealed a love I often forgot actually existed. As an adult I continue on the sidelines. From a young age I knew I could never match my mom’s ability to live in a moment. Through the movement of feet on wooden floors, she managed to stomp away the bad bad things one has to sacrifice just to make a living. I know how to dance the stuff, don’t get me wrong, I’ve just always felt like an outsider unable to fully engage in and know that it was me and I was it. Hector Acosta’s voice reminds me of the creativity my heart longs to shape and bring forward into the world. His voice reminds me of Dominican (Latino) men and their sweet, kind words, and love. His voice reminds me of the many wrongs we all do and may continue to do, but no matter what, life is life, and maybe all we need is one moment, a dance floor, and to be surrounded by food, family, and loud loud voices and stories of a country that seems like paradise. A country that really situates itself in my skin color and the way the world identifies me, but I still don’t know how to represent. And so I guess until I figure out how and when that may happen, all I can do is sit amongst the tortured voices of my people (in this case Hector and in others La India) and know that my voice, my writing voice is like la güira that brings a song alive.

A LYRICAL INTERPRETATION (because I’ve been majoring in English for approximately 9 years and so how could I not flex the muscle?): A wonderful line which concludes the chorus is “Y uno no da la vida entera pa’ que lo engañen pa’ que lo engañen.” Besides the obvious Dominican drop of the “r” (which is quintessentially and wonderfully Dominican), what stands out to me is that even though this is what a woman says to her partner about his cheating, the use of the words in Spanish can have another meaning. The direct English translation is: “And someone doesn’t give his whole life to be deceived, to be deceived.” Although in the context of the song, “engañen” really means “to be cheated on” because they’re discussing a fractured relationship due to someone’s infidelity, the verb “engañar” when simply translated means “to deceive.” And isn’t that the beauty of life? We live being deceived by many things (even our own brutish and silly denial) and still we are left hunting down the truth, wondering what direction will reveal an even larger truth with better direction. But what if life is but a dance amidst these deceptions and the hope is that we can keep up with and stay in the right place, at the right time, with the right people?

 

What Happens When You Fall in Love (for what you believe is the first time in your life)

1.  It helps you be a better person. You find yourself wanting to hold, comfort, and support others naturally. You wonder, is this who you’ve always been? Seeking to connect, contact, and be with others – but too scared to do so?

2. Past loves or connections with men are looked at like the dead deer or other animals found on the road in your several road trips through the United States. Except, unlike the car travels, you can’t just zoom by, now you’re infatuated with gaining a better understanding of that animal, of your connection and the version of you with that animal. Who could have possibly agreed to tend to dead carcasses who could barely find it within their beings to live, nevertheless give to you? This metaphor lingers, mostly because you become the agent of change, the one for creating head-on damage, and the shock, the shock of the crash, the person, you wanted so bad, and didn’t know you were killing, are still effervescent in you. You seek and seek more meaning among carcasses that at this point you just need to finish grieving, get to burying, and walk away from.

3. You analyze people’s current relationships and wonder how they got where they are. Most importantly, you reflect upon what you remember most from your childhood. What does it mean to love someone?

4. You try not to indulge crazy notions of running towards your love at random moments. You work really hard not to just drive to him and have him linger in your arms for hours. Because it doesn’t matter if you saw him yesterday or just minutes ago, you don’t want to be apart from him.

5. You wonder where the time goes. You watch the clocks in your life, no matter if you’re sitting in a restaurant, movie theater, bowling alley, park, your apartment on a couch or in a bed. An hour becomes two, becomes, three, and often becomes four and five. But all that time doesn’t suffocate you – it leaves you wanting and begging God for more time. All you want is responsibilities to disappear and free time to arrive like the fairy Godmother in all those unrealistic fuckin’ Disney movies.

6. Smells are touchy, finicky, scary things. When you go to bed and breathe in his scent – your life seems so empty and full for a moment.

7. You ask constantly, “is this it?” Is this what everyone’s been writing songs, poems, and stories about? Could this be enough? How much more could I possibly get? What does it mean if I want more?

8. Daily phone calls and text messages become routine, and occasionally you take deep breaths wondering what will happen if and when they disappear?

9. People talk about the sex – but they don’t really talk about it. Or maybe they never talked about it with me? What does that say about me? What does that say about what I desire? What does it say about how I have been perceived by others?

10. Sometimes you listen to Rihanna’s “Needed Me” and dedicate it to all those sore ass suckers you had to encounter on your path to love… and beg, hope you don’t have to return there… to the dating highway of wreckage.

“Another nigga on the hit list – didn’t they tell you I was a savage – fuck your white horse and carriage.”

11. You get stupid. Yep, so stupid you have dreams of houses, and for me in particular, it’s all about the beauty of peace and quiet found on the wrap-around porch, sitting in matching rocking chairs, drinking tea.

12. You get lost. It always seems like a whirlwind after encountering your love – you’re thrown back into the real world of work and it’s like a fucking tornado, no better yet, Taz, the tazmanian devil, took your hand, and now wants you to return to the still world of life. You’re all dizzy, full of energy, but so disoriented, you wonder are you where you’re supposed to be?

13. You look at children differently and send a little prayer up to God for every couple that ever found it in their union and relationship the strength necessary to raise the next generation. You dote upon and enjoy your nieces and nephews more than ever, because these little people are like the embodiment of that love. As sickening as that shit sounded when everyone else brought it up – it all begins to make sense. This does NOT mean your mind has changed about having children, but rather you can begin to understand everyone else’s decision to bring them into the world. If the love you’ve encountered could possibly have anything top its existence – those damn kids, the creation of children would be a pretty interesting pinnacle to achieve with this person. You finally understand what really taunts people to even consider parenthood.

14. You finally sorta understand the significance of those songs with tortured voices crying about the pain associated with loss. You say “sorta” because you don’t yet understand the loss per say, but secretly fear, every time may be your last, so that kind of sweet torture – you hope it disappears soon. Please.

15. You understand the significance of flaws and how love always sees them – that shit ain’t blind like people have so vehemently argued previously.   Maybe you’re a different kind of gal because you fell in love way late in life, so you’re more of an “adult” with a semblance of “self-control.” But, love isn’t blind, that shit is deceiving, it teaches you to take all that shit together and love that person as you fully see them. And what’s even worse is encountering that that person sees you as plain as day, sun shining and stunnin’ on your naked body, in the crevices of your fat rolls, just well aware of the flawed, damaged person, standing in front of them, and still manages to love you fully.

16. You wonder if it’s actually plausible to be annoyed as shit and still love someone all at once. Like legit, you want to kick him sometimes – is this level of annoyance allowable if it’s happening, you know, after just a few months of knowing each other?

17. You get a much more clear picture of yourself. Yep – that reflection in the mirror is now full of what this other person has highlighted and observed about you. It’s not BAD, the toughest part is that much of it could be good, and your scared shitless as to what exactly you’re supposed to do with that?

18. You’ll fight. It’s inevitable, especially if you’re me. But when you’re still in the starry-eyed phase, these fights seem like mere disagreements, because your love, well, he’s your love, and all the good, all the special stuff, super supersedes a random fight here or there.

19. You refuse to share the news with people on social media – your fear of having to see the trajectory of a failed or lost relationship (most of all in front of others) is too heart-wrenching. Besides… you don’t want to share him yet. You’re scared it’s too good to be true and the love you’ve found is all made up in your mind and that you’ll be committed to some asylum, declared crazy, much like Britney Spears. Even when friends or family ask about him because they have met him and know he’s still ever-present in your life, you say “good.” You don’t expand your answer, you can’t begin to formulate the right words, the correct narrative to allow others into your heart and see the growth of a relationship you are still pinching yourself to prove it actually exists.

20. You find yourself during pockets of downtime, driving, walking, staring out into the distance, with memories of your time together flashing, as though it were a movie, and you smile. You sometimes laugh too, but mostly you smile and reach for your phone.

Getting Under a New Man

You know that infamous saying which goes along these lines: you get over one man by getting under another? What people don’t say is that after getting under the new man, you could find yourself going home, driving in your car, and as you get on the highway, you start heaving from the pain in your heart; pain you hadn’t seen the likes of in quite a while.

What no one says is that getting over a man requires a grieving process, a letting go of sorts. For me, for me it means that my pride must be checked. What I wanted, what I desired was no longer available to me. What I wanted wasn’t mine to have. If I could communicate anything about myself, it is the idea that it takes me a good long time to adjust to the idea of change. I must give myself an extended period of time to feel like I’m comfortable with what’s coming. This has to do with nearly everything in my life, from a significant change on a syllabus I’m creating for a course to changing my diet. I need to spend a good amount of time preparing and revving up for that change – I need the time to adjust prior to the change itself. No matter what it is, professional or personal, I need the cushion; the time to sit there and process the meaning of said change, and to allow my emotions to align themselves appropriately.

Therefore, when someone new comes along, and he’s different, wonderful, but so different, I need to take the time to mourn and release the idea of a past self with someone who I desperately clung to because I couldn’t throw away a sense of magnetism I’d never felt before. How do I throw away this natural propensity to be near and physical to a near stranger? How do I throw away the always tall, dark, and mysterious being that landed upon my lap? That couldn’t have been a mistake, right? There are never mistakes, just really well coordinated plans by a being much larger than oneself, right?

I have to admit I was being quite selfish, nearly the most vain I’ve probably ever been, the man who does it all isn’t what I wanted, not tall, not slender, not so mysterious, and goes against everything I ever desired in a man. I needed time to adjust to the physical. Isn’t that some shit? Is that God’s silly way of throwing in my face what I struggled most with internally (the difficulty of figuring out how I can come about valuing my own odd physicality – heavy, pudgy, funny looking self)? Despite my personal struggles, I somehow couldn’t value the obscurities of difference in another. He is not ugly – I am not put off by any means. But to end up with a bald head, bearded face, chubby fella wasn’t exactly what I sought or had envisioned. Maybe it was God’s way of being a silly and funny type of God, for me to be forced into a position where I have to choose not to be as vain as I ask everyone around me not to be. A lesson He thought it pertinent to have me learn at this particular juncture in my life when I am probably the most comfortable I have ever been with the body reflected back to me in the mirror.

But I lie – this has not been the most difficult part of getting under a new man. It’s acknowledging how different he is in an emotional and communicative way. He speaks and actually engages in conversation; he doesn’t have to be nagged with text messages or desires for me. He wants to hear from me just as much as I desire to hear from him. And he is this rather soft and kind human being; a man I have never really encountered before. As much as it takes time for me to adjust to losing someone, it takes double, maybe triple the amount of time to accept a new person’s way of being, someone who longs to take care of me, and barely knows me. Most alarming though is his consistency – his sweetness never turns bitter or overwhelming, just more comfortable (I say this even after 8 months of having known each other). He has this way of making me feel heard, understood, and at home all at once. What could be even harder than acknowledging something so good has entered your life? Maybe not knowing if you’re worthy of such goodness or far worse, wondering if it’s temporary.

And so, as much as getting under a new man could be a really good distraction and remind you of how awesome sauce you are, when it’s a really good new man in comparison to the others, you hope fear won’t stick a boot in your mouth, incapable of movement or words.

P.S. The physical, magnetic attraction eventually arrived pretty quickly. I think I need to clarify, I found him to be handsome and adorable to an extent, he just didn’t fit any of the molds I had in my mind of what was attractive or what I was particularly interested in. I thought maybe in the dating realm it would be best to try something new – because doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome is the definition of insanity, right? And yes, I have to admit the emotional pull towards him provided an aura that I still see glimmers of as I sneak glances of while we watch TV, go for a walk, take a drive, or lay in bed together.

A Day in the Life of a Colitis Flare-up

It is 2:05AM and I think my digestive system is officially done rebelling against me. Rewind to 6 hours ago where I sat in an Italian restaurant that me and my boyfriend were trying out for the first time which was “gluten free friendly.” He insisted on taking me out to a nice joint because we had managed to dress so nicely. This was mostly a coincidence, a friend canceled on her birthday shindig last minute, and so he stayed dressed pretty well for dinner and dancing, and I just opted to wear a dress for the first time in our 5 or so months of dating. We had a bottle of wine, ordered our pasta dishes (which were delicious), and reflected out loud about our time together thus far. My meal turned out to be much more spicier than I had anticipated, but it was delicious and for some reason the heat wasn’t unbearable. Fast forward to 5 hours later, around 1am (the magical witching Gastro-intestinal hour), and I run out of my boyfriend’s arms in bed to the bathroom. Nearly 20 minutes later, I’m still standing in the bathroom with my head against the wall hoping to God that this is it. I walk out of the bathroom and stand in the living room for another 10 minutes and then risk getting back into bed. After 3 uncomfortable minutes, I feel that sensation come over me, where diarrhea is inevitable. I sit on the toilet for much longer than I probably should and then finally leave the bathroom to sit in the living room. I think I’m in a better place to go lay down in bed, but I take out my laptop to do something I forgot to do hours ago, and I am inspired immediately to write this experience down. Due to graduate school final papers and end of semester grading, I have been very far from inspired to do any kind of writing. But, after scrolling through my Facebook timeline and seeing a post on the Crohn’s and Colitis Walk – I thought this could be a good documentation of why exactly I am so thankful for all the loving and supportive people in my life who help me manage my disease, even if it’s as small as asking or requesting I choose the place we eat. I will admit, something in my gut (pun intended – I know, I know), told me that last night we should have gone to a place I was well-acquainted with, essentially, something told me that after my magical one hour slow walk down the boardwalk and through an old carnival in Long Beach, nothing could really top that. But, I wanted to do what normal couples do; I wanted to try something new and not think about the consequences all that much. What’s hard to come to terms with is that I am not “normal,” nor is my digestive system. With my gluten and lactose intolerance I am quite limited. But, even when I try a new place that says they accommodate and serve gluten-free food, my body is sensitive, and because I’m eating out anything can happen during preparation, or simply, the food is much too rich for my digestive system. And so what do I think happened in that new Italian spot we tried out? The spiciness sparked a reaction in my body – it doesn’t like things too robust in flavor (unless it’s my usual Dominican food, but sometimes even restaurant-served Latino food hits me bad).

It is now 2:20AM and I have to wake up in approximately 5 hours to get ready for school and give a final exam to my students. I am thanking my lucky stars and God that the man I love is fast asleep as I’ve managed this horrific reaction. He’s been with me long enough to already have seen me sick at least 2 to 3 times. It’s not that I hate being vulnerable, but having a gastro-intestinal disease is just plain disgusting. It’s not like having a cold or a physical body part in healing, it requires conversations about excrement and observing me pace back and forth, rubbing my belly as though I’m with child, when I’m far from that.

I have been diagnosed with Chronic Colitis for nearly 4.5 years. You would think the diagnosis somehow relieves me and makes everything better. Instead, a gastro-intestinal disease of this kind just forces you to spend careful time documenting what you eat and how your body responds, because as my first GI doctor told me, anything and everything could affect it. After a while, we both realized that stress was one of the ultimate triggers because I could eat something one time and be fine, but eat it a week or months later in the midst of a crazy time at school, and my body would just be like nah, I don’t feel like digesting that the way I should. And so, as I sit here, it’s now 2:30AM, I wonder if the stress of the semester hit me hard at the end of it. Nearly a week ago, I got food poisoning and was out of commission for 3 full days. I cried wondering what I had done to deserve this kind of torture just as I had wrapped up nearly the entire semester, but also thanked God it occurred AFTER the deadlines, because I remember too clearly during my master’s program, my body couldn’t hack it. I’d be running from the library to my apartment silently praying not to have an accident and pacing up and down the hallway outside my bathroom, hoping to God I could just sit down long enough to draft a few pages. I remember asking for an extension on at least one paper a semester just to muddle through finals week. And so, if I look back to just 5 years ago, my body is getting stronger, I just need to get better at taking care of it. Although school is over, stress about making money this summer still looms over me and keeps me from sleep, and because of all this “free” time I have because I’m not yet working this summer, I am making plans constantly, left and right, not taking a moment to truly rest.

I think I’m somewhat ready now, ready to head back to bed, I’ve sat long enough without having to run to the bathroom, and although my tummy and colon ache (as well as my uterus as aunt flo came to visit a few days ago), I’m going to try to lay in bed. Maybe I’ll try laying on my side so my back and front don’t ache from the pressure of sleeping on them? Since my boyfriend is here my go-to laying across the bed horizontally with my feet dangling over the end, so I can eventually cradle my belly just right and sit crunched up in the fetal position isn’t exactly plausible. I hope to keep myself from crying as well, because after writing this, I realize I am human, fragile body of strong mind, hoping to conquer the world and this disease.

 

***Please consider supporting me as I take part in the Crohn’s & Colitis Take Steps walk in a few weeks.  Click here to donate:  http://online.ccfa.org/goto/PiKappaChapter. ***

Yo Papi Chulo!

I have no idea where I found this quote but I was looking through my old photos and there it was, like some magical call to write something I’ve been dying to get out of my system.  And honestly, sometimes I like to do something so unlike myself that it makes me feel good.  So that’s what I did with this prose poem.  Hope you enjoy my tongue-in-cheek positive rendition of what I was tortured with my entire upbringing.  Men can be disgusting and relentless – so I ran with those two sentiments and hope I captured just a tinge of that, with of course, my hokey hopeful ending.

Hey Papi Chulo,

Yes you, my Pretty Boy, can you break me off a piece of that delicious chocolate? It’s been a hot minute though, you, you’re just so damn finger lickin’ good, I gotta follow real close, ‘til you round the corner and your forced to feast your eyes on all this real woman.

Yo Pretty Boy, yes, you, I can see those eyes of intrigue, hands full of significant degrees, there’s even an Ivy League one in pretty baby blue. You understand the importance of words constructed, glued, and placed well together. Our messages initially followed each other like lyrics to a song that only two wordsmiths could write in complete harmony. Pero you had to go ahead and destroy it just like all the other mothafuckas around the block.

Tu tiene una por ahí, so as much as you linger por aquí, and those eyes longingly insist upon so much, I know you found your Ride or Die chick, y todas las otras are mere playmates on your fingertips, calling your name forever through these streets… Pretty Boy with hands full of significant degrees… PRETTY –

Uh ohh, look who’s arrived on the block, the Gentle Unassuming One, his eyes emanate a world and a man more than capable of ensuring all my needs are met, y mi amor, yo no estoy hablando de todo la mierda que el mundo dice que es necesario para tener un “American Dream,” pero all that other shit that makes a woman moan and hold a man’s head between her hands, sometimes between her knees, and reminds her that this, this is what she’s worth, if not more often, but all the time (all day every day type shit).

Ay Papi, ven aquí! My dear Gentle Unassuming One who shows me affection and because of that I try to stand back, far, because he couldn’t be returnin’ no feelings. Ay Papi, I love your style, you’re much more laid back, but so well coordinated, I love the earthiness that speaks volumes and sits there just to enjoy my presence as though every time is the first one, pero –

Ohh goodness, Pretty Boy, you’ve come back! Ven aquí, dame verte bien my dear Papi Chulo. I love the way you wear that suit, well-fitted so I can see the slight hint of muscles, pero son los ojos, you always want entrance into my thoughts, you want to be where I have gone and join me there because this sick sick physical attraction, magnetic energy needs to be worked out. But when I look into your eyes, I don’t give a shit about no thoughts, no Pretty Boy, I appreciate the little banter and the hands full of degrees because that’s part of the foreplay, your eyes are pure desire and all I really want to know is how much you bench press because that will determine if you can handle this heavy load. Nothing makes me feel more like a woman than to know I am as light as a feather and that you don’t struggle in just shifting my body on yours. Ay Papi, coward, Papi, you’re a fuckin’ coward.

You walk up and down this block, temptin’ me with your fuckin’ muscles, sweet words, and everything we know we need to put to rest, but that Ride or Die has you strapped on tight, so stop frontin’ and give me what you know you’ve been wanting since the moment you saw my deep thinking – Ohh dear Gentle Unassuming One, you came back!

What? What the fuck you doin’? What you mean you want to hold my hand? I guess this feels nice, why you keep looking at me like that? Ohh, now you on to hugs and shit? Wait, what, what’s happening here? That’s real good, wait let me look into those eyes, Gentle Unassuming One, God said I could see it in the eyes of the man who was supposed to take me off da block. But He, He never said I was supposed to be taken so by surprise that I forgot to breathe, no he never said that my heart would need to be reminded to start beating again. Mothafucka got me good, s o  g o o d, damn him.

A Day in the Life of a Marine’s Sister

I’ve been wanting to dedicate a post to my baby brother for a long time now.  I think this is the best time because I’ve been horrible at keeping in contact (so I’m hoping to gain bonus points here LOL) and I really do miss him.  I can’t imagine having a husband, wife, father, or mother in the military.  This way of life has got to be hard on all families.  God bless you and yours and THANK YOU for your service to our country.  I hope what I’ve written resonates with those of us who have siblings in the military!

These are the days in the life of a sister whose baby brother is in the Marines on his first deployment…

1. Every morning, I turn to the Spanish speaking radio stations on purpose. I ensure that I get a few good salsa and bachata songs into my morning commute. If I stick to this routine, it’s like he’s sitting there next to me, singing along, and smiling, every single day, and I don’t feel like he is missing.

2. Whenever I stare at my purple Uggs too long, I think of him. These are the pair he got me the Christmas before he left for Marines bootcamp. They’re worn now, and every part of me regrets how old they’re looking, but other parts of me are happy to know I’ve gotten use out of something that he gave me. He’d say “That’s what they’re made for, Raquel,” in his smartass manner. If I’m somewhere private, and I’ve got some time on my hands, my mind wanders, and I imagine him wearing Marines boots, stomping on foreign land, attempting to make it through his days without his family near him.

3. A hokey holiday is coming up, that means I gotta remind him that he’s always on my mind. Yes, I’ll put together a Valentine’s Day care package and I’ll get Mom to write him a card. He loves cards, he loves when we can take the time to send him a handwritten message. As much as he wants to be tough in front of everyone, he’s secretly in love with the hokey and cheesy shit, like romantic comedies that I hope restore his faith in the path he’s chosen.

4. Whenever I see a TV commercial for the Wounded Warrior Project or any advertisement for the military, I am reminded that he’s always believed in a sense of duty, and this chosen career makes sense for him. But no matter how often I say that to myself I still can’t stop my heart from feeling this huge crushing ache. The idea that he could be snatched from me, from us, at any moment, is enough to make me cry as I attempt to type those words. And then I try to comfort myself with the idea that this is the case for all of us, death is imminent, and it’s probably going to come when we least expect it. Still though, I’m no better, my heart hangs there in all the unexpected with sadness and fear.

5. I wonder sometimes how he does it, how does he live with the choice of being so far from family, from his wife, and how will he manage being away from his soon to be baby girl?

6. When he comes to visit, I secretly want to steal him away from everyone, grab a drink, and talk to him. I want him to know that although our society requires him to be strong – he doesn’t have to be with me. The last time we were alone was last summer when we decided to run an errand together during a family BBQ. The moment we were away from everyone, I felt like his big sister again, we fell into our old groove, and he just spilled everything he’d been going through. Every time I think about that moment, I think of our other times we’ve escaped family and other commitments to grab ice cream, or go on a long drive.

7. I wish I had time to put together a YouTube playlist and write him a long letter. Could he even listen to the YouTube videos? His internet connection sucks. But a letter, my heart could do well with a letter. Hmmm, I can’t even remember to send him a message and have a conversation with him the only way he can communicate right now: Facebook messenger. I’m a horrible sister.

8. I’m having a difficult time seeing my siblings as adults. I’ve spent so much of my time taking care of them. How could my baby brother now be responsible for another human being? I met him when he was born, I changed his diapers, I took him to the park, I protected him, helped him along. Mind BOGGLED. I’ll have a reason to go to HIM for advice one day. I now have nothing to contribute in regards to advice or support for that matter – I legit have no idea how someone could marry, have children, and take care of a family. Those are just not things I know anything about. I have this fear, that everyone is moving along, progressing, and I am sitting here, watching them do it, waiting, to see if I’ll get my chance, if I’m meant to progress the way they do.

9. During one of my non-fiction creative writing workshops in grad school, my classmate wrote this beautiful short story that had to do with a family vacation and then reflected on how families separate, based on distance and growing responsibilities. At that time I just couldn’t understand it because my brothers were still young and living at home, our family was contained. But every time I wonder if we’ll ever be together again for a Christmas holiday, I go back to that story, and how silly I must have been not to see its value. And then, I debate attempting to write my own version of the same silly fleeting emotion that is longing, loss, more longing, and even more loss.

10. On my evening commute, I turn to the Spanish speaking radio stations, and usually at this time of day, they’ll play some of the good oldies. He loves Anthony Santos, the bachata that speaks to the true bitterness of life. Occasionally, I’ll shazam a song or two, in hopes of finally getting around to making him that playlist I know would make his day. He finds such solace in music. I need to send him that article which says Eminem won Best Rap Album at the Grammys. He wouldn’t give a shit, but he needs to know I thought of him, I’m always thinking of him.

The Friend-Zone Fun

I am convinced the “friend-zone” is a level of hell on earth, especially reserved for those of us who were never made too attractive, eye-catching, or worthy of being seriously considered a contender in the realm of dating. I speak of the friend-zone from approximately 14 years of experience there. Since I could ever imagine, guys who could manage getting close to me, saw me as this individual they could always share themselves with. Not just share how they’re feeling (although sometimes that’s a miracle too), but like the depth of their values and ideas about how the world functions, how it could, how they wish it would function. I’ve always been that chick that is semi easy-going, curses like a sailor, and can easily transition into that individual who a guy finds intellectually stimulating, but rarely if ever can be stimulated into actually liking much else. I’m also a ball-buster. As “one of the guys,” I rarely let anyone get away with anything.

Moreover, as a woman of faith, Christian men seem to find me spectacularly angelic. I become this individual who challenges and supports them at times they can barely like themselves. They share their shortcomings with me; they are willing to fail and look horrible in front of me. Everything I’ve read has told me that if a guy actually likes a girl, he’d never want to reveal this. So, I gotta admit I’m pretty tired of being the gal they can trust so much of themselves with. I hate it, and love it all at once. Maybe this is because of my dreaded hatred for the dating rituals of current times. Ughhh, the idea that we’re meeting strangers with the purpose of knowing whether or not we’re compatible, but never getting to the bad stuff, the real bad stuff for months, it’s agonizing for me. I like to get to the heart of the matter, quickly, swiftly. And maybe that’s why I’ve enjoyed the friend-zone and lingered there for so long, it’s almost easier. I can begin trusting this person in such a different way. I’ve gotten comfortable there, it’s safe. But, as I get older, I can no longer rationalize “well, you can never have enough friends.”

I can have enough friends, I think… except, right now, the person who’s sorta stuck me in the friend-zone (because I’m still not sure – which is what makes this special level of hell on earth, so wonderfully agonizing) would be a real loss to my heart and sanity. This is not because I’m kinda crazy about him, but because he is one of the first men in the “friend-zone” who genuinely gives a shit and treats me as though I’m a friend. I know in my heart of all hearts, if I ever needed anything, at any moment, he’d stop and do it for me. This was rarely if ever the case with all the others. I was simply there for whatever they needed. This kind of true friend reciprocity I’ve never actually experienced. Usually, the guy ends up getting with a girl, and slowly I fade out of his life. Even if there is no girl, rarely do they ask me how I’m doing, genuinely awaiting my answer. This is maybe one of my favorite attributes of this particular guy I’ve been friend-zoned by. All in all, making it nearly impossible to convince myself that he couldn’t be valuable to keep around.

So what do I do now? I began writing this piece believing I was sick of the darn friend-zone, and I am.  But, I am stuck. I’ve known this for weeks – but I like to live in denial, or simply take advantage of someone’s care and attention – is that horrible of me? I guess I have to remember the deepest desire of my heart longs for so much more. It does not want a muddied friendship that will never grow to be more, because I’ll never be that precious but strong partner that he can stand alongside forever. I want cariño, holding hands, arm-in-arm, with my heart on his, and his on mine. I want his kisses, delicate, on my forehead, my hands, my lips. I want his arms to find the folds and layers of my body irresistible, necessary to hold. I want him to make me laugh and enjoy my smile. But more than anything, I want to have the same effect on him. I want to make his eyes sparkle with the lightness of a heart at having been near me, at having me carry his heart in mine.  Therefore, instead of doing what I’ve done before, ending a friendship because I want more than the other person is willing or able to give, I’m going to keep this one. Mostly because God is speaking to me and He says this is a bit different. If this particular situation smells, tastes, feels, and just is different, I refuse to treat it the same way I’ve treated others. However, that does NOT mean I stop looking and that does NOT mean I get to stick my eggs in this basket going nowhere fast.  I must continue my pursuit, I must love myself enough to continue this exhausting, but one day, hopefully fulfilling search.

Hope, Lists, & Love

I love lists. I love making to-do lists them because I feel so uber productive when I can cross off completed tasks like a B-O-S-S. I also love listing stuff because it gives me some perspective. Lists remind me that sometimes, just sometimes, things can be as simple as 1, 2, 3…

Below you’ll find a list I’ve been compiling for weeks (maybe two months?). As a sappy sucker nursing a broken heart, I made a list of things I do when love becomes difficult to believe in. I try to be positive in the throes of heartbreak and rejection, or during any real difficult emotional or mental event. Although my behavior may not always make that so evident, I’ve gotta keep my mind focused on movement forward, because looking back is just… 1. Too painful 2. Often unnecessary if not done with a purpose.

I hope I provide you some perspective, love, and true comfort with my list.

When Love Becomes Difficult to Believe In…

I make it a point to see my nephew, whose eyes, hugs, and laughter make me feel so alive, I have to hold back my tears of joy every time.

I throw myself into a huge project I’ve been wanting to complete but haven’t because either 1. I’ve been otherwise occupied by male companionship or 2. I just haven’t been so invested.  All of a sudden I become centered and fixed on ensuring that although my emotional being is sick, I am still this incredible human being capable of accomplishing so much.

I take long drives and cry for at least an hour, because for some reason when my ears get a hold of the sobbing and tears my heart has caused, there is a little relief, a small bit.

I watch musicals and all the feel good movies that give me the worst expectations of what love is because to be immersed in all that positive emotion and movement forward gives me hope.

I write into existence every stupid selfish thing that’s running through my mind.  If I throw it on the page, if I see it on the computer screen that means it’s out of me. And if it longer resides within me, maybe it doesn’t belong to me, and then maybe I’m no longer a very horrible person.

Have you ever heard of Delilah??  She’s a syndicated nighttime radio host whose voice and really hokey stories of love and loss is too good.  So when I’ve worked another late night and I’m still in the car when she’s on, I turn the dial to Delilah, because to hear someone describe what they love about their significant other is so bat shit cheesy, my heart and veins pumping red blood, knows I’m capable of that or I will be, one day.

I listen to music… sometimes it’s Beyonce’s XO on repeat, occasionally I’ll throw some Anthony Hamilton in there and hold on to that breathless feeling that so mimics meeting the one you can’t imagine not ever having again. Other times, when I’m very very low, I put on some good old sad Etta James songs and remember that such pain only comes from loving someone, anyone fiercely, and the memory of that love makes it so the future has a promise you can’t even fully grasp just yet.

I remember the feeling I get when I stand in front of a group of students, the electricity of shaping minds, reminding them of the power they have to mold their own minds.

I make it a point to surround myself with those who love me. I make dates with friends, sorority sisters, and sometimes I’m OK listening to their happiness. I’m OK with knowing that they are making progress in an area of life I barely made entrance into just a few years ago. I tell myself it ain’t torture, it’s being a good person, to wish goodness and love for those who have cared for me. But, I must also admit, I choose one special person who allows me to spew negativity for a while so I can be strong and positive again.

I envision the kind of love that God pours upon me, and I feel so lifted, so cared for, that the world seems good all over again.

I find a book I’d otherwise be embarrassed to admit I’m reading – and I read it, eat ice cream, find the salty snacks, and get under my covers to spend hours just reading, transported to a world with characters I wish I could create and throw on the page.