I’ve always been quite naïve and I still am. I tend to keep myself hopeful, optimistic, and grateful. I’m always expecting miraculous things to happen to me, and I think they will happen quite unexpectedly and unexplainably.
Throughout the years:
-When I get home after work every afternoon, I always open my mailbox expectantly. I always hope to find an envelope waiting for me with something wonderful: a letter from a dear person from far away, money from a benefactor (anonymous or not). After email came to be an everyday thing, this dream has been harder to keep, but nonetheless I keep looking for that something wonderful amidst my junk mail and bills, every day. And yes, I'm briefly dissapointed, but next day my hope flares high. I promised myself that I would stop looking inside the mailbox waiting for something wonderful. And I just can’t.
-I’ve convinced myself that I will win the lottery. I know the mathematical improbability of this and I know most people will reasonably think of me as foolish. But I hold on to my absurd logic, which is: If it’s true that one in 16 to 20 million people will win the Lotto, I ask myself, “What am I, if not but one in that immense number?" I’m convinced it will happen. Yeah, I’ll keep you posted.
I don’t see how I will ever be a person without debt, mi high dream. My mortgage is big, my debts are big. And since I don’t hold but one job, no matter how fair and lovely it might be, it will never be enough to get me out of the hole. But, then I think, “Wait one freaking moment! Just how much is too much?”
Unfortunately, from my personal point of view, $400,000 doesn’t seem to me to be such an excessive amount of money. And yet we (Husband and I) will need a lifetime (30 years in the case of our mortgage) to pay this amount which I would say safely encompasses all that we owe as a family. There are thousands, millions surely, that have that and more to dispose of. There’s Oprah, kids Mark Z., Justin and Selena, Spielberg and Cruise, to name but a few. If they saw one of their accounts diminish by less than half a mill, to them this amount would be but a rose petal slap on their fair cheeks. Would you agree?
So, why do I have to be in the group that wonders why it’s so expensive to eat, say, at PF Chang’s. The other weekend we spent $85 on a nice lunch for the three of us, and grateful as I am that were able to pay it with our debit card and not use a credit card, I couldn’t help but worry and worry, that for struggling people like us, that was a nice little chunk of change that we shouldn’t have spent on eating out. But we did. And as my dear daddy would say often enough, “The only reason we work so hard, my daughter, is to have enough to eat, damn it!”
I'm aware that money does not buy you happiness or peace of mind (I'm actually reading a psychology book that talks about this). The most valuable things in life like oxygen and family, you don't get to buy. Nothing makes me happier than seeing my husband silly and goofy when he is doing well in health and emotions, and to see my daughter ecstatic as when we told her she could go to a clogging convention in Waco this month. But I tell you, without wanting to seem materialistic, little can be accomplished without those green papers we call money.
So there you have it, friends, my most intimate thoughts about money. I’m not regular, but I do buy a Texas Two Step Lotto ticket, and I will also buy tickets for the Texas Lotto and the Mega Millions every now and then. With the first one I’m shooting for that magical 400,000K to know what it is to be debt free. With the other two tickets, I’m shooting to retire and live life like wealthy folk do in the First World. Here's me to the Law of Attraction: Universe, bring it! And to you all: Let's live in faith, expecting miracles on a daily basis.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
#23 -- By Strokes of Grace
Three years ago this past June 15 was a Sunday. My husband (Raúl) and I had company over for dinner. I cooked the only thing I basically know to do when I cook for others. It’s my “fancy plate.” Pasta and shrimp.
So Tomás and Yolanda came over and I remember having a nice time and enjoying my share of the two bottles of red wine. After a couple of hours I made a strong pot of espresso coffee to cut any undesirable effects of the yummy wine. So I drank several small cups of sweet and strong coffee.
Close to midnight when Yolanda and Tomás left, I went to my bedroom to put on my pajamas. A few minutes later when Raúl came in I remember feeling confused, and as it turns out I was noticeably “different,” I just didn’t know how. Raúl kept asking me if I was okay and I kept answering that I was fine, just feeling a bit confused. All of the sudden the carpet seemed truly welcoming and I remember letting myself slide to the floor. I was amazed that the coffee had not done its usual magic, since the only explanation I could muster was that the table wine had hit me harder than I expected, though I was too lucid to be drunk.
Raúl asked me if I needed to go the hospital and I couldn’t think of a good reason to go. So I just asked for my nightly pills which he gave to me and I asked him to just let me rest for a little while and that I would be fine.
Next thing I know he was calling his son Eros, the doctor, in Mexico telling him how I was acting. Eros told him to ask me to say the word ferrocarril. I felt so smart, catching on that he wanted to hear if I could roll my Rs. I thought I answered perfectly (Raúl later told me I did not). Then I was in an ambulance assisted by firemen that came to my house after my husband dialed 911, a ride of which I have no recollection whatsoever.
I don’t remember any pain, any discomfort or any one thing that should have alerted me. If anything I felt embarrassed for what I assumed was my loss of control. I thought, “Here I go behaving like a cheap bum, good thing Valentina is asleep.” I thought once I took my pills and slept, even if it was on the floor, I would be back to my happy normal self.
It turns out June 15, 2008, was the night I had my basal ganglia stroke. I don’t remember when I woke up. I barely remember snippets of images and conversations. I remember asking someone from work if she had finished translating page 13 of Applause magazine and if my suggestions had helped. I was happy that I could still remember the immediacy of my life and the people around me.
I couldn’t imagine what I still had to acknowledge of the person I was to become. To me there was no danger or risk in sight. I would get out of that bed and go home. I didn’t worry one bit, even when they asked me to move my toes and fingers and it was observed that my left side was not responding, even after I couldn’t stop drooling or even while talking, I would frequently go into a deep snoring sleep as if somebody had flipped a switch. I don’t remember all the kind faces that came to see me those five weeks I spent in the hospital.
When I started working with physical and occupational therapists, I really thought it was part of the routine I had to go through in order to go home. I didn’t think I really needed any of that. I would think things like, “Look people, I come from hoeing the fields, I come from picking the fruits from the trees. This person in front of you doesn’t give up. My body is like that battery bunny, it just keeps going and going. As soon as you let me, you’ll see. My body will walk me out of here, useful as usual.”
My thoughts were to no avail. In long and intense sessions I had to learn to accept help to get out of bed, to go to the potty, to use a walker and canes. I didn’t know the devastation that comes with a stroke. When they released me to another facility, in my mind I determined that by month three all this was going to be but a memory. Definitely.
Instead, in these three years I’ve learned the virtues of patience and tolerance. I’ve learned to ask and expect help as an example of the kindness that most human beings have in their hearts when they see a diminished individual. I have had brutal moments of depression and even the thought of death has surprised me as a viable option if this is the way I’m meant to live the remainder of my days.
But then I try and put every ounce of my spirit to lift myself up and I ask for forgiveness for my defeatist thoughts. And I remind myself that I come from hoeing the fields, and picking fruits from the trees and climbing ladders in the most inclement of California weathers and that people like me, we have bodies that no matter what, just don’t give up. Just look at my mother in her aging 79-year-old-body and then there is my sister, the strongest breast cancer survivor ever. Besides, there are absolutely so many wonderful things I still have to do. To appreciate my husband fully and grow old with him. To watch my daughter blossom. To get to know as much of this lovely planet I have the privilege to inhabit with you (views with water hold such power over me).
I make myself walk no matter what, even when my left foot threatens to fold and collapse I walk and I walk. I feel the tug of my hand when I imagine it (as some phantom limb) moving and stretching. I loathe and I love my purple-flowered cane.
On June 15, alone in my house, I got on my knees for the first time in these three years to pray my gratitude for this time of precious life, and I forced myself to stand back up on my own, instead of waiting for my husband. Maybe it was too demanding for my body, but I did it anyway. I guess this is the person I am--a body that just will not give up. Amen.
So Tomás and Yolanda came over and I remember having a nice time and enjoying my share of the two bottles of red wine. After a couple of hours I made a strong pot of espresso coffee to cut any undesirable effects of the yummy wine. So I drank several small cups of sweet and strong coffee.
Close to midnight when Yolanda and Tomás left, I went to my bedroom to put on my pajamas. A few minutes later when Raúl came in I remember feeling confused, and as it turns out I was noticeably “different,” I just didn’t know how. Raúl kept asking me if I was okay and I kept answering that I was fine, just feeling a bit confused. All of the sudden the carpet seemed truly welcoming and I remember letting myself slide to the floor. I was amazed that the coffee had not done its usual magic, since the only explanation I could muster was that the table wine had hit me harder than I expected, though I was too lucid to be drunk.
Raúl asked me if I needed to go the hospital and I couldn’t think of a good reason to go. So I just asked for my nightly pills which he gave to me and I asked him to just let me rest for a little while and that I would be fine.
Next thing I know he was calling his son Eros, the doctor, in Mexico telling him how I was acting. Eros told him to ask me to say the word ferrocarril. I felt so smart, catching on that he wanted to hear if I could roll my Rs. I thought I answered perfectly (Raúl later told me I did not). Then I was in an ambulance assisted by firemen that came to my house after my husband dialed 911, a ride of which I have no recollection whatsoever.
I don’t remember any pain, any discomfort or any one thing that should have alerted me. If anything I felt embarrassed for what I assumed was my loss of control. I thought, “Here I go behaving like a cheap bum, good thing Valentina is asleep.” I thought once I took my pills and slept, even if it was on the floor, I would be back to my happy normal self.
It turns out June 15, 2008, was the night I had my basal ganglia stroke. I don’t remember when I woke up. I barely remember snippets of images and conversations. I remember asking someone from work if she had finished translating page 13 of Applause magazine and if my suggestions had helped. I was happy that I could still remember the immediacy of my life and the people around me.
I couldn’t imagine what I still had to acknowledge of the person I was to become. To me there was no danger or risk in sight. I would get out of that bed and go home. I didn’t worry one bit, even when they asked me to move my toes and fingers and it was observed that my left side was not responding, even after I couldn’t stop drooling or even while talking, I would frequently go into a deep snoring sleep as if somebody had flipped a switch. I don’t remember all the kind faces that came to see me those five weeks I spent in the hospital.
When I started working with physical and occupational therapists, I really thought it was part of the routine I had to go through in order to go home. I didn’t think I really needed any of that. I would think things like, “Look people, I come from hoeing the fields, I come from picking the fruits from the trees. This person in front of you doesn’t give up. My body is like that battery bunny, it just keeps going and going. As soon as you let me, you’ll see. My body will walk me out of here, useful as usual.”
My thoughts were to no avail. In long and intense sessions I had to learn to accept help to get out of bed, to go to the potty, to use a walker and canes. I didn’t know the devastation that comes with a stroke. When they released me to another facility, in my mind I determined that by month three all this was going to be but a memory. Definitely.
Instead, in these three years I’ve learned the virtues of patience and tolerance. I’ve learned to ask and expect help as an example of the kindness that most human beings have in their hearts when they see a diminished individual. I have had brutal moments of depression and even the thought of death has surprised me as a viable option if this is the way I’m meant to live the remainder of my days.
But then I try and put every ounce of my spirit to lift myself up and I ask for forgiveness for my defeatist thoughts. And I remind myself that I come from hoeing the fields, and picking fruits from the trees and climbing ladders in the most inclement of California weathers and that people like me, we have bodies that no matter what, just don’t give up. Just look at my mother in her aging 79-year-old-body and then there is my sister, the strongest breast cancer survivor ever. Besides, there are absolutely so many wonderful things I still have to do. To appreciate my husband fully and grow old with him. To watch my daughter blossom. To get to know as much of this lovely planet I have the privilege to inhabit with you (views with water hold such power over me).
I make myself walk no matter what, even when my left foot threatens to fold and collapse I walk and I walk. I feel the tug of my hand when I imagine it (as some phantom limb) moving and stretching. I loathe and I love my purple-flowered cane.
On June 15, alone in my house, I got on my knees for the first time in these three years to pray my gratitude for this time of precious life, and I forced myself to stand back up on my own, instead of waiting for my husband. Maybe it was too demanding for my body, but I did it anyway. I guess this is the person I am--a body that just will not give up. Amen.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
#22 -- No to Bilingualism?
It’s not that I’m obsessive. Well, maybe just a tad. As any other parent out there with my heart and soul I desire to provide my daughter the very best that I can.
I know firsthand the spiritual and emotional riches of being bilingual. Not only that, it is my ability to live in both worlds—the English-speaking world, where I’m already assimilated into its culture, history and customs; and the Spanish-speaking world with its beauty in language, traditions and history—that I am able to make a decent living as a bilingual communicator and translator.
When my daughter was born I was determined to have her not just be bilingual, in my mind that was a given, since her dad’s English is limited and my mother doesn’t speak the language. I wanted Valentina to speak more than just English and Spanish. I wanted her to be minimally trilingual. So Google and I became fast friends. At some point I remember landing at the website of a school in Dallas that said that by first grade the child’s education would be 85% in French, but the first three years of Pre-K would be 50% in English and 50% in French with one day dedicated to Spanish. Call me corny, but when I read that I wept. Had somebody asked me how I planned to raise a trilingual kid, I might have ended with a plan somewhat like that.
Now in terms of language I was not about to get picky. I would have gone with German, Italian or Japanese, but in my heart of hearts I so wanted French.
At that point in 2001 financially I was doing nicely. My little freelance translation gigs were steady and generous. So vey happily I enrolled Valentina at the Dallas International School. My only concern was that we were not completely potty trained, a requirement to start at DIS, since she was four months shy of turning three. Fortunately, as I recall, she only had a couple of “accidents” in those first weeks.
O, how I loved that navy blue jumper, white shirt and red necktie my little girl had to wear every day. I remember I bought her navy blue patent shoes and braided her pigtails that first day. Off she went sucking her thumb and carrying her humongous and empty hot pink backpack she selected at Grapevine Mills.
By second grade Valentina’s class made a field trip to Montreal for a French immersion week in March. I followed her along with two other mothers. We rented a chalet nearby. I wanted to know myself nearby in case something would happen that made mommy necessary. Fortunately, the trip went smoothly and Valentina had her experience in the winter cold of Canada.
By fifth grade, the trip was for two weeks to Paris. My husband and I traveled with her. The forty-eight contiguous United States and the Atlantic seemed too vast a distance between us and our darling girl. So for the first time, my stroke-broken body and I traveled with the kindest husband ever just so we could feel close to our daughter, and yes, I fell in love with Paris.
When middle school came around, my freelance activities had basically faded into nothing and the tuition, much more expensive now, became unsustainable. So we had to opt into our public school in the Lewisville Independent School District where she continues to thrive and has been very happy.
We have not given up on her being trilingual. After DIS she has been tutored by a Parisian law student. In my mind, this language has to stay. We had eight long and costly years invested in this, I just hope she will learn to appreciate and take advantage of her trilingual skills. I feel the world will be more welcoming to her. Who knows how many French-speaking and English-speaking countries are out there (I know the Spanish-speaking are about 22). Imagine what this could potentially offer any young adult able to communicate in either of these three languages...
You know, I use to read a lot about individuals who speak more than one language. It seems that in our first year our brain is wired to learn any language in the world and that our little and marvelous cerebral mass is totally plastic those first years of life to learn more than one. I honestly think it’s a disservice to our children that we don’t educate them to be bilingual at least, being especially that we still live in the most powerful nation on this Blue Planet of ours. Geographically and historically it seems to make sense our kids could grow up speaking English and Spanish, especially down here in the south,but it can also be English and Mandarin or English and Japanese. Whatever, dudes. It’s time we consider options aside from English. Hey wait a minute, me personally, I need for us to keep our status of English only. What would happen to little ole translators like "meself" if this should change? So, let’s say no to all languages.
I know firsthand the spiritual and emotional riches of being bilingual. Not only that, it is my ability to live in both worlds—the English-speaking world, where I’m already assimilated into its culture, history and customs; and the Spanish-speaking world with its beauty in language, traditions and history—that I am able to make a decent living as a bilingual communicator and translator.
When my daughter was born I was determined to have her not just be bilingual, in my mind that was a given, since her dad’s English is limited and my mother doesn’t speak the language. I wanted Valentina to speak more than just English and Spanish. I wanted her to be minimally trilingual. So Google and I became fast friends. At some point I remember landing at the website of a school in Dallas that said that by first grade the child’s education would be 85% in French, but the first three years of Pre-K would be 50% in English and 50% in French with one day dedicated to Spanish. Call me corny, but when I read that I wept. Had somebody asked me how I planned to raise a trilingual kid, I might have ended with a plan somewhat like that.
Now in terms of language I was not about to get picky. I would have gone with German, Italian or Japanese, but in my heart of hearts I so wanted French.
At that point in 2001 financially I was doing nicely. My little freelance translation gigs were steady and generous. So vey happily I enrolled Valentina at the Dallas International School. My only concern was that we were not completely potty trained, a requirement to start at DIS, since she was four months shy of turning three. Fortunately, as I recall, she only had a couple of “accidents” in those first weeks.
O, how I loved that navy blue jumper, white shirt and red necktie my little girl had to wear every day. I remember I bought her navy blue patent shoes and braided her pigtails that first day. Off she went sucking her thumb and carrying her humongous and empty hot pink backpack she selected at Grapevine Mills.
By second grade Valentina’s class made a field trip to Montreal for a French immersion week in March. I followed her along with two other mothers. We rented a chalet nearby. I wanted to know myself nearby in case something would happen that made mommy necessary. Fortunately, the trip went smoothly and Valentina had her experience in the winter cold of Canada.
By fifth grade, the trip was for two weeks to Paris. My husband and I traveled with her. The forty-eight contiguous United States and the Atlantic seemed too vast a distance between us and our darling girl. So for the first time, my stroke-broken body and I traveled with the kindest husband ever just so we could feel close to our daughter, and yes, I fell in love with Paris.
When middle school came around, my freelance activities had basically faded into nothing and the tuition, much more expensive now, became unsustainable. So we had to opt into our public school in the Lewisville Independent School District where she continues to thrive and has been very happy.
We have not given up on her being trilingual. After DIS she has been tutored by a Parisian law student. In my mind, this language has to stay. We had eight long and costly years invested in this, I just hope she will learn to appreciate and take advantage of her trilingual skills. I feel the world will be more welcoming to her. Who knows how many French-speaking and English-speaking countries are out there (I know the Spanish-speaking are about 22). Imagine what this could potentially offer any young adult able to communicate in either of these three languages...
You know, I use to read a lot about individuals who speak more than one language. It seems that in our first year our brain is wired to learn any language in the world and that our little and marvelous cerebral mass is totally plastic those first years of life to learn more than one. I honestly think it’s a disservice to our children that we don’t educate them to be bilingual at least, being especially that we still live in the most powerful nation on this Blue Planet of ours. Geographically and historically it seems to make sense our kids could grow up speaking English and Spanish, especially down here in the south,but it can also be English and Mandarin or English and Japanese. Whatever, dudes. It’s time we consider options aside from English. Hey wait a minute, me personally, I need for us to keep our status of English only. What would happen to little ole translators like "meself" if this should change? So, let’s say no to all languages.
Friday, June 3, 2011
#21 – Miscellany
So I didn’t meet my commitment with self of posting every weekend, but hey, I was consistent for practically five months. And I’m back. In these two weeks I went to a family wedding in California, which brings me to my first point…
You know, I’ve always wondered about the “cultural differences” that mainstream USA talks about when referring to us Hispanics or Latinos (however you call us). I always tend to minimize that aspect. I ask what differences are they talking about. I know we work hard, and we work for family, our children’s education, not having debt, etc. I don’t know how different that is from Mainstream USA. But in California two weeks ago, I walked into a family gathering and I was taken aback momentarily, my eyes and my heart making the necessary adjustments to recognize myself with the people gathered in a family celebration after the wedding. What was going on? Nothing really. Music was blaring from speakers in the nice patio overflowing with potted plants and trees, men were looking over the meat being cooked in a humongous copper pan, some women (my dear sister among them) were serving plates piled high with meat, tortillas and salsa. Yet I know that it was different from the “white” social gathering I go to in Texas even with my Hispanic friends already assimilated to the main culture. So I’m here to finally tell you that those “cultural differences” do exist. I just would have a hard time defining them for you and me. This observation took me a couple of minutes and it wasn’t long before I felt I was in my parents’ village in Michoacán. Very soon I felt totally at home among strangers and far away from my Texas lair.
MY MOVIES – Once back in the Metroplex, my husband and I went to the movies. We went to see a movie I practically had no information about except that it was in French. So off we went to the Angelika in Plano. The movie is actually in French and Arabic. It’s a long movie, even slow, but it’s tragic and it’s beautiful. If you’re the sensitive type it can make you cry (my husband is very sensitive) because it deals with some area in the Middle East torn by war. The movie shows us the turns of fate that can occur during violent unrest.
The movie tells the story of one young woman in love and pregnant who is saved from a sure death in hands of her brothers for bringing dishonor to the family by being pregnant. She has a son who she gives up to an orphanage. Later, after committing an act of violence during the war she ends as a prisoner where she is tortured and raped, and ends pregnant by her torturer. She gives birth to twins, a boy and a girl, and moves to Canada.
The movie starts with her death and the young adult twins receiving as part of their mother’s will two letters: one for their father that the girl needs to find; while her brother gets a letter that he needs to deliver to their brother of whom they don’t know about.
The girl travels to the other side of the world in search of their father, her brother’s heart is not into satisfying their mother’s last request, so he stays behind, until at last he unites with his sister.
They find out they didn’t really knew their mother, what she had been capable of enduring and all that she lived through. I won’t tell you the rest in case you want to find out the rest of the story. It’s worth seeing it, although emotionally hard to watch. The actors are superb, the story doesn’t let you go. The name of the movie is Incendies (Scorched), based on a play by Lebanon-born Wajdi Mouawad. Directed by Denis Villeneuve. With Lubna Azabal, Mélissa Désormeaux-Poulin, Maxim Gaudette and Rémy Girard.
MY BOOKS – I’ll be brief. I just finished reading Father of the Rain by Lily King. It’s the story of a girl and her relationship with her father. The first part puts us when the eleven-year-old Daley has to live through their parents’ divorce and how events mark us while we are in the midst of childhood. The second part, all grown up at 29, Daley feels she must go back to her father in New England because she’s hopeful she can help her old man recover from his addiction and in doing so, Daley changes her life forever as she gives up her just-secured great job as a professor at Stanford, and she’s brought to the brink of losing the man with whom she’s deeply in love.
In the last part, Daley, mother of two now, comes back home to face her dying father and give us closure. This was a great read for me, so much so that I just started The English Teacher also by Lily King.
You know, I’ve always wondered about the “cultural differences” that mainstream USA talks about when referring to us Hispanics or Latinos (however you call us). I always tend to minimize that aspect. I ask what differences are they talking about. I know we work hard, and we work for family, our children’s education, not having debt, etc. I don’t know how different that is from Mainstream USA. But in California two weeks ago, I walked into a family gathering and I was taken aback momentarily, my eyes and my heart making the necessary adjustments to recognize myself with the people gathered in a family celebration after the wedding. What was going on? Nothing really. Music was blaring from speakers in the nice patio overflowing with potted plants and trees, men were looking over the meat being cooked in a humongous copper pan, some women (my dear sister among them) were serving plates piled high with meat, tortillas and salsa. Yet I know that it was different from the “white” social gathering I go to in Texas even with my Hispanic friends already assimilated to the main culture. So I’m here to finally tell you that those “cultural differences” do exist. I just would have a hard time defining them for you and me. This observation took me a couple of minutes and it wasn’t long before I felt I was in my parents’ village in Michoacán. Very soon I felt totally at home among strangers and far away from my Texas lair.
MY MOVIES – Once back in the Metroplex, my husband and I went to the movies. We went to see a movie I practically had no information about except that it was in French. So off we went to the Angelika in Plano. The movie is actually in French and Arabic. It’s a long movie, even slow, but it’s tragic and it’s beautiful. If you’re the sensitive type it can make you cry (my husband is very sensitive) because it deals with some area in the Middle East torn by war. The movie shows us the turns of fate that can occur during violent unrest.
The movie tells the story of one young woman in love and pregnant who is saved from a sure death in hands of her brothers for bringing dishonor to the family by being pregnant. She has a son who she gives up to an orphanage. Later, after committing an act of violence during the war she ends as a prisoner where she is tortured and raped, and ends pregnant by her torturer. She gives birth to twins, a boy and a girl, and moves to Canada.
The movie starts with her death and the young adult twins receiving as part of their mother’s will two letters: one for their father that the girl needs to find; while her brother gets a letter that he needs to deliver to their brother of whom they don’t know about.
The girl travels to the other side of the world in search of their father, her brother’s heart is not into satisfying their mother’s last request, so he stays behind, until at last he unites with his sister.
They find out they didn’t really knew their mother, what she had been capable of enduring and all that she lived through. I won’t tell you the rest in case you want to find out the rest of the story. It’s worth seeing it, although emotionally hard to watch. The actors are superb, the story doesn’t let you go. The name of the movie is Incendies (Scorched), based on a play by Lebanon-born Wajdi Mouawad. Directed by Denis Villeneuve. With Lubna Azabal, Mélissa Désormeaux-Poulin, Maxim Gaudette and Rémy Girard.
MY BOOKS – I’ll be brief. I just finished reading Father of the Rain by Lily King. It’s the story of a girl and her relationship with her father. The first part puts us when the eleven-year-old Daley has to live through their parents’ divorce and how events mark us while we are in the midst of childhood. The second part, all grown up at 29, Daley feels she must go back to her father in New England because she’s hopeful she can help her old man recover from his addiction and in doing so, Daley changes her life forever as she gives up her just-secured great job as a professor at Stanford, and she’s brought to the brink of losing the man with whom she’s deeply in love.
In the last part, Daley, mother of two now, comes back home to face her dying father and give us closure. This was a great read for me, so much so that I just started The English Teacher also by Lily King.
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