S.,
When I was a brought to this country, one of the first things I experienced outside the realm of my loving home was discrimination by the other children at school. At first I couldn't understand if they were even talking to me. There was this red-headed boy, Mark, chubby and freckled, who would follow me on his bike on my walk back home who would call me names associated with my culture: "hey taco," "hey enchilada" and silly things like that. But I knew that what I was feeling was true and not silly, a burning shame for being singled out. I was the only "browned-skin" (in spite of tending to be more light- than dark-skinned) person in my class. Maybe now I would laugh about it but I was not more than 10 then.
I had no information about discrimination or bigotry. I couldn't name what was happening to me. So I kept quiet. I didn't tell my parents. I didn't tell my teachers. I was absolutely alone. So my two worlds sort of broke off. At home I was vivacious, funny, cute and very much loved. At school I was silent, withdrawn, friendless and alone.
And so I became a person who could pretend she was fine alone, that she actually preferred it so. She was independent and self-sufficient. She would never admit to being sad, scared or in need of some sort of validation and acceptance.
During my schooling in Mexico, I discovered friendship and so I came out of my little shell. And my sense of humor came alive. It was the time when the kid at school came close to becoming the same kid I was at home. But then the shaming came with my body being overweight. And the cruel jokes and name-calling started again. So I retracted into my broken shell and there I have stayed. At its door. Ready to recoil and hide again. But definitely able to step away from it when I feel safe and included.
As a fifty-one-year old woman this seems to me to be pretty immature, but what can I say?
You say, "Sometimes I try to figure out what I see in your eyes (when I catch your glance). I wonder if you remember our talks. The insecurity I often felt. It's there." I can relate because I know people have a hard time understanding that at my core, I'm a shy, quiet little girl who makes herself responsible for making others talk about themselves; for making them feel at ease; that I relax when I make them laugh. And yes, that resource was fragmented two years ago, but it's coming back together. When I make a joke about anything, I catch myself apologizing, in case someone might think it inappropriate. But I cannot stop being who I am.
And, S., when I see you , when I catch your glance, all I see is beauty, elegance and grace, so I cannot fathom the source of your insecurity, but through my broken heart, I do not doubt your words. It must be there.
In spite of all this, I defend my right to optimism and hope, faith and happiness and when I feel I'm losing my grip on them, I hold on through prayers and with teeth and claws. I must. There really is no alternative.
Let me finish my letter to you with John Lennon's words, "Every day, in every way, it's getting better and better."
Love,
M.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
#30 - My Talk About Cars
My papi really wanted to raise me to be self-sufficient and independent. So I was about eight years old when I was put in the driver’s seat of our family car. I remember he had to put a pillow under me so I could see out the windshield and I had to pull myself up as close as possible to the steering wheel in order to reach the pedals.
Naturally, he was not expecting me to drive. I think he probably hoped that I would begin to feel comfortable thinking of myself as a driver. So he would make me drive up and down the gravel road of the where we lived in California giving me advice and warnings about what it means to be in charge of a car.
As soon as I turned sixteen (or was it eighteen?) he took me to take my driving test. I remember how happy he was that I passed the written and practice tests on my first try. He was so proud.
In spite of being a legal driver, my sister and cousin Cuca were no fans of mine. Once on our way to work they made me stop the car so they could walk across a small wooden bridge instead of staying in the car with me while I drove it over two skinny wood planks that was the space allotted for vehicles. They didn’t trust me to do it right. But I did it, though I was pretty scared myself, fear that I’m sure had to do more with their mistrust than any possible inability of mine to drive over what seemed a flaky bridge.
Many, many years had to pass before I drove a car again: my papi’s death, my college studies, my first marriage and then ending up in Texas. Since we didn't have a car, a friend let me borrow his so I could take the driver’s test. I was a bit surprised to pass it on the first try again and to have unconsciously remembered so much from my papi’s teachings during the written test.
In the early nineties I bought my first used car for $500. It was probably from the seventies. It was big as a boat and brown in color so I named it El Cucaracho (as a friendly wink to the Spanglish spoken in San Antonio; they call cockroaches, “cucarachos,” though in Spanish as far as I know, the noun is correct only in its feminine form, “cucarachas”).
El Cucaracho had a short life with us. And it wasn’t until December 1993 that I bought my first new car. An acquaintance made the deal for us over the phone, because I was a nervous wreck. We showed up at a Nissan dealership with the confirmation letter of my fabulous new job that I was to start in mid-January 1994 and that was enough for a friend of my husband’s to drive us out of the dealership in a brand new 1994 Nissan Sentra. I did not believe I could drive this new car. We had never owned a new car in my family. I only knew three cars in my family: El Amapolo, El Palomo and El Cafetal, my papi’s pride and joy, used cars that he cared for with utmost reverence.
I promised myself I would drive my new car on that first day to my new job at Mary Kay. So La Nubecita (Little Cloud, it was a light gray color) stayed parked for those two weeks at our apartment complex.
I still worked at a radio station, so a coworker would come pick me up; she would park her car, and she would drive us to work in my new little car. I remember that in trying to be encouraginge, she told me that my car resembled a small Lexus. I didn’t know what the word Lexus meant or implied.
Such was my fear that I promised myself that I would never drive on any freeways. So I started driving from Irving to Dallas on the side streets. We loved our little Nubecita. She was reliable and trustworthy, she never broke down. But I promised myself that I would never buy another Nissan vehicle because of how I was treated when my car needed some bodywork done at the dealership. I remember I was so unhappy with their service that I wrote to several Nissan people, the CEO included. I never received a reply. And I kept my promise. We’ve been Honda customers since then.
After the Nubecita, came La Tortola, an Accord I drove until 2005, and then La Bluesera (a Honda Odyssey). I loved this car, it was ample and so comfortable inside, most especially after my stroke. I felt that it was like my little house on the road. And it had so many luxuries that we had not planned for: a DVD player for my daughter, a six-CD player and it even warmed our seats in cold weather.
Alas, La Bluesera started acting up this year, first the AC (unforgivable in the Texas heat), so we went ahead and got a new car. Another Odyssey. This one is a white one so I call it La Paloma in honor of my papi’s Palomo.
Buying a car is a long, long, strenuous process. About four hours if not more. At least for us. Since money is tight I remember praying, “Oh God, let me be humble and get only a car I need." So I considered another Accord, but it was very difficult for me and my cane to get in and out, as with the Civic; the Element and the Pilot were too high. Though I’m no Goldilocks, the van was just right for me. So I ended with that one again. And of course I love it. Now this one does not come with a DVD player (we really didn’t use it much), but it does come with a navigation system, Amelia we call the woman’s voice that seems to know how to direct us everywhere we need to be.
I wasn’t able to be humble and careful in the matters of money. I regret that. But maybe as a stroke survivor I should drive a car that helps me be safe and as comfortable as possible. Maybe its not a luxury but a necessity. May God agree.
Naturally, he was not expecting me to drive. I think he probably hoped that I would begin to feel comfortable thinking of myself as a driver. So he would make me drive up and down the gravel road of the where we lived in California giving me advice and warnings about what it means to be in charge of a car.
As soon as I turned sixteen (or was it eighteen?) he took me to take my driving test. I remember how happy he was that I passed the written and practice tests on my first try. He was so proud.
In spite of being a legal driver, my sister and cousin Cuca were no fans of mine. Once on our way to work they made me stop the car so they could walk across a small wooden bridge instead of staying in the car with me while I drove it over two skinny wood planks that was the space allotted for vehicles. They didn’t trust me to do it right. But I did it, though I was pretty scared myself, fear that I’m sure had to do more with their mistrust than any possible inability of mine to drive over what seemed a flaky bridge.
Many, many years had to pass before I drove a car again: my papi’s death, my college studies, my first marriage and then ending up in Texas. Since we didn't have a car, a friend let me borrow his so I could take the driver’s test. I was a bit surprised to pass it on the first try again and to have unconsciously remembered so much from my papi’s teachings during the written test.
In the early nineties I bought my first used car for $500. It was probably from the seventies. It was big as a boat and brown in color so I named it El Cucaracho (as a friendly wink to the Spanglish spoken in San Antonio; they call cockroaches, “cucarachos,” though in Spanish as far as I know, the noun is correct only in its feminine form, “cucarachas”).
El Cucaracho had a short life with us. And it wasn’t until December 1993 that I bought my first new car. An acquaintance made the deal for us over the phone, because I was a nervous wreck. We showed up at a Nissan dealership with the confirmation letter of my fabulous new job that I was to start in mid-January 1994 and that was enough for a friend of my husband’s to drive us out of the dealership in a brand new 1994 Nissan Sentra. I did not believe I could drive this new car. We had never owned a new car in my family. I only knew three cars in my family: El Amapolo, El Palomo and El Cafetal, my papi’s pride and joy, used cars that he cared for with utmost reverence.
I promised myself I would drive my new car on that first day to my new job at Mary Kay. So La Nubecita (Little Cloud, it was a light gray color) stayed parked for those two weeks at our apartment complex.
I still worked at a radio station, so a coworker would come pick me up; she would park her car, and she would drive us to work in my new little car. I remember that in trying to be encouraginge, she told me that my car resembled a small Lexus. I didn’t know what the word Lexus meant or implied.
Such was my fear that I promised myself that I would never drive on any freeways. So I started driving from Irving to Dallas on the side streets. We loved our little Nubecita. She was reliable and trustworthy, she never broke down. But I promised myself that I would never buy another Nissan vehicle because of how I was treated when my car needed some bodywork done at the dealership. I remember I was so unhappy with their service that I wrote to several Nissan people, the CEO included. I never received a reply. And I kept my promise. We’ve been Honda customers since then.
After the Nubecita, came La Tortola, an Accord I drove until 2005, and then La Bluesera (a Honda Odyssey). I loved this car, it was ample and so comfortable inside, most especially after my stroke. I felt that it was like my little house on the road. And it had so many luxuries that we had not planned for: a DVD player for my daughter, a six-CD player and it even warmed our seats in cold weather.
Alas, La Bluesera started acting up this year, first the AC (unforgivable in the Texas heat), so we went ahead and got a new car. Another Odyssey. This one is a white one so I call it La Paloma in honor of my papi’s Palomo.
Buying a car is a long, long, strenuous process. About four hours if not more. At least for us. Since money is tight I remember praying, “Oh God, let me be humble and get only a car I need." So I considered another Accord, but it was very difficult for me and my cane to get in and out, as with the Civic; the Element and the Pilot were too high. Though I’m no Goldilocks, the van was just right for me. So I ended with that one again. And of course I love it. Now this one does not come with a DVD player (we really didn’t use it much), but it does come with a navigation system, Amelia we call the woman’s voice that seems to know how to direct us everywhere we need to be.
I wasn’t able to be humble and careful in the matters of money. I regret that. But maybe as a stroke survivor I should drive a car that helps me be safe and as comfortable as possible. Maybe its not a luxury but a necessity. May God agree.
Friday, August 5, 2011
#29 - A Statement-cum-Prayer
I really do not feel like writing a new post, but this damn sense of duty has here me uni-hand typing trying to think about what to write.
Curiously, in my emotional ups and downs, I’ve never questioned that my body will heal completely from the effects of that 2008 stroke. I don't know how, I don't know when, but I refuse to believe that I will die in these circumstances. It’s something I’m still unwilling to accept.
My body has always been strong and in spite of all that I have done to not take care of it, it has been strong and able to carry my weight about with unexpected flexibility and ability.
Now that it’s not what it used to be, I miss every little thing about its past. I promise myself that I will not torment it anymore for not being that desired size 8, 10 or 12. I will honor it and respect it as it is, I won’t dwell in the damaging “what ifs” of my life.
I know what I want, really. Yes, now that I’m 50, almost 51, I really know what I want. I want to fully inhabit my body. As simple as that. I want to claim it proudly mine and mine alone. Through honoring my body I want to honor and love God’s grace upon me. I want to walk long distances on the beach in total communion with Mother Nature. I want to recognize my identity in bodies of water. I want to travel and know rivers and creeks, lakes and ponds and the immeasurable ocean. I want to fall on my knees facing the sea and soulfully weep the joy of my human finiteness and the power and fragility of this my human body.
I want to walk in the rain like when I was a teenager so long ago, raise my face to the raindrops and let them do with me what they must, drench me in the sky’s holy waters.
And when this is not possible because, well, I live in Texas, I want to go home and walk on my treadmill simply because both my legs are strong again and I can hold on tightly to the machine’s bars. And my mind will go silly while I watch a sitcom or a cop show, while my legs do what they were created to do. Walk.
I want to do my dishes, I want to do my laundry, I want to explore cooking. I want to dedicate my time to beautifying my home. I want to spoon regularly while in bed with my husband and fall asleep with his arms keeping all scary shadows at bay.
I will not accept that these simple things will never be possible again. If we do not fully understand the workings and potential of our brains, I’m here to tell you that it has an incredible ability to self-heal and even now, just as I am right this minute, cane and all, non-functioning left hand and all, I’m a wonderful example of that.
But just you wait…
Curiously, in my emotional ups and downs, I’ve never questioned that my body will heal completely from the effects of that 2008 stroke. I don't know how, I don't know when, but I refuse to believe that I will die in these circumstances. It’s something I’m still unwilling to accept.
My body has always been strong and in spite of all that I have done to not take care of it, it has been strong and able to carry my weight about with unexpected flexibility and ability.
Now that it’s not what it used to be, I miss every little thing about its past. I promise myself that I will not torment it anymore for not being that desired size 8, 10 or 12. I will honor it and respect it as it is, I won’t dwell in the damaging “what ifs” of my life.
I know what I want, really. Yes, now that I’m 50, almost 51, I really know what I want. I want to fully inhabit my body. As simple as that. I want to claim it proudly mine and mine alone. Through honoring my body I want to honor and love God’s grace upon me. I want to walk long distances on the beach in total communion with Mother Nature. I want to recognize my identity in bodies of water. I want to travel and know rivers and creeks, lakes and ponds and the immeasurable ocean. I want to fall on my knees facing the sea and soulfully weep the joy of my human finiteness and the power and fragility of this my human body.
I want to walk in the rain like when I was a teenager so long ago, raise my face to the raindrops and let them do with me what they must, drench me in the sky’s holy waters.
And when this is not possible because, well, I live in Texas, I want to go home and walk on my treadmill simply because both my legs are strong again and I can hold on tightly to the machine’s bars. And my mind will go silly while I watch a sitcom or a cop show, while my legs do what they were created to do. Walk.
I want to do my dishes, I want to do my laundry, I want to explore cooking. I want to dedicate my time to beautifying my home. I want to spoon regularly while in bed with my husband and fall asleep with his arms keeping all scary shadows at bay.
I will not accept that these simple things will never be possible again. If we do not fully understand the workings and potential of our brains, I’m here to tell you that it has an incredible ability to self-heal and even now, just as I am right this minute, cane and all, non-functioning left hand and all, I’m a wonderful example of that.
But just you wait…
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