#12 - A Why for Blogging

The first memory of my life is a spanking. My sister Irma and I were about three and four, respectively. My parents were in the same room with us playing checkers on what I remember as a big cardboard box that was serving them as a table. Irma and I were going crazy jumping up and down on the bed (I’m thinking theirs). The problem is that we were not barefoot. We were wearing my mother’s shoes, the one with spiky (needle-like) heels, fashionable around the mid sixties.

I think I somehow understood that what we were doing was very wrong, but I was confused by my parents' quietness and concentration (apparent indifference) on their game, which lead us to believe that the destruction we were creating was really not a big deal. Oh but it was, of course it was. By the time we had the mattress on the floor and were happily feeling the heels go into the mattress filling, we saw our daddy getting up from his chair and without saying a word, spank us with his belt.

I sometimes wonder how that first rather violent awareness of self predisposed me to being self-conscious and my worst judge, almost expecting the worst from the beginning (a trend I hope I have defeated).

I spite of my parents' poverty and limited resources, I can say I had a happy childhood. There were definitely no excesses, no abundance, but we were loved, cherished and taken care of by Luis and Marga as best as they were able.

The other memory that stands out in terms of what made me consider the possibility of me being worthy and valuable happened when I was 16 and in prepa (high school) in Mexico. Our Spanish teacher gave us a homework assignment where we were supposed to write an essay with the title “The Happiest Day of My Life.” By then my teenage ennui made me question if I could even say I had had a happy day in my life, miserable and depressed as I felt on an daily basis. But ever studious and obedient, after giving it some thought I decided to write about my father’s reaction the day we found out that I had been accepted into the University of Guadalajara’s educational system when I began my high school studies. My papi’s reaction was one of such sheer delight that it imprinted itself forever into the soul of that 16-year-old girl I was back then. I still can retrieve and dust that memory when I feel like it: the whiteness of his wide smile stretched across his dark face; the high shine of his black eyes; his shout of happiness and almost incredulity (“You’re in, m’ija, you’re in!”), my bafflement and inability to understand his intense excitement about my acceptance into that imposing Colonial building. Whatever it was, it was good, I reflected, my papi is happy (ergo, that has to be “the happiest day of my life”).

It wasn’t until my adult years that I fully understood. I  get it. I understand what this rather small achievement might have meant for a totally unschooled Mexican peasant like my father.

After having read my little essay in front of the class (I got an A), my teacher congratulated me and several of my classmates came to me to tell me that they really had liked my story.

I don’t remember thinking anything, rather I felt a sense of inclusion and acceptance, of achievement. I had done something that others had approved! Maybe a healthy sense of self started burgeoning then. A sense that made me believe, “Hey, I can do something; maybe this is what they call a talent”, a talent for writing about my personal experiences, experiences to which others can relate to no matter how different our lives.

I think this might be what I am looking for every time I post on my two little blogs.

#11 - Unlikely Genius or The Memory of My Bones

 



Julio and his cigarette.



I’m rereading two books, one in Spanish that I read in the early 80s, Rayuela by Julio Cortázar and one I read in the 90s, The Color Purple by Alice Walker.

I have to say, I am actually enjoying them much more this second time around. I’m not much into rereading books, as I’m not much into watching movies more than once. Usually for me the second time I find less pleasure. I remember rereading Exodus by Leon Uris, my “mostest” favorite book in my teenage years. My first reading was in Spanish and I remember it made me cry more than once. The second time I read it in English and I didn’t find it as touching. I also wept like a baby when I watched Benigni’s Life is beautiful for the first time, while the second time it was still heart-breaking but I didn’t cry. This is why I do not want to watch Crash again. I went to the movies on my own and I found myself sobbing loudly. To me my tears were almost a purifying experience. I don’t want to see it again and find myself indifferent to its beauty and storytelling.

Anyway, that Cortázar, man, was he brilliant! Sometimes I wish we lived life like Oliveira does, with his acid and sharp intelligence that makes you analyze everything in life and then allows you to converse with your friends in a way that has depth and meaning. Oh man, when they talk about jazz and literature it’s no surprise La Maga feels stupid, who wouldn’t? I often find myself going back a couple of pages to try to figure out what the hell they’re talking about, coming out still confused and questioning.

My husband’s heroes are Cortázar and the Peruvian Vallejo. I read Rayuela before Raúl came into my life, but 62/Modelo para armar and Historias de famas y de cronopios I read because of Raúl. It’s because of him that I know about the poetic charge of dying on a rainy Thursday in Paris. Raúl has read all of Cortázar’s books and I believe Vallejo’s too.

Still, you know, when I try to imagine a reality like the one lived by Oliveira and the rest of The Serpent Club, I can see how unreal it is. Who like Horacio decides to stay with a mediocre pianist who believes herself to be a genius to the point where she accuses him of sexually accosting her? Who like Horacio stays with a homeless woman, gets drunk with her until she tries to fellate him? Come on, it’s pretty crazy. How can someone like Horacio discover that an infant is dead cold on a bed and does nothing or asks for help? I think these things happen in literature so you can acctually ask more philosophical and existential stuff that I’m probably too stupid to think about, much less ask. But I do recognize Cortázar’s brilliance. Because of him and with him (very happily) I’ve walked blocks and blocks with Oliveira through the rainy Paris nights, while he questions the world with his intelligence that just goes on and on. I’ve felt as lonely and dumb as La Maga, and I’ve identified with her, while feeling totally in awe and at a disadvantage of Horacio and Ossip and Etienne the rest of those cultured bohemians and their surrealism, their stream of consciousness and all that merde.

Of course, The Color Purple is a sadder experience. It talks about another world, a world that sadly seems to me to be more immediate, real and more true than Oliveira’s. It’s a world I can relate to better. I feel that I am or can be an inhabitant of The Color Purple. I’m familiar with its characters and their flaws and their stories. It’s a world somehow known by me. Perhaps, it is my bones and my genes that remember a world like Celie’s.

I’m hoping my daughter will find an opportunity to read these masterpieces soon. That is how much they are worth it.

#10 - Dear Peggy: Your Cara, my Valentina

Dear Peggy: After seeing your Cara in her beautiful prom gown, I started thinking about my own little girl and the journey she will begin this fall when she enters high school.

I must admit everything about high school makes me feel confused and nervous. My schooling in the States is reduced to first through fifth and then some of seventh grade. That is it. After that I would spend the nine months of the school year (or less if my parents could arrange it) in Mexico.

That is why I was surprised to discover that the Drill Team could be considered as a pretty big deal. To be honest, I’m just becoming a bit familiar with terms like drill team, varsity and the such, having no prior direct experience or knowledge about them myself.

My years in the high school equivalent in Mexico, were a terrible ordeal (at the beginning) and a most wonderful experience (at the end) for me.

I remember big (non-academic) encounters in high school: smoking, beer and stronger alcoholic drinks, the “making out” with boys, the invitation to drugs and other unhealthy but seductive possibilities.

All in all, I was a subdued and good girl. I did try the cigarettes and alcohol, “made out” rather inadequately and timidly with the boy who became my first husband, but never tried the pot or its more dangerous and probable companions.

I wonder how it is nowadays in a U.S. high school, like the one my Valentina will be attending. I imagine and I tell her that she will have to make difficult choices and decisions for herself that I will not be there to make for her. I tell her she will be exposed to what we consider immoral and incorrect behaviors, and some that will be just right out illegal. She has my trust and love, because I think she has a good head on her shoulders and high moral standards for herself. I think she will have to turn away from some things, like the making out in public when this is a most private behavior not to be shared. She will see and hear of girls and boys doing totally inappropriate things that I hope she will walk away from.

Anyway, I know you probably have discussed with and heard of these things from your Cara who soon will be exiting this phase of her life to enter into her young adult phase. I was wondering if Cara would have any brief pointers for my soon-to-be freshman that could help her avoid the most obvious potholes and cultural obstacles at their soon-to-be shared high school.

#9 - My Books: Carry the One by Carol Anshaw

I admit I was distracted when I started reading this book. I bought it on impulse for my Nook. After reading the first 15-20 pages, I had to go back to the beginning and start over because I couldn't keep the characters and their relationships straight in my head. Once I got that settled, I really enjoyed this book.

The title has to do with simple arithmetic and addition, when you have to carry the one to the column on the left to proceed with the sum. In the case of the novel the one that need to be carried, is a pre-teen, Casey, who is killed on a country road, late at night, by a car full of drugged, drunk careless, young people. As is the case when you're young, there is really no realization or full awareness of how this tragedy will mark and be present in their lives.

The narrative centers especially around three siblings obviously smart: Carmen (the bride, a social activist, and then mother of Gabe, one of the minor characters), Alice (a painter whose works will gain her fame and fortune) and Nick
(a promising astrophysicist who lives prisoner of and succumbs to his addictions).

We follow the lives of these three people and their significant others through the course of 25 years and we see how they can't or won't forgive themselves for being in the car that killed Casey. They can't find redemption or self-forgiveness through their work, their achievements or the relationships they establish as they grow and mature. They are unable to identify and grasp the windows of grace as they appear in their lives. And they also have no sense of spiritual/religious faith that might aide them into letting go of guilt and give happiness a try (happiness, I sensed, was like an indecency, an offense, in light of the tragedy that binds them).

Anshaw writes clearly, precisely and with shrewd, compassionate humanity. I really appreciate how seamless she is able to weave into the story and with a non-judgmental voice topics that not everyone is comfortable with, say, homosexuality. Another topic discussed with matter-of-factness is drug abuse, the emptiness it creates, the lack of direction when you're holding on for dear life (or for the dear next fix, as might be the case).

And that little girl long dead, is a pervasive, constant element in our reading. Alice, the gifted artist, dedicates an excellent series of paintings to Casey as the subject, always dressed in the same clothes she was wearing the night she was killed, but in the paintings she appears to be growing and having a life. Nick visits Casey's family, almost like a pilgrimage, every year (at the end, Casey's mother is able to come to terms with him). Carmen dives head on into her causes and her social activism.

The person that sort of disappears early on is Olivia (Nick's then girlfriend), the car driver that ill-fated night to reappear again at the end to be part of one of the most touching scenes in the book for me that involves a dream and a slippery surface.

The book and its characters are a mess and they live messy lives. But do we, human beings, really have any other alternatives? 'Fraid not. 

#8 -- My Books: We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver

Starting with the obvious, it turns out that Lionel is not a guy, but a woman, born in North carolina as a Margaret Ann who in her teenage years decided to become Lionel. She’s in her fifties, married to a musician, no children and living in London. Lionel or Margaret Ann as I sometimes think of her is an exceptionally gifted writer.

And yet her novel We Need to Talk About Kevin (winner of the Orange Prize for Fiction in 2005) is not a delightful, blissful read. Oh, au contraire. It’s hard and painful as nails.

I decided to read this novel because I was so intrigued by the previews of the upcoming movie based on Shriver’s book featuring Tilda Swinton (Eva), John C. Reilly (Franklin) and Ezra Miller (Kevin), directed by Lynne Ramsay. Well, even Lionel liked the film (I have the preconceived notion that she is very hard to please).

The book is about our psyche and our heart, dealing with those feelings which most of the time we shy away from and rather not name or discuss: the ones that we don’t socially accept, those difficult-to-name visceral reactions that we should not ignore no matter how disagreeable.

Eva gets pregnant with Kevin and their relationship is anything but what we know or acknowledge as the norm: there is no gushing adoration, no emotional attachment between the two. It actually seems like there is a mutual rejection between infant and mother, in spite of Eva wanting to and working so hard to reach the image of being good at being a  “good mother.” When alone with his mom baby Kevin will not stop crying, rejects his mother’s breast and milk, and is just plain difficult to appease and please. Eva is sheer ambivalence not only as a human being, but most especially as a mother. She knows what society expects her to feel and she sees she cannot call forth that persona as it relates to her son. Her husband Franklin tries to pretend all is normal, after all they’re talking about a defenseless baby ,he thinks, so he plays down his wife’s concerns and ambivalence.

As the years pass Eva realizes that that first impression, her intuition of being disliked by her son from the very beginning is true; throughout his childhood and now adolescence, he goes out of his way to make his mom’s life as miserable as he can, while leaving his dad under the impression that he is just your typical teenage boy. Franklin continues feeding on the image of a them being a “normal family,” whatever that might be. Of course, I do not know how things will pan out in the movie, but from my reading of the book, I felt that Franklin was just in a long-term act of self-deception, a dad unwilling to admit that his son is an “evil” human being, a really “bad seed.” After all evil does exist, remember Manson, Bundy, etc.? We do give life to human beings capable of doing so much damage and hurt without us really understanding the why? It seems to me that Eva has a hard time and assimiliates the belief that somehow, some way, she is responsible and played a role in her son becoming a mass murderer. Was it because of her undeniable maternal ambivalence from the get-go, never able to be your lovey-dovey mommy, your baby-talk mommy and whatever one might think makes a woman a good mother?

In my mind the valuable learning from this novel is precisely the possibility of accepting ambivalence in our feelings toward our offspring. They are not necessarily likeable all the time (we know sometimes they don’t like us, but they’re innocent right?, we are not.) We must love them absolutely and instinctively all the time. I guess in the long run, love will beat indifference, but like in Eva and Kevin’s case, it painfully is not the case in every single instance.

As a mother I know I sometimes need to be alone to remember who I am and what I like, to recover the essence of Me. And sometimes, my husband and maybe even my daughter do not understand that. But they do respect it, something I deeply appreciate. They don’t frown upon that I need to go to the movies on my own, or that I hide in a Barnes and Noble to read my books. I think they've learned that after these brief parentheses of alone time I can be the more tolerant and loving wife and mother they expect and deserve.

Maybe that was what was amiss in the Kevin novel. Eva didn’t find the support and validation from neither Franklin or Kevin to share her burden and open up to maybe consider her husband's and son's. Maybe Kevin, astute as he is, was able to perceive his mother’s extreme ambivalence and decided to ultimately pay her with murder and hatred, and with no one talking about it or addressing it, it might have felt for him that his parents just plain sucked, when all is that they were all too human.

My botttom line: This book is definitely in line for a second read and Shriver is an author worth reading. She has several novels. Right now I'm reading The Post-Birthday World.

#7 -- Finding More Paths Home

Once in psychotherapy I remember telling my shrink that sometimes I feel like there is a congress or conference going on in my head where several voices argue and discuss any topic that might be worrying me in life. Quite innocently I asked him, “Do you think there is more than one Me inside me?” His quick response was, “Well, we know that there is at least one of you.” No, he didn’t mean I was crazy and that I had multiple personalities. I went with the idea that we has underlining the numerous contradictions that define the neurotic that I am.

I bring this up because last weekend I went to the movies on my own. I went to the Angelika Plano to see the beautiful A Separation. As I was walking from my car to the theater, there they were…my voices. We were all talking at the same time, quite happy actually. In order to keep up with all that I had to be said, I saw that I needed to talk to myself with my outside voice. And though one of us kept telling me to lower my voice because I would get caught by the “normal” foks around me, I just couldn’t. All of us were really happy to be out and about again!

We were in a celebratory mode because I had just realized that lately my weak leg is feeling much, much stronger, so much so that I don’t feel I’m going to fall with every step I take. Sometimes I have the audacity to walk without my cane for extremely short distances, say to the vending machine at work (in spite of having no business there); or from the bathroom at home to my recliner-cum-bed. I quite flippantly and childishly tell my husband when he insists I take my cane, “I don’t need it!”, something I wholeheartedly desire to believe and am convinced and will come to be.

So my voices and I were congratulating me on how strong and quick I walk now; of course the slowness and limp are still very noticeable, but the improvement is something none of us are willing to ignore or deny.

Another day I took my daughter to her soon to be high school. It was sort of an Open House to meet with the clubs and become familiar with extracurricular activities she will be able to choose from. Because of my own experiences in U.S. schools, I was a little nervous, but I have to say I did fantastically well. I got very tired, but I was thrilled with myself.

The resurgence of these voices that to me seem to come from distinct individualities made me also realize that they had but disappeared since I had my stroke in June 2008. I commented to my husband that perhaps the part of my brain that died that June night was where these voices resided and now they have found new neuronal pathways back home.

I do hope so, because that means my brain is probably furiously, desperately working to regain its power over my left limbs.

May it be so.

#6 -- Letter to My California Home

Dear 411 Woodbridge Ave:

I just learned you were built in 1929 and that you offer 1225 square feet to your inhabitants. You’re a pretty humble home. My parents’ mortgage when you held us tight was only $65 dollars per month.

Let me tell you what you were in the seventies, when you were my home.

Because of their work in the orchards, our parents couldn’t pick us up at the airport that summer. So they told Irma and I to take a cab from the Sacramento airport to what we knew was our new home and of which knew absolutely nothing except this magical address written on a piece of paper to which we held on for dear life: 411 Woodbridge Ave. The drive to our town was an hour south of Sacramento.

Before you, we had lived in rental properties, all poor and probably undesirable for the majority of people, but to us they were the safest place ever, with mami and papi anchoring us strong and firm.

When we got out of the taxi and we saw the number 411 on a house that to our eyes looked like a mansion, we automatically walked down a small dirt road on your side that led to a place that to us seemed more appropriate (poorer) for us.

Finally we had to accept that the pretty house we saw initially was you, our home. We walked around you unbelieving and in awe. You had a fenced back yard and a side porch. I don’t know what my sister was seeing or thinking, but I remember I was unable to grasp that behind those creamy yellow, almost sheer curtains that covered the salient windows that framed the front of the house, was going to be where we would live. It seemed like a fairy tale home to the sisters who were not yet fifteen, and very probably developmentally much younger and innocent.

411 Woodbridge, you hold so much of my family’s history. Do you remember all the people that you housed, so many uncles and cousins for whom my parents open your doors wide and welcoming so they could work with us in the fields and orchards so they could send some money to their families back south? Do you remember my mother getting up at two or three in the morning so she could make flour tortillas for all those men? Do you remember her whitened hands, her sweaty face, and her roll pin as she turned the dough into flat round disks that bloomed with hot air, yummy and light on the griddle? Do you remember her plants, how, almost like green hallucinations, adorned your communal living spaces? Do you remember our friends the ones with whom we played cards until the morning came and they stayed to breakfast with us the “menudo” made by my mother?

How about my papi, 411 Woodbridge? Do you remember him, his laughter, his joking ways when he mopped your kitchen floor, his pepper and tomato plants in your back yard and that he watered in his silent peasant ways? Do you remember Sergio’s three children (Eva, Sergito and Adán) and how we cherished them?

Remember when finally one of your rooms became my bedroom? In that room I somehow had a desk and my room was uncluttered, everything in its place, beautified with the books I borrowed from the public library (I especially remember the poems written by a Hispanic New York cop turned poet).

You were filled to the brim, 411 Woodbridge, you were filled with the love that united us, the light that could not be contained by your yellow curtains; you were filled with our music, our laughter, our happiness, our birthdays, our language, our customs, our greenery, and my parents hunger to defeat the chronic and extreme poverty from whence they came. And through sheer hard work, dedication and devotion to their family they did. And, finally, you, 411 Woodbridge, made them homeowners in the United States.

Amidst the northern California scenery browned by hard working immigrants, like my mami and papi, oh 411 Woodbridge Ave, I’m so happy to know you’re still standing tall.