last week, as we were driving home, one of my best friends and i were talking about getting older, how each one of us in our group is doing their own thing. she said that she feels like she's in a confused place, and should have accomplished more than she has. "something needs to happen soon," were her words. i reassured her that she was fine, and that everyone grows and matures at a different rate. i, for one, consider that she is light years ahead of me on this "growth chart" despite being younger than me. and we're just in our twenties, at that. but the subject lingered in my mind, and the next day, i mentioned my conversation to my mother before i jumped into the shower. i was standing there in my towel, and my mother nodded in agreement and said, in spanish:
"it's true. when you get older and think of all the things you didn't do, it hurts so much."
damn. all i could do was look at her and cut the conversation short, and went into the bathroom. part of me wanted to cry, the other part of me, i don't know, felt weird. because she was just affirming what my friend was saying. for the rest of our lives, are we going to remain in a state of "what if?" do we never leave it? is what we accomplish never going to be good enough? to others? to ourselves? why is it that so many of us are put into this world to just work, breed, work, be broke, breed, and be left to wonder? left to wonder, what if i'd gone to xxx school? what if i'd gone on that date with xxx person? what if i'd followed my xxx dream? what if i'd had the balls to stand up more for myself? why didn't i do what i wanted to do and refuse to adhere to rules, norms? how do we know that what we are doing now is worth it? how do we know if we've "made it?" what is this something that needs to happen soon?
but more importantly, is this how my mother truly feels? what were her dreams growing up? her goals? what got in the way of them? adulthood? responsibility? it pains me that i have never, not once, thought that my mother had a life before us, before now. that she was young and beautiful and eager. that she loved and lusted, that she laughed loudly and cried during sappy movies. that she was once like me, a dreamer. is she unhappy? are we enough? were we part of her aspirations? and what must it be like to wake up one day and think, "i haven't done what i set out to do?" i don't want to put words in my mother's mouth. i really don't know what she meant. maybe she didn't mean any of what i think she did.
i think my mother just doesn't want me to ever have regrets. she wants me, when i am her age, to have gone out and written with all my heart, to have danced in the middle of the green, green grass, to have been the best friend i could be, to have loved and been loved. to take risks. to be a mother and have a family, but to also have lived my dreams. because she sacrificed hers in order for me to find mine.
she sacrificed hers in order for me to find mine.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Sunday, May 20, 2012
war...
last night my friends and i were hanging out with a few new peeps. i cannot quite remember what one of them was offering me or saying to me, but i remember saying no to whatever it was. he then looked me dead in the eye, and in all seriousness said, "you are going to be alone for a very long time." it wasn't even mean, the way he said it. all the air left my chest and i must've said something like "what, why?" and he began to say "i'm a good people reader" but someone at the other end of the table interrupted him with a joke or silly story so he couldn't elaborate. but at that point, i wouldn't have been listening. cause i was already reeling, receding back to that place i go to when i feel exposed, threatened.
my one hundred thousand faithful soldiers were in formation with their spears drawn, the drawbridge was being raised while frenzied crocodiles snapped in the surrounding moat, and i was standing in the very heart, the center, of my concrete, impenetrable castle, sword raised, ready to attack, covered from head to toe in armor, daring him to charge.
now, this is that part where i tell you how that son of a bitch was dead wrong. (he doesn't know me!) this is the part where i tell you how he was absolutely right. (oh shit, this dude sure is perceptive!) here i tell how he made me feel. i tell you how i've worked hard to maintain tall, thick brick walls around me at all times. i'd also tell you how i've tried in vain to jackhammer them down myself. i would also tell you that i am at war, but not quite sure with who.
but i won't.
because we'd be here forever. this would require a lot from me, a lot of self-reflection which quite frankly i don't feel like doing. i couldn't let this go without writing a few words about it, but i also don't wanna get all freudian on myself. i am leaving it up to you, my faithful, armed soldier (or treacherous enemy, whichever you prefer) to figure out how the fuck i felt when a grown man who hadn't known me for more than two hours felt so compelled, amid the laughs and liquor and stories, to pityingly guarantee, foresee, promise such a destiny, because he just saw something so very guarded, even wrong, in me. take into consideration the fact that this is not the first time i have heard something like this.
maybe if i share some of this burden with someone else, maybe then i won't be so alone.
my one hundred thousand faithful soldiers were in formation with their spears drawn, the drawbridge was being raised while frenzied crocodiles snapped in the surrounding moat, and i was standing in the very heart, the center, of my concrete, impenetrable castle, sword raised, ready to attack, covered from head to toe in armor, daring him to charge.
now, this is that part where i tell you how that son of a bitch was dead wrong. (he doesn't know me!) this is the part where i tell you how he was absolutely right. (oh shit, this dude sure is perceptive!) here i tell how he made me feel. i tell you how i've worked hard to maintain tall, thick brick walls around me at all times. i'd also tell you how i've tried in vain to jackhammer them down myself. i would also tell you that i am at war, but not quite sure with who.
but i won't.
because we'd be here forever. this would require a lot from me, a lot of self-reflection which quite frankly i don't feel like doing. i couldn't let this go without writing a few words about it, but i also don't wanna get all freudian on myself. i am leaving it up to you, my faithful, armed soldier (or treacherous enemy, whichever you prefer) to figure out how the fuck i felt when a grown man who hadn't known me for more than two hours felt so compelled, amid the laughs and liquor and stories, to pityingly guarantee, foresee, promise such a destiny, because he just saw something so very guarded, even wrong, in me. take into consideration the fact that this is not the first time i have heard something like this.
maybe if i share some of this burden with someone else, maybe then i won't be so alone.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other
people won't feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of
God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.
—Marianne Williamson
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other
people won't feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of
God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.
—Marianne Williamson
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
umbrella...
i'm really smart, so i forgot my umbrella today, knowing it was going to rain. i left work, and was immediately hit with drops of water. for a second i was jealous of a dude who walked by with a huge blue umbrella. but damn, i thought, a little water isn't going to hurt. i'm not going to melt. i'm not going to turn green. my hair could use a good washing. so i turned up the music on my ipod and i walked my boots right into a puddle.
you see, i realize we are always trying to protect ourselves, be prepared for the worst. so we carry our heavy umbrellas and we pop them open at the sign of any drizzle. i, more than anyone i know, am always prepared. always. i ask my mother every morning what the weather is going to be like. when my sister asked me what i wanted for a gift, i said "an umbrella." but it goes further than just the weather. when someone approaches me, i usually know what i'm going to answer before they even ask. i know if im going to like the person before they even speak. i have the money in my hand before i've even ordered my food. i pick out my outfits the night before. my toenails are always painted, just in case someone might see my feet. i brush my teeth at work. from the moment i hear an assignment, i know what my approach will be and how i will write it. these may sound like normal, ordinary things, but i go about my days the same way, every day. and god damn, even though i am living, it doesn't feel like i'm living at all. for all of my control, i feel out of control. i am controlling my actions and my mind, but if it's gonna rain, it's gonna fucking rain, and there's not a thing i can do about it.
it would be nice to one day wear a summer dress on a day it'll be 25 degrees out. give a person a chance to tell me who they are, to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger, and perhaps learn something. to one day make the line behind me wait impatiently as i search through my backpack for the $10.78 my meal costs. or to wake up super late without any clue as to what i'm going to wear, to just wing it and still feel confident walking out the door. to admit that, yeah, my toenails aren't really light pink, they are of no color. or to not give a flying fuck if my breath stinks, because apparently no one else bothers to brush their own damn teeth. and i want to one day sit down and not already have everything planned, outlined, and edited in my head when writing something.
because those drops of rain showed me that what i am is afraid to live a little, have some fun and enjoy my life for what it is. this life is fleeting, temporary, and one day i'm going to look back and think, why the fuck did i ask for an umbrella instead of some fly ass heels, to wear out in the rain?!
you see, i realize we are always trying to protect ourselves, be prepared for the worst. so we carry our heavy umbrellas and we pop them open at the sign of any drizzle. i, more than anyone i know, am always prepared. always. i ask my mother every morning what the weather is going to be like. when my sister asked me what i wanted for a gift, i said "an umbrella." but it goes further than just the weather. when someone approaches me, i usually know what i'm going to answer before they even ask. i know if im going to like the person before they even speak. i have the money in my hand before i've even ordered my food. i pick out my outfits the night before. my toenails are always painted, just in case someone might see my feet. i brush my teeth at work. from the moment i hear an assignment, i know what my approach will be and how i will write it. these may sound like normal, ordinary things, but i go about my days the same way, every day. and god damn, even though i am living, it doesn't feel like i'm living at all. for all of my control, i feel out of control. i am controlling my actions and my mind, but if it's gonna rain, it's gonna fucking rain, and there's not a thing i can do about it.
it would be nice to one day wear a summer dress on a day it'll be 25 degrees out. give a person a chance to tell me who they are, to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger, and perhaps learn something. to one day make the line behind me wait impatiently as i search through my backpack for the $10.78 my meal costs. or to wake up super late without any clue as to what i'm going to wear, to just wing it and still feel confident walking out the door. to admit that, yeah, my toenails aren't really light pink, they are of no color. or to not give a flying fuck if my breath stinks, because apparently no one else bothers to brush their own damn teeth. and i want to one day sit down and not already have everything planned, outlined, and edited in my head when writing something.
because those drops of rain showed me that what i am is afraid to live a little, have some fun and enjoy my life for what it is. this life is fleeting, temporary, and one day i'm going to look back and think, why the fuck did i ask for an umbrella instead of some fly ass heels, to wear out in the rain?!
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
home sweet home...
there are few things that are fun about commuting, taking the train to school or the bus to work. i do, however, enjoy watching houses. even though i know i am speeding by, the landscape moves past me in slow-motion. yellow houses, brick houses, houses that hide behind trees and bushes. i absolutely love looking at the tidy, gated, tree-trimmed, dog-barking one-family homes, with the tulip-lined walkway and the red tricycle that lies on its side in the driveway next to the blue van. i always wonder what it is about these homes that i like so much. i like to think that i have a keen eye for beauty, that all this time i should have been an architect...
but really, what it is, is that i don't like the outside of the houses, but the inside. on the inside of those homes, there's a husband and wife who met when they were freshmen in college in chemistry class. their first date, they grabbed sushi and afterwards they walked back to campus as the sky turned all types of yellows, purples, and pinks. a few years later, as he watched her bent over her books with a pencil holding her bun together as she was studying for an exam, he decided she was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. as they recited their vows, he messed up and she couldn't have been happier. their parents shrieked with joy when they found out they were going to be grandparents to a beautiful baby girl. so life went, and somewhere in between there her eyes grew wide as she stepped into the house which she knew would be perfect to grow old in.
high ceilings and and a beautiful fireplace. vintage bathtubs and an endless backyard. wooden floors and a bookcase that takes up an entire wall. there's a spiral staircase they walk up while carrying their sleeping children after a long day of fun. there are vases and paintings and draperies and toys that scatter the floor. laughter echoes through the halls, and the scent of fresh-picked flowers fills the rooms. her grandmother's rocking chair sits quietly in the corner of the nursery.
am i being unrealistic? is no home so perfect? i know, i know, couples fight. people get sick and bills sometimes get backed up. wooden floors get scratched and vases fall to the floor. some children grow up to hate their parents. but i like to believe that out there, somewhere, there's a family that is perfectly content in its beautiful home, hidden away from the chaos and dangers of the outside. there's no angry boss, there's no road rage. there's no addiction and no hatred. just a family of four safe and sound, sitting together by the fireside on a night when the cold goes through to your bones. and the husband and wife who met so many years ago still love each other as much, if not more, than they did they night they were married. and on this chilly night they look at each other, they look at their children, and they are proud of their home that is without a scratch or dust.
because that is what a home represents. it means you've made it. you are where you want to be in life. you are able to provide for others. you can take care of them. it means you have found a counterpart, a soul mate, to grow with. you have created life. it means you're finally a part of something. and in all honesty, i am afraid of never attaining this. sure, i've got a cozy little room in a cozy little apartment, and i've got the best family one could ever ask for, but i am afraid i will never be able to create and sustain life of my own. i am afraid i will never be successful enough to call a home my own. that cliched home with the beautiful dog barking behind the freshly painted white picket fence and the 2.3 children. i am afraid of dying before ever having these idealized concepts and notions. i am afraid of this more than anything else in the world.
but really, what it is, is that i don't like the outside of the houses, but the inside. on the inside of those homes, there's a husband and wife who met when they were freshmen in college in chemistry class. their first date, they grabbed sushi and afterwards they walked back to campus as the sky turned all types of yellows, purples, and pinks. a few years later, as he watched her bent over her books with a pencil holding her bun together as she was studying for an exam, he decided she was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. as they recited their vows, he messed up and she couldn't have been happier. their parents shrieked with joy when they found out they were going to be grandparents to a beautiful baby girl. so life went, and somewhere in between there her eyes grew wide as she stepped into the house which she knew would be perfect to grow old in.
high ceilings and and a beautiful fireplace. vintage bathtubs and an endless backyard. wooden floors and a bookcase that takes up an entire wall. there's a spiral staircase they walk up while carrying their sleeping children after a long day of fun. there are vases and paintings and draperies and toys that scatter the floor. laughter echoes through the halls, and the scent of fresh-picked flowers fills the rooms. her grandmother's rocking chair sits quietly in the corner of the nursery.
am i being unrealistic? is no home so perfect? i know, i know, couples fight. people get sick and bills sometimes get backed up. wooden floors get scratched and vases fall to the floor. some children grow up to hate their parents. but i like to believe that out there, somewhere, there's a family that is perfectly content in its beautiful home, hidden away from the chaos and dangers of the outside. there's no angry boss, there's no road rage. there's no addiction and no hatred. just a family of four safe and sound, sitting together by the fireside on a night when the cold goes through to your bones. and the husband and wife who met so many years ago still love each other as much, if not more, than they did they night they were married. and on this chilly night they look at each other, they look at their children, and they are proud of their home that is without a scratch or dust.
because that is what a home represents. it means you've made it. you are where you want to be in life. you are able to provide for others. you can take care of them. it means you have found a counterpart, a soul mate, to grow with. you have created life. it means you're finally a part of something. and in all honesty, i am afraid of never attaining this. sure, i've got a cozy little room in a cozy little apartment, and i've got the best family one could ever ask for, but i am afraid i will never be able to create and sustain life of my own. i am afraid i will never be successful enough to call a home my own. that cliched home with the beautiful dog barking behind the freshly painted white picket fence and the 2.3 children. i am afraid of dying before ever having these idealized concepts and notions. i am afraid of this more than anything else in the world.
Friday, November 25, 2011
untitled (for now)
the following poem has never been edited by anyone. so it's pretty much in the beginning stages. it's also about 4 years old - so any feedback would be appreciated. if it's crap, let me know.
you found it,
of this i'm sure
there, in disarray
along with the other vices
i try to hide
in a place i thought
you'd never look
i cried with shame
when i knew
you knew
but now we can share
a whisper in the night
for i found your secrets
long ago
were you as shocked as i
when upon my treasure
you stumbled?
i'll bet your heart stuttered
as you held my lies
in your hand
a part of my life
you unknowingly knew
too well
i know your truths
you know my lies
but we dare not ask,
could never tell
i do not blame you
nor will i judge
i know your pain,
share that disillusion,
taste the same anger
so go ahead
light it up
it's okay
to be empty inside
you found it,
of this i'm sure
there, in disarray
along with the other vices
i try to hide
in a place i thought
you'd never look
i cried with shame
when i knew
you knew
but now we can share
a whisper in the night
for i found your secrets
long ago
were you as shocked as i
when upon my treasure
you stumbled?
i'll bet your heart stuttered
as you held my lies
in your hand
a part of my life
you unknowingly knew
too well
i know your truths
you know my lies
but we dare not ask,
could never tell
i do not blame you
nor will i judge
i know your pain,
share that disillusion,
taste the same anger
so go ahead
light it up
it's okay
to be empty inside
spare change?
when we look at a homeless person and say, "i don't have any spare change, sorry," are we really sorry? unless we're carrying a debit card, about 95% of us indeed do have at least a quarter on us somewhere. so what makes us lie? what makes some people completely ignore the homeless person? what makes others look at them in disgust, appalled by the question, the audacity? what makes other people yell out, "NO" or "get a damn job?" what is it about homelessness that diminishes a person to garbage, scum, the lowest of the low? why are we so repelled by the homeless?
i had never really given the homeless much thought. i've never been rude to a homeless person. sometimes i give them change, other times i don't. but a few weeks ago, i hopped onto the train on the way back to providence. of course, there was nowhere to sit so i stood near the rail of the steps, behind a guy with a crate filled with some bags. i didn't give him much thought, until the train conductor came around to collect our tickets. he said something to the man with the crate, and roughly grabbed the crate and placed it outside the car. like it was garbage. he told the man to stand by the sliding door, that his crate was in the way. jokingly, the man saluted the conductor, and stood by the door as told. everyone else took turns making weird faces or looking at the ground, whatever. i looked closer at the guy - an older gentleman, possibly hispanic, with blood-shot eyes. aaah, he was drunk. and upon closer inspection, probably homeless. he stood by the door with a book in his hand while the people around him tried their best not to look at him.
finally when the train cleared up a bit, he sat in front of me. i was facing north, him east, so like a creeper i watched him. he was probably in his sixties. his brown coat was clean, but frayed on the edges of his sleeves. his black pants, too, were frayed at the bottom. he had on black sneakers, in pretty good condition. his nails were trimmed and clean, and his black, graying hair was neatly combed to the side. now that i write his description, he doesn't sound homeless at all. maybe he isn't. but who drunkenly carries around a crate full of bags at four in the afternoon? regardless, he sat by himself on the long seat. everyone else who was standing wouldn't sit next to him. so there he sat, reading his book, occasionally shutting it and looking around. then a young guy came into the car, and was about to sit on the long bench when his eyes landed on our friend, the homeless reader. in a split second he made a decision - the man was homeless and wasn't worthy of being sat next to. he was dirty. branded by poverty. the young guy quickly straightened his body, and walked away.
i felt the blood rush to my face. part of me was infuriated, the other part saddened. this man was minding his own business, reading a book, but all around him was an invisible shield of disgust which no one dared step into. he sat in complete oblivion, unaware that he was the pink, dirty elephant in the room. i had to practically bite my tongue to stop from crying. i'm not quite sure why i was so upset. perhaps because he reminded me of someone. maybe because i had never been up close and personal to such blatant discrimination. or maybe i'm just a crybaby. i think he felt me looking at him, because he looked up, right into my eyes. i couldn't take it and had to look away. was it because i didn't want him to see the tears in my eyes? or was i being like everyone else, unable to communicate, relate to him because of his "status"? i don't know, but honestly, to this day i feel like shit about it.
what made any of us better than him? he paid for his damn ticket, like the rest of us. what made his crate garbage? what makes him garbage? what made him untouchable? i can still picture him flipping the pages of his dan brown book and it stirs something in me which i cannot explain. is this how he lives his life, in a bubble which isn't brought upon by him, but by the rest of us? is he even, at this point, aware of the fact that he's ostracized, ignored? i'm not saying we have to go around hugging every homeless person we see, or hand out hundred dollar bills. but i don't know, maybe a little compassion, a little humanity. a sincere "sorry" rather than a look of superiority. or simple eye contact, something which i, for all my preaching, couldn't keep. a lack of home and money places these human beings below us, and instead of compassion we show anger and disgust. we should be ashamed, not them.
i had never really given the homeless much thought. i've never been rude to a homeless person. sometimes i give them change, other times i don't. but a few weeks ago, i hopped onto the train on the way back to providence. of course, there was nowhere to sit so i stood near the rail of the steps, behind a guy with a crate filled with some bags. i didn't give him much thought, until the train conductor came around to collect our tickets. he said something to the man with the crate, and roughly grabbed the crate and placed it outside the car. like it was garbage. he told the man to stand by the sliding door, that his crate was in the way. jokingly, the man saluted the conductor, and stood by the door as told. everyone else took turns making weird faces or looking at the ground, whatever. i looked closer at the guy - an older gentleman, possibly hispanic, with blood-shot eyes. aaah, he was drunk. and upon closer inspection, probably homeless. he stood by the door with a book in his hand while the people around him tried their best not to look at him.
finally when the train cleared up a bit, he sat in front of me. i was facing north, him east, so like a creeper i watched him. he was probably in his sixties. his brown coat was clean, but frayed on the edges of his sleeves. his black pants, too, were frayed at the bottom. he had on black sneakers, in pretty good condition. his nails were trimmed and clean, and his black, graying hair was neatly combed to the side. now that i write his description, he doesn't sound homeless at all. maybe he isn't. but who drunkenly carries around a crate full of bags at four in the afternoon? regardless, he sat by himself on the long seat. everyone else who was standing wouldn't sit next to him. so there he sat, reading his book, occasionally shutting it and looking around. then a young guy came into the car, and was about to sit on the long bench when his eyes landed on our friend, the homeless reader. in a split second he made a decision - the man was homeless and wasn't worthy of being sat next to. he was dirty. branded by poverty. the young guy quickly straightened his body, and walked away.
i felt the blood rush to my face. part of me was infuriated, the other part saddened. this man was minding his own business, reading a book, but all around him was an invisible shield of disgust which no one dared step into. he sat in complete oblivion, unaware that he was the pink, dirty elephant in the room. i had to practically bite my tongue to stop from crying. i'm not quite sure why i was so upset. perhaps because he reminded me of someone. maybe because i had never been up close and personal to such blatant discrimination. or maybe i'm just a crybaby. i think he felt me looking at him, because he looked up, right into my eyes. i couldn't take it and had to look away. was it because i didn't want him to see the tears in my eyes? or was i being like everyone else, unable to communicate, relate to him because of his "status"? i don't know, but honestly, to this day i feel like shit about it.
what made any of us better than him? he paid for his damn ticket, like the rest of us. what made his crate garbage? what makes him garbage? what made him untouchable? i can still picture him flipping the pages of his dan brown book and it stirs something in me which i cannot explain. is this how he lives his life, in a bubble which isn't brought upon by him, but by the rest of us? is he even, at this point, aware of the fact that he's ostracized, ignored? i'm not saying we have to go around hugging every homeless person we see, or hand out hundred dollar bills. but i don't know, maybe a little compassion, a little humanity. a sincere "sorry" rather than a look of superiority. or simple eye contact, something which i, for all my preaching, couldn't keep. a lack of home and money places these human beings below us, and instead of compassion we show anger and disgust. we should be ashamed, not them.
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