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Keep in Mind

14 Sep

This month marks 2 years and four months that I have been caring for my aging parents. It all started so innocently. My intention was to help them. This help began in the form of cohabiting with them so that I could see to the daily tasks that are needed to run a household. I would take over the cleaning and cooking.

My thought was that I could continue to work full time and just handle the important household details, like I did when I was a mother and wife.

It was easy at first. We hired a caregiver. With room and board she charged us $900 per month. She only lasted for two months. My stepfather was spending money like a senile maniac and was not able to maintain her salary. I continued to work but the routine was increased by having to accompany them to the doctor. They had a doctor’s appointment just about every week.

My mother had a major stroke so she had to see a neurologist and a psychiatrist for her Alzheimer’s. He had prostate cancer so he had to see a urologist every three months. They both had to see their primary care every month until I could get my mother’s numbers right. Her sugar and thyroid were out of control due to their inability to manage medications anymore. In order to manage their numbers and medication, I had to be present so the doctor could talk to someone who knew what the hell was going on.

I went from working 5 days a week to not working at all. Last February my stepfather fell and broke his hip. He hasn’t walked since. I haven’t worked since February. I haven’t slept in my bed since February. I can count on one hand the nights that I have slept eight hours straight since then. I believe that sleep deprivation is a torture method.

The loneliness is almost unbearable. I don’t entertain anymore. I don’t go anywhere except shopping for food and supplies.

There are days that I think that I will just loose my own mind. That is when I must ask myself what I was thinking.

As I break it down in my mind and separate all the components that brought me here I can see the scattered ideas that I had for everyone, including myself.

Over the years I thought that I had learned the power of intention. I could have sworn that I had been using it to bring about the outcome that I wanted.

Somewhere along the way, as my mind cluttered with the problem rather than the solution, my clear ideas became out numbered by the foggy ones.

So now as I sit here exhausted, drained and empty headed I can see at this point I have only one answer.

I have to return to the task of keeping in mind exactly what I want.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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If Looks could Kill

26 Aug

I promised myself that I would stay away from this subject because upon bringing it up, regardless of which side you take, it seems to awaken a deep anger in people. An understandable anger because a child is dead and an adult who is still breathing is also dead.

Trayvon Martin, a seventeen year old is walking around in the rain. It’s dark but not late. He lives in Miami and is visiting Sanford with his father and step brother.

George Zimmerman, ten years Trayvon’s senior. George is the captain of the Neighborhood Crime Watch. He has spotted Trayvon and based on the fact that there have been burglaries in that area by a young black male, he decides to keep an eye on him and call police.

I watched this trial minute by minute. I stayed away from any prior coverage by Nancy Grace and friends who tend toward sensationalism. I was interested in the facts, which none of the correspondents had until the trial, like me.

It was easy to predict what the jury was going to come back with and yet I found such surprise in the community at large.

We need to wake up and see that this was more than just a legal case. This is a human case. It is a case of prejudice and hardwired behaviors.

You see Trayvon grew up in Miami and was currently living in Opa-Locka. I am familiar with both. I’m going back some time but Opa-Locka was a neighborhood that no one wanted to even drive through, especially if they were white. I don’t know much about Trayvon personally, but I do know a bit about his environment.

I used to live in Northwest Miami, just south of Opa-Locka. I worked in Coral Gables. In between Coral Gables and Northwest Miami is Overtown. No white person drives through Overtown because it was too dangerous. Anything could happen to you in there. So to get to the Northwest of Miami from Coral Gables, I had to drive around Overtown and go miles out of my way to get there.

One afternoon I decided that I would take my chances and drive through Overtown to get home faster. I wasn’t a block into the sector of danger before I was pulled over by the police. The officer asked me what I was going in there for. I explained that I was tired of driving miles out of my way and I was cutting through from now on.

The officer asked me if I was tired of living. He asked me that because he knew what I knew. He knew that the minute I was identified as white I was a target and probably as good as dead. He ordered me to turn around because no officer would go in to save me when hell broke loose.

I did as the officer asked and decided to never risk my life that way. I couldn’t help but be angry.
How could this be America?

I wondered if a small white city in Alabama began to kill, maim, and rob blacks as they came through town what would happen. Would the police stop blacks and tell them that they are not safe in there and that they could not protect them? No. They would probably post the National Guard to keep them safe.

This is where Trayvon learned to live among the world.

George Zimmerman is a “white Hispanic” as he would be called. He was known in his community as the only person to welcome a new neighbor, whether black or white.

The Sanford community in which he resides as you can see from the footage of news reels was a racially fluid community, mostly black with Hispanics and fewer whites.

So what happened?

If you ask the black community they will tell you that George was a racist looking to gun down a black man that night.

If you ask the white community they will tell you that Trayvon was a thug who hated white people and was looking to beat the crap out of a white guy that night.

So who’s right?

In my opinion, they are all way off.

As I see it we are hardwired by our environments.

There is no doubt in my mind that Trayvon had some aggression toward whites. That wasn’t his fault. He may or may not have had personal experiences with the prejudice and racism that his ancestors had to endure, but I guarantee that he heard much of it.

I have been deep in these neighborhoods where the elders are the ones screaming at me to get out.

Trayvon was shot by George but he was killed by his environment. What I mean by that is that the people of his community probably never gave him the impression that he had a chance in the world. He was probably told most of his life that white people are determined to keep the black man down.

What about George?

What we know about George through the trial was that he wanted to be a cop. He wanted to learn to fight. In the words of his personal trainer he was “soft.”

The evidence of the case showed that George had been beaten up and that the only injuries to Trayvon were scraped knuckles, which lead you to assume that Trayvon did beat up George as his statement says.

I questioned why. Why did Trayvon not go straight home? Why, if he was scared was he talking to some girl in Miami instead of 911?

Again I say that our training will answer this. Trayvon obviously didn’t trust the police. Like many in his community think, calling the police is bad. He was wired to be aggressive, especially when he was scared.

George was scared too. He was scared for his community who had seen their fair share of break ins and violence. He was sure that a young black male, wearing a hoody, wondering aimlessly in the rain was up to no good.

So here we had two individuals with very wrong ideas about one another.

The tragedy is that Trayvon is dead. The other tragedy is that we blamed each of these individuals for what happened that night.

It is our fault. Every racial slur, every prejudice remark and every time we say “those people” we are feeding the tragedy.

If we were truly impeccable with our words we could stop the thread that continues to shape the same cloak that we live under.

We say in one breath that we want to live together, but we don’t.

If we are to live together then we have to begin training our communities.

We can’t say us and them and still expect anything different.

It is hard to break down the wiring that has been running this machine for so long, but it is not impossible.

I’m going to quote a crazy man. This is what Charles Manson said on the stand about why he was in the place where he was.

“I never went to school, so I never growed up to read and write too good, so I have stayed in jail and I have stayed stupid, and I have stayed a child while I have watched your world grow up, and then I look at the things that you do and I don’t understand. . . . “
“I can’t dislike you, but I will say this to you: you haven’t got long before you are all going to kill yourselves, because you are all crazy. And you can project it back at me . . . but I am only what lives inside each and every one of you.”

“My father is the jailhouse. My father is your system. . . I am only what you made me. I am only a reflection of you.”

“I have ate out of your garbage cans to stay out of jail. I have wore your second-hand clothes. . . I have done my best to get along in your world and now you want to kill me, and I look at you, and then I say to myself, You want to kill me? Ha! I’m already dead, have been all my life. I’ve spent twenty-three years in tombs that you built.”

I was eight years old in 1970 when Charles Manson made these statements. I never forgot it. I acknowledged that this was a crazy man, but he made sense to me. He was right and it took me a long time to decipher his message.
Here we are forty three years later and the reflection is the same.

Forget sides. Forget race.

This tragedy is cemented in society’s ills regarding people who don’t look like us.

I am a Hispanic that doesn’t look Hispanic. I have been discriminated against by Hispanics who thought I was American and I have been discriminated against just the same by those who saw my last name before meeting me.

So I know the injustice of racism personally. I know both sides well enough to know that we have got to stop training our communities to exclude anyone because of color or religion or anything else that makes them different than us.

In the end we should realize that it didn’t matter.

We don’t. That is because we are so stuck in the hardwiring of our prejudice that no truth can pierce it.

We take these extreme sides based on our skin color. Even on the network news, with few exceptions the whites are on George’s side and the blacks side with Trayvon.

We must see this.

This incident is a reflection of us. It reflects “our” thinking. It reflects how we talk to and about one another.

Charles Manson is crazy, no doubt.

He understood what we are doing.

We don’t understand what we are doing.

Are we so hardwired that we can’t change it?

This is the cusp of change.

Close your eyes, sometimes they get in the way of your ability to see.

If it’s uncomfortable to be non-racist at first, then “act as if” until the change occurs.

That is, if you truly want Unity and Harmony among us.

 
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Posted by on August 26, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Week-End With Barbara… Acting as if

19 Aug

Barbara is my first cousin on my mother’s side. Her mother and my mother are sisters. My mother had no shortage of siblings and I had no shortage of first cousins. I don’t apologize to any other cousin for saying that Barbara is and has always been my favorite.

My mother was the baby of the family so my siblings and I are considerably younger than most of our cousins. I can count three cousins that are younger than us.

So for me and I’m assuming my siblings as well, those cousins, all of them were my idols. With a ten-year age difference with most of them I was always looking up.

I spent a great deal of time with them all because our family did everything together. If someone was coming from Cuba then every single tribe of our family drove to the airport, packed in cars to pick up one person. The family gathered often as you can imagine the number of birthdays from newborn to old and of course all the Christian holidays along with the most important day, Saturday.

Like Saturday, you might ask why Barbara. Our mother’s were very close and so I may have spent more time with Barbara than other cousins, but that was true even when I wasn’t with my mother.

There was a connection from the very beginning with Barbara. I loved all of my cousins and throughout the years, as there have been many, Barbara and I have always stayed in touch. We always made our way closer geographically through the years as well. Sometimes it worked out for a while, but most times we would drift back to our worlds, which were very different.

Now I’m 51 years old and Barbara is 61.

We are still just as close and have remained so over the fifty years.

This week-end Barbara came up to rescue me from a potential disaster which turned out okay. We watched old movies from when I was a kid and baby. The conversation turned to the years that have passed. The people in our family who are no longer with us and we remembered the family gatherings in which we grew in our affection for one another.

Of all the things that this crazy family ever did, I was always grateful for those gatherings.

We talked about the significance of our existence. This was a difficult subject as we both thought we expected more.

I learned this weekend that my mother was introduced to my father by the girlfriend of a co-worker. My father wasn’t interested in meeting anyone so he stood them up five times.

Finally they tricked him and surprised him with my mother.

My father still wasn’t interested and when he fled Cuba in exile he lost touch with my mother. He was interacting with another woman that he expected to come home to.

When my father got home he found that my mother had parked herself in his home with his family. The family had fallen in love with my mother and told my father that this woman has been waiting for him and he will marry her.

Barbara and I were instantly drawn by the power of intention. My mother didn’t understand the fundamentals and laws of intention, but she knew it didn’t matter about the laws. She never saw it any other way.

We diagnosed her as “acting as if.”

My mother placed herself in my father’s home and “acted as if” it was her family, “acted as if” she were already married to my father. She convinced the universe.

The intention on the part of my mother is what brought Barbara and me to this very point in time and space.

Barbara and I recalculated our expectations. We had to verbalize that we were satisfied with the fact that we were living our life purpose.

As much as I thought I could set the world on fire, I realized that it is okay for me to be on fire and spread light and warmth.

Barbara helped me conclude that looking back at the world that I leave behind me, my history, that I have touched the world. I left an imprint of my intentions. I had to thank God for the good intentions out numbering the bad ones. I am human after all.

So from here forward I work to achieve the ability to never “act as if” anything that I don’t want to happen.

To concentrate on “acting as if” the things I do want to happen.

Barbara reminded me to be impeccable with my word and to do my very best.

And this is only and example of what I walk away with when I spend time with my favorite Cousin.

 
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Posted by on August 19, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Mami and Mona

13 Aug

It has been two years since I began to care for my aging parents. Time has gone by quickly as I look and back reflect on how much things have changed.

I never really intended to become the full-time caregiver for them and yet I found myself in this position by accident. I wasn’t specific about what I meant when I intended to help. I of all people know the importance of being specific. While it’s been interesting watching reality unravel without my consent I can hear myself telling people all the time to be specific.

This evolving relationship with my mother who has been stricken with Alzheimer’s and Dementia has definitely had its peaks and valleys.

My life has become enveloped by their needs and conditions. This was very hard for me at first. To add to the upheavals my mother hated me. She didn’t like me in her business. She didn’t like me in my Stepdad’s business and yet she needed me more than ever.

The time that has passed has been riddled with setbacks that at their age are difficult to recover from easily. My stepfather broke his hip in February of 2013 and hasn’t walked since. Mami had another stroke in April. It didn’t disable her physically, but it certainly crippled her brain function and did a number on her already failing cognitive abilities.

Since February I have not slept in my own bed or alone. I now sleep with Mami because she cannot stand to be alone. It is scary for her to be alone. She doesn’t know where she is until she sees me. If she wakes up and finds herself alone she cries like a baby.

She is Mami and I am Mona. Even my friends call her Mami. When she is hospitalized the nurses refer to her as Mami and me as Mona. I haven’t let anyone call me Mona since I was fourteen or so. Now though, it’s okay to be Mona thanks to Mami.

My mother doesn’t know anyone’s name, except mine. She refers to my friends by her favorite nick-naming that she always did. So the list is as follows:

Gordo (Rick)
La Borracha (Dana)
La Flaca (Nicki)
El Negro (Cheech)
El Guajiro (Bobby)
Gusman? (My Cuz)

Mami is pretty consistent when it comes to the naming of those that she cannot recognize by their given names. Except for me. I am always Mona.

Ramona? She is here and present. I recognize who I am still. I’m just getting back to some of who I used to be and healing her for a while as I care for Mami.

 
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Posted by on August 13, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Who is my Neighbor?

30 Jan

I have recently started attending church. I’ve been searching for a place where I could worship with others that have the same fire for the word of God.

The minister who is new to the church has a definite fire for the word of God and I am mesmerized by her spark.
The focus of the sermons for the last couple of weeks has been the teachings of Jesus regarding what the greatest commandments of all are.

In this message someone asks Jesus “who is my neighbor?” To which Jesus answers with the parable of the Good Samaritan. This is a parable we all know about a man who is robbed, beaten and stripped of his clothes. As he lay in the street two people passing by move to the other side of the street to avoid this victim because he is naked, therefore unclean. One was a priest and the other a Levite. A Samaritan helps the victim. Takes him to an inn to recover and pays the innkeeper to care for him. He also tells the innkeeper that if it cost the innkeeper more for the care of the victim, to pass that cost on to him as well.

I took this message to heart and began to help an older woman at work who never married, nor had children. She is alone and trying to live off of her Social Security income. I realized that she was hungry when she came into work so I began to make her pancakes and freezing them for the week. I also cook spaghetti so that I know she has dinner every night until I can see her again. She is my neighbor.

Last Sunday I was in church and I hadn’t been feeling well. Service had just begun and the pain in my stomach began to tear me away from the service. I decided to go to the bathroom and try to shrug it off with some cold water and a movement.

As I reached the bathroom an older woman was just locking the door to the ladies room. I decided to sit by the bathroom and wait. I noticed that there was a walker just outside the bathroom and my experience with the elderly, since I am caring for my aging parents, was telling me that I probably didn’t want to enter that bathroom. I ignored such ideas.

The woman finally came out of the bathroom 15 minutes later and as she grabbed on to her walker she said to me “I almost didn’t make it.”

My experience proved true.

When I entered the bathroom, sure as I know the elderly who can’t move fast enough to get everything in the commode, there was a mess all over the toilet seat. The smell was so offensive that I could hardly stand it.

I shut the door to the bathroom and left it. I told myself that I do this all day everyday and I could not do this clean up today. I was sick of cleaning up around the toilet several times a day. The emptying of toilet chairs and for lack of a better term, I’m sick of the crap.

When I returned to the service the sermon was about community.

Who’s community? Our community. Who’s church? Our church.

As I drove home I realized that this older woman was my neighbor. She was part of my community, part of my church and I didn’t help.

I could have easily cleaned up her mess, especially since I’m an expert with the crap.

I told myself that I couldn’t do it. I failed that test miserably. I did learn however that the opportunity to lend a hand can come at any time, in any place and the opportunity could ask for just about anything that I can give.

The question I’m left with is am I willing?

Yes, my neighbor could be unclean, but she is my neighbor nonetheless.

The commandment is to love her as I love myself.

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Standard of Living

20 Oct

Throughout this presidential campaign season all I hear over and over again is “the middle class.” In my mind I wanted to think that the middle class made up a large part of the population. I thought this because it seems to be what the President and his opponent to want to save, and accuse each other of trying to destroy.

I looked up the facts regarding class sizes.

In 2005 when the economy was booming and “things” were wonderful the class sizes were as follows:
Lower middle class was 30%
Working lower class made was 30%
Working poor was 13%

This leaves us with the upper middle class which was 15% then.
The capitalist were 1% and still are.

So what is the big fuss over this 15% of the population?

Well that was the question that I wanted to answer with my research, but I became curious over other facts. Once I saw the statistics I realized why the 1% doesn’t want to carry the tax burden. The lower middle class, the working lower class and the working poor make up 73% of the population.

Raising your standard of living has become the entire purpose for living. Mom works, grandma works, retired uncle works, disabled aunt works. Everyone has to work because we must meet our needs.

So back to the 1960’s when the per capita expenditures on recreation and meals rose by 40%, I asked how that could happen because in comparison to today’s standard of recreation it seemed to me that life was simpler then. There were no cell phones, no cable, no high speed internet and one car was enough for a family, and while they were working on it, there wasn’t a McDonald’s at every intersection.

In 1980, out of the 85 million households in the United States, 64% owned their own living quarters, 55% had at least two TV sets, and 51% had more than one vehicle.

What this says to me is that the standard of living index is measured by who has what and how much.

So when Westgate mogul David Siegel, which I consider in the 1% tells his sad tale of how he had to halt the construction of his 90,000 square foot home, not because his business is bad, but because “Obamacare” may cost him more to do business. Treating his employees fairly could cost him 20,000 square feet of living space. That would hurt a guy like David.

Most of us live within 1,500 square feet or less. Why is having 88,000 times more than the average person not enough? I’ve been asking this question over the years as I have watched more and more companies become detached from responsibility to employees. They offer part time work to folks who need to work full time, but they are afraid that they may have to give up a little more profit.

I’m all for profit. If you are going to have a business there would be no other goal. This profit margin got larger and larger for these capitalists. Again, 88,000 times more home than anyone. That is what the 1% is afraid of.

In an interview with Piers Morgan, Donald Trump was asked if we should all think big like him, and Donald answered:
“No, not everyone should think big, it would be too crowded up here and that wouldn’t be any fun.”

I rest my case.

 
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Posted by on October 20, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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What melts the hardwire?

14 Oct

We all watched in horror as the twin towers collapsed before our very eyes. How could this happen? The towers were steel framed and what could melt the hardwire of this ginormous structure?

Well, we know that a couple of planes hit the towers. Which then doused the buildings with explosive jet fuel and while there are conspiracy theories by the dozens about that whole scene, the fact is that the steel melted.

This is the premise of my book.

What could be so warm? What could be so powerful? What could make the whole world watch?

You will have to read the book to hear the answer, although I think you already know..

 
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Posted by on October 14, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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The infancy of religions

13 Oct

The Muslim religion is rocking the world right now. We like to call them “extremist” and “radicals.” We lack the understanding in the teachings that mislead some into horrific actions that kill, maim, and torture the infidels.

After years of turning on my radio and expecting to hear what the next attack that Islam would launch against the non-Islamic population would be, I decided to do a little research on religion in general. I wanted to compare other religions and how they responded to the non follower.

I could barely remember the facts behind the Spanish Inquisition. It had been years since I studied world history and even when I did attend class, I wasn’t exactly listening all the time.

I looked into the Spanish Inquisition and rather than bore you with the historically detailed blow by blow, I wanted to show some similarities to what is going on right now.

The Inquisitions began in medieval times. There were variations of what you could call local tribes of some form of Christianity. These series of Inquisitions took place from 1184 through 1230.

The Spanish Inquisition began in 1480 and was originally intended to ensure the orthodoxy of those that had converted from Judaism and Islam. This Inquisition was established by Catholic Monarchs, Ferdinand II of Aragon, and Isabella of Castile. Originally intended to concentrate on converts, this movement would increase its momentum to gain religious authority and reign.

While these Inquisitors did not walk into a crowd and set off an explosive vest, some of their actions can help explain the actions that Muslims take on the infidels today.

This movement which was originally meant to monitor converters eventually became a decree to convert or leave. Those that converted were then watched by neighbors to be sure that they were true converts. The absence of smoke in your chimney on a Saturday would indicate that you were secretly observing the Jewish Sabbath. The buying of many vegetables just before Passover or the buying of meat from a converted butcher could also be considered evidence that the convert was really a heretic. This evidence would be heard in a public court. The Jews could confess and do penance, but those that relapsed would be burned on the stake.

The age at which Christianity committed these offenses against Jews and Muslims was 1400 years old. There were inquisitions before the Spanish. The medieval inquisitions were more tribal in my opinion. Nevertheless, Christians in their infancy committed just as much torture and murder in the name of God.

Islam dates to the 600’s. This puts it right where the Christians were when they savagely attacked Jews and Muslims, in its infancy.

I’m not agreeing with Muslims in their pursuit to eliminate the infidels from the face of the earth, but I do understand that they are a young religion that needs time to grow in order to achieve the spiritual plane they seek. They are answering to their god in a way that is taught by man. Just like all other religions out there, once they eliminate the “man” and allow spirit to really guide them we will witness a pivotal transformation that will allow us to all live in peace.

All this says is that we are not finished here. The unrest between religions must end before there is peace on earth. Especially with the mentality that only one religion can inherit the earth. When these religions mature, all of them, we will transform ourselves, which in turn will transform the earth.

 
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Posted by on October 13, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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School daze

02 Oct

As the start to a new school year is well underway, and we are preparing for Halloween I found myself reminiscing with the memory of my first day in school.

I’ll never forget the weeks that led up to this magnificent day. We went shopping for clothes, a lunch box, new shoes and the rain gear. I remember the rain gear the most vividly. Just like everyone else mine was bright yellow and it reeked of plastic. I had the whole set up with the latching boots and the rain hat. My umbrella was candy apple red. I just knew that I could weather anything in this outfit.

The only thing that made my preparation for the first day of school different than other kids was that I had to learn my new age. I was 5 years old and you had to be 6 to start first grade. My mother worked full time and the kindergarten class let out at noon. This was 1967 when 5 year olds were sent home for a nap and they were done with school for the day.

My mother rehearsed with me over and over. “How old are you?” she would ask me spontaneously. I got it wrong a few times, but eventually I answered “six” consistently.

The other change would be to my name. I knew my name was Ramona, but at the age of five I didn’t know my last name. I had never used a last name at this point. So Ramona Johnson would be the name that I would start my life with.

No one in my whole family had the last name Johnson. My mother at the time was Socarras. I think that my mother was trying to pass me off as an American. Again, it’s 1967 and creating your own documents was pretty easy.

Which brings me to the language barrier, I didn’t speak English. The only thing I knew was “what is your name, and how old are you?” That was due to the weeks of training with my mom.

We practiced walking to school and home again because she would leave before I went to school and would not return until dinner. We must have walked the path twenty times in the last few weeks.

I was very well prepared to enter into the world on my own with a fake name and a fake date of birth.
The Tuesday after Labor Day 1967 I woke up early with my parents for this exciting day. We had breakfast together and they left for work. I was to watch out of the window for when the kids began walking to school and that’s how I knew that it was time to leave. I couldn’t read a clock yet.

So off I went in the direction of all the other children from the apartment complex where we lived at the time. I didn’t talk to anyone. I just followed the crowd until I arrived in school. My mother and I had come the week before to register and although they showed me how to get to class, with the crowded halls I became confused and lost. I didn’t know how to ask for help so I wondered the halls until the bell rang and the halls were empty.

The hall monitor discovered me and got me to class. I passed the first test as he walked me to my classroom. “What’s your name? How old are you?”

When I opened the door and quickly scanned the class of about twenty kids, all older than me, they were a little bigger than me and I was now the center of attention for everyone in the room. I was late and so I got the big entrance.

“What’s your name?” The young teacher asked me. “Ramona Johnson.” I said just as I had practiced over and over.

“Ramona the pest!” One kid yelled from the back of the room causing the entire room to burst out in laughter.

I broke out in a wail of tears that I could not control. The teacher walked up to me and pulled me to her chair which was at the front of the classroom. She sat down before pulling me up into her lap.

“Why are you crying?” she asked. I barely understood her question.

“Are you five or are you six?” she asked while her eyes scanned the class. Everyone waited for my answer. I was still whimpering.

“Six.” That is what I was supposed to say no matter how many times I was asked.

“Well you are in first grade now. Kindergarteners cry. First graders don’t cry.” She explained to a degree that I could somewhat understand.

The class broke out in laughter and I was the Kindergartener/pest for the rest of the day. I had no idea what was said for most of the day. I mostly sat at my desk and did nothing because I didn’t understand a single direction. I wondered if I should follow what others were doing, but none of it made sense enough to pull off imitating.

I made it through the day and as I walked home in the rain, I knew that I never wanted to go back. I arrived where I had to cross the street to my apartment complex and I could not cross. The curb on the other side was a storm drain and it was sucking water from the street creating what looked to me a river.

I was afraid to cross because I thought that the water was going to suck me into the drain and kill me.
Again, I was crying today. Just stood there in the rain crying. Kids passed me by and didn’t get sucked in, but I still didn’t trust it. I couldn’t cross anywhere else because this is what I practiced.

Finally an older man came out of his apartment, crossed the street, picked me up and set me back down on the sidewalk that led to my home.

I never shared this story with my mom. I would have gotten in trouble for letting a stranger help me.
The years that followed would be marked by this very first day. I would always hate school. It took until third grade to get my name right, correct my age and learn English.

 
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Posted by on October 2, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Blah, blah, blog

25 Sep

It has been quite some time since I last blogged. Believe me when I say that if there were something to blog about, I would have documented it.

As a writer I find myself in these peaks and valleys of performance. You can almost predict it through my writing. The symptoms manifest in half ass written ideas, then the procrastination in the posting of blogs, and most importantly when the spiral notebooks are neatly piled on the desk instead of being all over the place, opened with the scribble of flow, that is when I know that I have hit this valley.

The most interesting component to this most recent valley was that I had more time than ever to produce blogs on a regular basis. In early August I lost my job. I have since become employed, but only part-time. I work two days a week now, half of the schedule I had before. So what happens?

Life must happen in order to unleash the flow of words that come together and illuminate the picture that I am trying to produce.

There are times that I feel the “blah, blah, blog.” I have to admit that sometimes I feel the pressure to write, even though I feel that I have nothing to say. As I read other blogs and can see that I am not the only one that hits this plane.

I allowed myself a bit of a sabbatical while I let ideas and stories to rise to the occasion.

I thank you for your patience as I have many blogs yet to unveil.

 
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Posted by on September 25, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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