Brain Food

While eavesdropping on convo's I hear on the street, in subway cars and throughout my neighborhood lately, I have gotten confirmation of what I have always known about children: their brains are endless storage spaces for information; they have the capacity to learn anything and everything that comes their way. So what are we feeding their brains? This scary question entered my mind the other evening as I stood waiting for my train headed home to Brooklyn. Coming down the staircase, I heard a single-digit child throw out racial epithets like they were a joke. I winced everytime I heard him repeat the phrase "You're a black b*tch!" like it was a nursery rhyme he had just learned.


I wondered why the "adult" he was with was allowing him to scream this out, and then I wondered where and from whom he had heard them, and what authoritative figure in his life would give him license to use it.



The point is...let's stop and think. Before we utter mindlessly to ourselves, or mumble under our breaths, let's stop and think about the cherubic child sitting next to you who is unintentionally listening, the nephew/niece/cousin/sister/brother/son/daughter who listens to your word as gospel. Let's feed our children something different than what they already get from the world around them. Check the piece below..inspired by the incident above. Grita...







Brain Food



Responsible are we

For what comes

from the mouths of babes



Let us take this responsibility

With more grace and thought

Than previously

Has been



Flying fallacies and

False realities

Are what we teach

Each time we speak

without thinking



Age and comprehension

are irrelevant

to the impressionable sponges

that are a child's brain

they absorb and integrate

each letter, word and phrase

that flies in anger, deceit or hate



Let us nurture, stretch and soothe

Rather than decay, shrink and ooze

With our words and actions.

The Language of Love: A Prelude

I haven't been able to get out the entry I've been trying to write the last few weeks. Too much to say and I've been at a loss for words on the topic itself. So in the meantime... read the piece below to get an idea of what's running through my brain...


Born of woman
Brought to light by she
So..where does the respect get lost?

Verbal violations
Assaulting adjectives that
Burn beyond the surface
Finding her skin and burying themselves deep
into who she is

Hurling insults like knives
That try to break skin
And plunge
Straight to soul
He digs deep for
Anger unfettered
Releasing ugly, scarring words
That drop like bombs
On quiet Sundays mornings.

Defenseless to the one she loves
He whom she's given herself to,
Fed, clothed, soothed,
Loved and would have sacrificed her her for
Unprepared for his attacks
Or anger
She couldn't reign in
She bows her head instead
Hoping to dodge death
And damage.

Somebody Hit Snooze

At the present moment, I've been thinking alot about family and kids and all that jazz (happens when you see rugrats everywhere and you tend to get trapped in your own mind like I do most of the time). Maybe it's because my friends are all off having kids (first or second depending) and my parents are thirsty to have grandkids because well, everyone else's kids are off having them, so why shouldn't they get them too?

I read this article a few years back about teen pregnancy that completely struck a chord with me. In part because I had several close friends who were teen mothers and in part because I was always being questioned about how it is I didn't yet have a child (mind you when this article came out I was just 22 years old). One of the quotes that stuck was:

"Mothers are doing the best they can, but things come up. And the mothers are too young to know how to make decisions. They haven't been raised themselves, so how can they know how to raise a child?" -Doris Smith, 79, The Village Voice, 2001

That inspired a version of the poem you see below. It was originallly called "Letter to an Unborn Child." This is a derivative of that. In trying to capture my mood I thought this was a good fit. Enjoy!



Ring the Alarm

Can you hear that?
It's my biological clock
ticking in my ears
28 (almost 29) years have passed
and with every birthday
that reloj keeps getting louder
that timer that was embedded in my core,
sunk behind the ribs and put between the lungs,
is ready to sound.
It was set the day God and genetics decided
"This one here is gonna need more estrogen"

Before I give into the will of nature
And society
And expectations
And urges
I make this promise
One that cant.. be broken by time
Or circumstance
Or a rapidly moving
Timepiece that I can..t see and only feel
That is always going without me knowing

I promise
I will look back at my choices with pride
I won't let you show up before your time
I won't be selfish and request your presence when I know I can't yet sacrifice
I won't allow you to suffer for my mis-actions
I won't resent you or try to live my life through you
I won't be a baby's mama

I promise
To show you the world through more than just pictures and books
To give you more than what I had
To give you all that you deserve and more
To give you a real father who will be there to watch you grow
To give you 2 parents at all times, no matter whether he and I remain "we"
To give my life without hesitation

My promise is the reason why I can't understand..

How others lie down defeated
Mothers don't strive higher
How they become baby daddy's
Easily seduced by temporary passions
That lose heat like cold bed sheets
And then others that are making babies out of love
So quickly fall victim to scorn, resentment and youth.

Because they dared....

the last few months i've found myself increasingly molestada (bothered for my folks who don't speak espanol) by what i see going on around me. or rather the lack of focus and attention on issues/problems/dilemnas that our society is facing. from substandard education to the war in iraq, take your pick and i'm probably gonna have an opinion to share. as a schizo-puerto rock who loves a land i've only seen thrice in my life, my latest obsession deals with the political status of my patria (country).

this weekend i attended several events commemorating el grito de lares, the start of the puerto rican nationalist movement (on sept. 23rd, 1868 in the town of lares, puerto rico,  hundreds of boricuas rose/rebelled against the spanish crown. the uprising was not "successful" in traditional terms but marked the beginning of the struggle) and the anniversary of the death of filiberto ojeda dias (a machetero leader) who was killed last year by the fbi. the first was an art exhibit, "not enough space" which featured the creations of the two reminaing puerto rican political prisoners oscar lopez rivera and carlos alberto torres (presente!). these two men have served 25 and 26 years respectively for their involvement with the FALN (fuerzas armadas de liberacion nacional). i was baffled, moved, overwhelmed and every other emotion you can think of, to witness their work as well as memorabilia of their lives. i can't think of anyone who's ever been that commmitted to anything. ever.

what makes it worse? neither had ever committed a crime before being arrested but both are serving 88 year (absurdly) long sentances to forward a cause that is considered a "natural right" by our constitution.

admittedly i do not condone, support or believe in violence. i don't think it's ever an answer. and i am aware of the  events that have been attributed to the organization (e.g. the wells fargo bank robbery, bombings, etc. during the early 80s.) what i do believe in is the ideals for which they stand: self- determination, choice, agency.

the second event i went to was a rally @ the united nations to bring attention to the island's colonial status. while it was great to be there and hear all of the speakers who came out to support, i was disappointed to see 1-so few people in attendance. with the amount of advertising, i had hoped to see a larger group. and 2-that there were many familiar faces. perhaps it's because i've been attending cultural events for so many years, perhaps it's because i'm a social butterfly and i know alot of folks, but i'm always eager to see the unfamiliar, the face i don't know, the person who is new, the hope that other people are awakening and caring.

now let's not get it twisted. i'm aware and appreciative of the benefits i have of being born in the united states (i own the privileges that i have), that my frame of reference for life has been created by being raised in this country, but it's precisely for that reason it aggravates me to see what's been happening around me for so long. i'm not interested in standing on a soapbox and mobilizing the masses (although that sure would be nice! =)). all i want is for one second out of your day, people stop and think about freedom. this intangible element...it's something that sounds so simple but is actually so expensive, so unreachable. ask yourself how and why we have it and how and why others don't. this isn't to say that the island or its people are literally shackled or imprisoned (though some of us are) or working on a plantation (though some of us are). but what happens to the psyche of a nation when another nation becomes a patriarchy and determines its fate?

my only other request (so i lied...there's more than one thing i want) with this is that folks take a moment to get educated. don't believe the hype...things are not as they appear and the rumbling beneath the surface (the shutdown of the pr govt a few months ago, the fbi raids on nationalist's homes, etc.) that's all just a sypmtom of a greater issue. ponle atencion...

some handy resources for ya...

El Grito de Lares:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grito_de_Lares

National Boricua Human Rights Network: http://www.prcc-chgo.org/NBHRN_site/home.html

Los Macheteros: http://www.latinamericanstudies.org/epb-macheteros.htm

Filiberto Ojeda Dias:http://www.thenation.com/doc/20051024/jimenez

FALN: http://www.latinamericanstudies.org/faln.htm

Tropic of Capricorn

Scarred by memory
fingers feel for scabs
instinctively
so as not to forget
the pain
to retrace/recall
the fall
and instead
remember how to walk
instead of collide

Holding patterns
emerge as a way to protect
and inflict spite
because fear screams louder than actions
believing you are the same
as before
I speak and act to shield
from expected slams and stabs
You insist and thrash
against insecurities to show
you are different too

But the stitch along
the line of trust throbs
when I least expect
the scar of memory announces itself
and I’m fumbling to
find the fault line
once again

I was a Young Lord

Emblem above of the Young Lords offices in Chicago.


Pablo "Yoruba" Guzman addressing an audience during one of the NYC's Young Lords takeovers.


So while many of my fellow Boricua's have taken this weekend to celebrate pride and glee in our cultural heritage, I find myself feeling differently. I can't help but be in a contemplative mood. As I hear horns honk, flags wave and see people revel in their pride in my very Boricua Bushwick neighborhood, I find myself contemplating what it all means, why we cling to the smallest of things and how I wish we had so much more to rejoice over. I'm sitting here thinking about how the island's government recently shutdown, read about how and why its economimc status is worse than the poorest state in our nation--Mississippi, and wonder why we are still fighting this fight. I find myself at a loss for immediate words--something that would reflect my concerns, questions and general pensiveness about the status of mi isla. A land I've seen three times in my life, but which reminds me of who I am whenever I set foot on its soft earth.

Sometimes I feel like my beliefs and ideas are not fit for the time in which we live. That I was meant to be alive during the 70s, the decade in which I was born, so that I could have participated in so many wonderful changes that occurred. I joke that I was a Young Lord in a former life. For those that don't know they were a socio-political Puerto Rican civil rights group which made inroads for the rights of all Bori's and Latinos. Thus, the photos above which make my heart sing and pride exacerbate. What I've included below is something I wrote several years ago after I learned that thousands of government documents and files that had been kept on groups like the Young Lords, the Macheteros and other Puerto Rican political groups, had finally been declassified and shared with the public. They detailed the minutia of their daily lives and are record of the surveillance that Hoover's FBI kept on these groups. It speaks to this government's attempts to dismantle anything and anyone who got too much done outside of the system. This isn't what I'd call a 'finished' piece, because I don't feel like any of my poetry is ever done but it's the best thing that captured my mood on this cool June evening.


FBI
March 2003
Paris

Yellow faded,
water marked pages
that smell of must,
and are brittle to the touch.
Thousands of sheets--8 and a half by 11 pages--legal pads, memos and notebooks
filled with insignificant notes:

“Red chevy impalla parked on Halsted across from Spanish American offices. Walked in and walked out”

Comments and criticisms
Surveillance files of what the insurgents were up to around Daly’s Chicago
How many trees died to keep secret files circulating and
an entire nación under oppressive
government thumbs?

Red squad, COINTELPRO, FBI, CIA
With the derth of teams trained to carry out the government’s dirty deeds,
Mami wonders why I wince
When she calls herself Americana
It is, after all, a status imposed by blood tax and lost lives (WWI, WWII, Vietnam, Korea, Desert Storm I, Desert Storm II, Afghanistan, Iraq...)
Grave sites that testify to the “mainland’s” quest
to use la isla’s people as soldiers but nothing else,
to farm our bodies that bend from back breaking labor:

Cane cutters
cotton pickers
fabrica workers
vegetable pickers
seasonal field hands

With such a necessary labor force
There was no way they could be lost or converted
Which is why,
Organizing?,
that just couldn’t be allowed
And anything/anyone that questions
the status quo is labeled lazy, ungrateful, anti-American or communist

Eagle eyed officers
remained vigilant at their
superior’s orders
to ensure that no one
Not Juan, Jose, Maria or Pepa
Could read too much,
think too much
Talk to much
or
God forbid
do too much.

But we did not listen or comply or pay mind
We kept meeting, talking, thinking and discussing.

Until much like our black brothers--
Eldridge who was ambushed as he slept, Assata who was forced to flee, and Mumia who still sits in prison--
there was a sudden and thunderous halt.

Too many people talking, too many people watching
anonymous threatening calls,
unidentified vehicles outside their doors
and suspicious looks
made the revolution crumble
and the spirit behind it
extinguished.

Lamento Borincano, indeed.

So....I'm as Puerto Rican as they get. The flag and all derivations of it can be found plastered across my apartment; I wear a replica of an original Puerto Rican stamp around my neck on a chain; the quotes in my email signature usually relate to the island in some way, shape or form; I rock a P.R. bucket hat and gleaming flag in my back pocket when the parade (and since I'm from NYC you know which one I'm talking about) comes around even though I don't always attend. I'm fiercely nationalistic to say the least.

This being said, I'm not culturally insecure. I don't just wave my flag without knowing anything about my history. I wave it with the full knowledge and understanding of our wack-ass political situation, our internal racism, our classism, our apathy--in other words all of the flaws and fine lines that define who we are. I also know about our abolitionist movement, our origination of several genre's of music, our breathtaking artwork, our unique language, our award winning literature, our resistence against oppression. I know that we are an idealistic "rainbow people" whose culture is a blend of African, Indigenous and European (and I say this because so many of us have European, not necessarily Spanish). I know enough about the good, the bad and the ugly to unconditionally take pride when as I wave my flag.

Well as I sit here and listen to one of my favorite songs "Preciosa" (the Marc Anthony version) because it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, forms a lump in my throat and brings tears to my eyes. The country's unofficial anthem is a gorgeous proclomation of pride, an affirmation of our culture and history. It was written in the late 1930s and speaks to the P.R.'s isolation and struggle with immgration and longing for his homeland.

Them issues sure are older than dirt huh? But back to the regularly scheduled rant...

So I'm listening to the words and it hits me that one of the lines BLATANTLY omits our African heritage. Que, que? One of the stanzas which describes the island's multi-ethnic roots mentions the Spanish and the Indios but not the Africans.

"Y tienes la noble hidalguía de la Madre España. Y el fiero cantío del Indio bravío lo tienes también."
(And you have the noblility of Mother Spain and the savagness of the wild Indian as well).

Granted, it's not all that flattering to the Tainos on the island either, but WTF?!? How do you mention 2 and not the other? A complete omission and avoidance, like always, of our roots. It's also an incomplete portrait of who and what we really are. We, Boricuas/Puerto Ricans/Puerto Rocks/Puerto Riquenos, are a result of this tri-level mixture. Without 1, we are incomplete, not whole. Are we so stuck on color that we can't acknowledge the third root of our beings?

The irony of it all? The author of the song, Rafael Hernandez, was a black Puerto Rican. Someone explain to me how a man who so clearly had African blood running through his veins, negated part of his own heritage? It reminds me that our racism is so deeply rooted and internalized that even the island's black children will not acknowledge the obvious. "Preciosa sera sin bandera, sin laros, ni gloria. Preciosa, preciosa, te llaman los hijos de la libertad." We might be precious and unforgettable, but none of us, La Perla's children, are really free.

Where is my pole?

Being a stripper must be cool.

Why else would all the females I see at clubs these days be so eager to imitate the moves they see in bad hip hop video's, HBO documentaries and scenes from the Soprano's when they're inside the fictional Bada Bing?

Don't get it twisted, I'm not hating on my sisters who, by choice or circumstance, make their livings in the sex industry--whether it's as exotic dancers/pole dancers/strippers/whatever. It's not for me to judge anyone on how they make their ends meet. The only person's judgements you need to be concerned with is your own.

But I am thoroughly distressed when I go out and see everyday chicas replicating these same moves on the dance floor, not because they're that comfortable with their sexuality, not because they're trying to drive some dude wild, but simply because they believe it's the only way they're going to get any kind of positive attention.

Why am I getting on my soapbox? Why should I even care? Because a few nights ago I got to see the "stripper dance" a bit too up close and personal. While out at a concert/party, I was doing my usual people watching; checking out the crowd, feeling the vibe, enjoying the music and the performances on stage. But then outta nowhere, my attention was caught by this one chick. Why did I notice her? She was a pretty girl who was dressed in what I imagine was her sexiest outfit -- a slamming red bustier, capri's and some killer gold heels. But what got me, why I couldn't tear my eyes away from her, was because she went from dancing and buggin' out with her friends to looking like something out of "Girls Gone Wild" DVD. She was busy, getting busy, with hyper active booty claps, hip grinding and dip-it-low tactics. When I looked around for the dude I assumed she was trying to seduce, I realized the "dude" was a cameraman that was taping her every move, with a large light directed straight at her ass and grabbing every moment of her "performance" for whatever webcast, internet site or cable access show the tape would soon appear on.

So why did it bug me? Because she was obviously doing it to get attention. I noticed her toss her hair and whip her legs around all the while repeatedly turning her head to make sure that the cameraman was catching every single move she made. Huh?!?!? Since when was this the way to get discovered? And was she that desperate for the attention that she'd continue performing when the camera was turned off? I noticed her later busily bumping with some dude and another chick, once again, all for the benefit of the cameras that had surrounded the trio. I kept expecting to see things go from music video to porn video before my very eyes.

Now I wouldn't say that I'm a prude or uptight about sex and sexuality, but it truly bothered me to see this young woman gyrate her way around the floor in hopes that her jiggling and giggling, not her pretty face or personality, would get her noticed. And really can you blame her? The glorification of women as objects still exists and gets amplified to like the infinite degree by everyone in mainstream culture. But I'm not fingerpointing and saying the blame falls on just video producers or mysoginistic tendencies.

We, as women, are also responsible, not for how others percieve us but for what we say and do. Women like Gloria Velez, Jenna Jameson, Vida Guerra, Pam Anderson, etc. are being admired and elevated (dare I say looked up to?) to a new height. So if you're in that spotlight shouldn't you say something? Cono, how hard is it to take a minute and think about the kind of impact your actions and words have? To avoid ownership of your public influence and the impact you have on the world around you, is to live in denial. Do what you do, but at least acknowledge that it's a life YOU chose and that each young, impressionable woman has the right to choose her own path rather than trying to emulate and be boxed into a mold that might not fit.

Man...being a stripper must be cool.

No more Ms. Nice

I've never been a fan of the word "nice."

I've never been a fan because, by default, it's always been employed by others when they're asked to describe me. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that this doesn't describe part of my personality. I take great pride and pain to be nice, to make people feel comfortable, to be genuine and to get along with folks. As my friend put it so well, "Nice is free" meaning that it doesn't cost you or anyone else anything to behave that way.

But "nice," "cute," "sweet," et.al. and every other piece of verbage that's used as a catchall by folks to talk about someone that's kind, generous or unusually polite is a cop-out, a stand-in, a throw away. As a writer, I hate throw away words. And sometimes, that's what I feel "nice" is. It's like "nice" is a catchall that just fits; nice is like the reliable black slacks you keep in your closet that are always going to fit no matter how bloated you feel or how quickly you need a pair of clean, comfortable pants to jump into. "Nice" for me, conjures images of a mousy, eager-beaver, goody-goody chimiqui who unwillingly--and often unnecessarily--gets her feelings trampled on because, she's so "nice" so she won't mind.

Maybe it's because for so long I was the dictionary definition. My parents are nice, generous, giving people who gave me home training and so by default, I became "nice" too. Thankfully, I stopped being that defacto visual back in high school. I didn't warp into a biznatch or a nasty Stankisha (though people close to me can tell you that I, ahem, can get ugly when my temper gets loose) but I learned the hard way that being too nice, too fast with the wrong people is a recipie for disaster often being the foolhardy choice. I learned I need to be clear about what my boundaries and limitations are so that people would not assume they could wipe their feet across my face or feelings.

So while I am still "nice" (I say Bless when someone sneezes, I give my seat to old and pregnant women on the train, I return wallets that don't belong to me) I realized that, just like back in high school, I take my "niceness" too far. I recently was reminded by several people and incidents that my attempts to be properly understood and percieved don't allow people to see my depth of emotions or that in my quest to communicate well, I'm not as assertive as I need to be.

After a particularly prickly incident at my job where I had been left out of the loop on a major decision, I had to approach the decision maker about his choices and explain my discontent as well as why I thought his choices could be deterimental. I thought I had handled it properly - instead of coming out of my face after recieving an email from him, I held tight, took a deep breath and waited until my anger had passed and addressed him the next day. My colleague told me that while my speaking out was great, my barking didn't mean much if there was no bite behind it. "You always complain Jess, that's nothing new." The words rang in my ears but I realized he was right. I had to start putting some muscle into what I was saying, if you're gonna talk about it, be about it.

I think I've always assumed your work envrionment was not the place to be emotional, not the place to express your true feelings, or the place to stand up for your values. Mostly because I've always been scared of being viewed or reprimanded for being inappropriate or even worse insubordinate. I think that as a woman especially I've always tried to gauge appropriate and inappropriate behavior so that I wouldn't cross a line or fit into the typical mold of the "emotional woman" on the job and be taken seriously.

But that's not the case. It is possible to be open and sincere and be taken seriously. And I am happy to report that just a week after that last incident, I didn't hold my tongue or my action when another situation arose. Another colleague was skeptical of my decision on a project and was insisting that we backpedal and take a safer route. Although I was upset, rather than get incensed, deflate and modify my approach, I went with my gut and approached this person who doubted my decision. I explained my disappointment with his reaction and demanded that we resolve it immediately. I didn't need to get all worked up and then calm myself down after thinking and rethinking what I wanted to say or venting to someone else about it. I had the capacity to deal with it in real time rather than assuming how it would go.

Sure my colleague was upset and felt attacked, but just a few days later, he apologized and said I was right and that my instinct and judgement were right on cue. I guess being Not-so-nice has its benefits after all.

Represent, Represent, CUBA!

I had the immense pleasure of seeing my all time favorite group, Cuban hip hoppers, Orishas, perform tonight at Irving Plaza in NYC. I don't usually go out on Sunday nights because I work long days beginning on Mondays, but this was one show that I wasn't going to miss out on. And I can't say enough about how amazing they were! Their rhymes were tight, their moves were dope and their energy was contagious. They had an immense energy that they used to perform my all time favorites ("Mistica," "Canto para Elewa y Chango," "537 Cuba") as well as new cuts off of their latest album, El Kilo.

As I swayed along to the beat, hunching over the balcony, scruffing up my elbows on ledge, screaming maniaclly when they broke from performing to smile, buggin my homey Alex to take pics with his camera, I was knocked over the head. Watching them play with the crowd and just generally being wowed by their enthusiasm and talent, I was reminded of how much I absolutely and completely adore my Latino men. Guerrero, Ruzzo y Roldan are FINE.

FINE in the sense that I want to take you home for the night,
FINE as in tall, dark and scrumptious,
FINE as in I'm going to melt because of your piercing stare and intensity when you look at me, makes me wish I really was the only person in the room.

(And yes, I say "my Latino men" because each of the beings that shares my blood is part of my community and therefore, I egotistically claim them. =)) But that is completely besides the point.

And yes, their physical appearances were amazing (broad shoulders, chiseled jaws, brooding brows, dark hair, yum!), but it was the way they carried themselves, the way I see so many hombres I see and admire, that was distinctly Latino:

*the confident swagger that makes me hear music when I watch one walk by or towards me;
*the penetrating gaze that takes me outside of whatever space I'm in and creates a world with just 2;
*the way mouths and tongues mingle languages and remind me of their versatility;
*the natural rhythm that effortlessly erupts when they begin to let loose and are set free.

These gorgeous Cubano expats were distinctly different but yet all reminded me of the things I LOVE.

Muchismas gracias Orishas! Ache...

Not your typical Sorority Chic

For those that don't know...I've been an Hermana of Latinas Promoviendo Comunidad/Lambda Pi Chi Sorority, Inc. for almost 10 years. I joined during college and am still an active member today. I also happen to sit on our National History Committee. As a result, I was asked to give a speech at one of our chapter's last night about our organization's genesis. I couldn't have been prouder (or more nervous) to do so. I strayed away from the typical pamphlet/brochure/website spiel and instead simply spoke from the heart in a way to somehow convey the essence of how and why our Hermandad was founded. Judging by the reaction of the crowd, I did a pretty good job. Enjoy the written version below.

Founders Dinner
Xi Chapter, SJU
April 25, 2006

Imagine a world without options. A place where your color or last name and how you spoke it, put you in one category – either black or white. But in reality, you were one, or the other, neither, or both.

Imagine carrying the expectations of your family, your friends, your neighborhood, on your back because you were the first to accomplish something others around you did not: going away to college.

Imagine not being seen. By professors, administrators, officials, peers and colleagues, some of them just like you or close enough to be.

Imagine seeing others like you give and nurture and support and work and lead but never be acknowledged, respected or appreciated. Not because they didn’t deserve it, but because of their gender.

Now imagine seeing these same women who you spent years working, studying, bonding with, suddenly disappear. Diplomas bought freedom, freedom bore forgetfulness. With each woman that leaves, you lose another friendship not out of maliciousness but simply the passage of time and no real thread to keep you connected, no reason for them to reach back and remain in your life or you in theirs.

This was Cornell University in the 1980s. When Hispanic women were literally the new kids on the block and people just didn’t get why they wouldn’t pick a side of the race/culture spectrum.

In 1986, on this sprawling campus in centrally isolated Western NY five Latinas lives intersected- Eva Marie Sosa-Grandison, Viveza; Maria Caban, Sayan; Patricia Rivera, Nipin; Irma Almirall-Padamsee, Esencia; Migdalia Franklin, Raiza. On the surface they were different, but they had something important in common. “We each felt a need to find a place where we would be valued for our brains, our commitment to the Latino inner city communities we came from, and the belief that as women we could stand on our own two feet, independent, strong, not willing to take no for an answer,” Esencia says.

During this time, each of our founders desired something more than the options they were given: they could either join a traditionally Anglo sorority or pledge a historically African American sorority. Or join nothing at all. The longer they were on campus, the more they realized how crucial and necessary having another option was.

Out of this need, a discussion and support group La Organizacion de Latinas Universitarias (LOLU) was started. But while it provided a supportive space, it was fleeting, filling the need for the moment but not a permanent piece of their lives that they would carry with them after they left. Our five Hermanas still yearned for something more; something that would celebrate and unify Latinas, something that would consolidate their collective strengths and allow them to give back to their communities in a tangible way, something that would allow women to remain connected and support one another throughout their lives, even after they had left campus.

But traditional sororities—the elitism, the hazing, the frivelousness-did not appeal to them. What did appeal to them was the idea of a life-long network that could promote change in the communities they held so dear.

So after two years of talking, dreaming, envisioning something that didn’t yet exist, in the spring of 1988, in a small apartment on Buffalo Street in Ithaca, Lambda Pi Chi was born.

They chose the ideal and values that would become our bedrock for all that we do:
La Comunidad (community), La Cultura Latina (Latino culture) and La Hermandad (which literally means sisterhood but in reality has no translation for us because it is an emotion that can only be experienced).

This ability and desire to support one another in our personal and professional lives is what has allowed us to share our goal with all women, of so many diverse ethnicities, races, religions and orientations, that there are too many to list. But it is proof that something has and always will strike a chord with any and all who share our vision of uniting and celebrating women.

In their tenacity to do something unique our organization has accomplished numerous milestones. The first Latina sorority to be founded at an Ivy League institution, the first Latina organization to use the term Hermana, the first organization to use the word “Latina” before it became fashionable or common, the first Latina organization to step and incorporate our music and dance into our performances.

It was this same desire for options and long lasting connections that brought us, Xi chapter, here to St. John’s University. After a year of tireless efforts, four women: Luz Tanon, Hermana Naliquet; Heather Arabadjis, Hermana Kiesal; Yalitza Vasquez, Hermana Tarelis; and Liemore Camby, Hermana Alikare, established our Hermandad here in New York City, creating another option for women in the New York City region.

In the 18 years since our founding, we have continued to grow, support and flourish. We have welcomed over 400 women into our Hermandad, established 18 undergraduate chapters and 5 professional/ graduate chapters. In 18 years LPC went “above and beyond what we ever imagined.” Each founder professed.

We are Las Hermanas of Latinas Promoviendo Comunidad/Lambda Pi Chi Sorority, Inc.

We are undergraduate students, graduate students and working professionals. We are doctors, lawyers, engineers. We are military officers, human resource specialists and innovators. We are teachers, actors, activists, organizers, and social workers. We are public health workers, nurses, researchers and technicians. We are entrepreneurs, MBA’s and union officials. We are artists, poets, professors and government officials. We are writers, cultural workers, journalists and geologists. We are constantly striving, reaching and thriving. We lead non-profit and for-profit organizations. We have shaped government policy and laws. We are musicians and doctors of philosophy. We are dancers and shape shifters -- chamellions that constantly change to be able to give, lead and follow. We are mothers, wives, daughters, partners, aunts and Hermanas.

Happy Anniversary Lambda Pi Chi, we look forward to the next 18 with eager anticipation.

Spring Cleaning

I've never been good at letting things go. Blame it on my packrat tendencies or sentimentalism, but I cling to things for comfort, memories and security. And i mean everything-notes I traded in JHS, my cheerleading sneakers that I know I'll never wear again, childhood birthday cards, old Menudo buttons. I hoarded it all. I even rationalized it was necessary. This was the physical evidence of my life that would be soarly missed if ever an archive about me was created (ha!). But as the years passed and I found myself lugging boxes filled with lots of stuff that I hadn't looked at since it came into my life except when I was packing and shifting it around, I realized I needed to let some things go. So I relented and found that perging items from my life that I had no use for was actually a good thing. I became a minimalist of sorts (maybe not quite but at least I'd pared down on the amount of stuff I had) and began keeping only the necessities and only hanging on to those things I could not bare to part with.

I say all this because I recently made a major purge from my life. During one of my ADD moments this past week (warm weather and procrastination always do it), I began perusing my cellphone's contacts aka my phone book. As I scanned the list searching to make room in my overpacked contact list two entries in particular caught my eye-Michelle and Tom, my ex- boyfriend's two best friends. It's been over a year since my last real relationship ended in an "As-The-World-Turns" dramatic fashion (there was a fight, he walked out and it was a wrap). In actuality, we haven't seen or spoken to each other since.

During the last few tumultous months of our relationship, his two best friends were my only connection to him. When his behavior baffled me, I'd call Michelle to vent and gain insight. When he lost his phone or was nowhere to be found, Tom was who I called. But the truth was our connection hinged on my romantic relationship with their friend. After we broke up, I did call both of them, I wanted to know how my ex was doing aka I wasn't able to fully let go. They were both incredibly understanding and comforting, convincing me that I was better off without him. Eventuallly I did let go of my anger and hurt feelings and moved on. So deleting his friends numbers from my phone should have been no big deal, right?
Yea, not so much.

I must have stared at those two entries forever. I'm sure it was really just a few minutes, but it felt like so much longer. I stared and stared before I got the nerve to sever the only remaining ties I had to my ex. I mean even with all of the drama, I'd cared for him and once upon a time he had been an important part of my life. But I knew it was necessary for me to permanently close some doors so that I could allow others to open. So I pushed the button. "Are you sure you want to delete?" The message automatically popped up on the screen both times I went to erase their numbers. And both times, I scrolled to the "yes" option and hit "done." And it was.

What if...

What if...

The night you stood in front of me I had made a different choice?
I had said 'don't go' instead of letting you walk out the door?
I had told you how I really felt instead of letting my pride get in the way?

What if...

The night you asked for my phone number, I said no instead of yes?
I had cancelled our date when you said you couldn't stay long?
I had explained that I wanted more than you could give me?

What if...

The Double Standard Rules

I have gotten into the habit of reading other peoples blogs. I think it's fascinating to hear what other folks have to share about a bunch of different topics. One of my faves is by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, she wrote "The Dirty Girls Social Club," and is credited with starting the Chica-Lit movement. In one of her recent posts, she discussed that while researching her latest book, she realized how fortunate many Latinas are because they have limited rights that Latin American parents impose on their daughters. It made me think of my own childhood. And inspired the diatribe below:

I'm the daughter of Puerto Rican migrants who raised me to be independent, educated and self-reliant, but the double standard was law in our home. The way I dressed, my curfew, the activites I pursued, all clashed with what my parents said they wanted for me.

So while I was encouraged to play with dolls, read books and assigned "female" chores (washing dishes and cleaning the house) my older brothers played stickball, went to baseball games with my dad and did "boy chores" (raking leaves, washing the car). This of course subconsciously influenced (at least in my opinion) my interests. I shied away from sports like basketball and track and gravitated to book clubs and cheerleading.

While I resented it, I can honestly say, that I wouldn't change much. Sure, I was smart enough to know I needed to study if I was ever going to go to college and get out of my suburban town, so the strict curfew wasn't totally necessary. I wasn't down with the weed-heads who chose to get high in the back of the high school football field, so limiting where and with who I could go, wasn't really a necessity either. But my parents stringent rules (no make-up or boyfriends 'till 16, accepting nothing less than appropriate "lady-like" behavior) truly focused me on becoming an independent person who would eventually make those choices for herself.

Their rules gave me something to rebel against and informed and influenced my own opinions, ideas and beliefs on how I want to raise my own children when I have them (because yes, while I just turned 28, no I don't have any little ones. For real) My "rebellious" behavior was marked by going away to college, moving out of my house after graduating instead of waiting to be married, traveling to various cities and countries alone, etc. The tats and piercings, which will be another post, were not a symptom of that, I swear. =).

That doesn't mean their mixed messages didn't confuse the hell outta me. I didn't get how I was going to be independent when I wasn't allowed out of the house past a certain time. To this day, I firmly believe my parents worry more about me than they do my brothers. Not because they care less, pero porque soy la nena.

But I am blessed to have parents who don't harp about me living single in NYC, who encourage(d) me to further my education (and helped me pay for it), and who have always nourished my dreams, no matter how far reaching they may have seemed.

I realize that if it weren't for their overprotection, which felt suffocating at times, I wouldn't be me. I am in no way saying that I'll follow their child-rearing formulas to a "T," but I think they definitley had the right idea on a number of things. Thanks Mom and Dad. You did alright. =)

Being Puerto Rican

I recently made a new friend (hi Kimmy!) who's a fellow Boricua. She mentioned to me during one of our conversations that while growing up in an all white community in New Jersey she used to think she was white. She told me about the first time she found out she was Puerto Rican: while filling out her college applications she marked "white" and her mother corrected her telling her darling daughter that she was, in fact, Puerto Rican.

This of course led to the whole conversation of race. Race is a social construction, but culture..that's something you can't fully shake. Acculturation and socialization really help determine who we are and how we form our identities. Although you might be influenced by your environment it's still possible to find pieces of who you are when you're least expecting it.

Our intellectual volley reminded me of a piece I wrote about my various stages of "being Puerto Rican" and how they each evolved. Although I am constantly evolving and growing, my cultural identity, which defines the largest part of me, is firmly grounded. Disfruta...

Being Puerto Rican
March 2003 ©

Puerto Rican at 5 : Rice and beans
A bottomless blue ocean
White peasant blouses
Flowing floral skirts
Blossoms nestled in hair

Puerto Rican at 10: Papi listening to Hector and Willie
Drinking coquito at Christmas
Bendiciones from Titi
Breezless Brooklyn summers
Papá playing dominoes on the stoop
Pan de agua y pastelitos
Burning brown
Menuditis

Boricua at 15: Not rolling my R’s
Thirsting for knowledge
Boasting a one starred flag
Immeasurable pride
Pietri’s obituary
Finding my experience shelved
Dancing to Jerry’s song

U.S. born Puerto Rican at 20: Visiting Spanish Harlem
Pa’lante, Siempre Pa’lante
Frequenting the Nuyorican
Colonial shame
Defending nationalism
Searching for Hector and Willie

Puertoriqueña at 25: Transcending boundaries
Defining mi comunidad
Debating statehood
Still not rolling my R’s
Accepting Nuyorican-ness
Embracing my olive skin
Going home
Everything in between

The things I do for friends

So I've been tagged...apparently there's some type of blog "game" I'm unfamiliar with that my bro' down in the A wants me to play. Since I love him dearly and recognize I've been neglecting my blog (I am embarassed to say that it's been more than two weeks since I've written) I've taken up the challenge since I found the topic funny and interesting enough to keep myself and whoever reads this amused. The topic is "Five Weird Habits" and so I'm sharing what my own weird (or as I prefer to call them eccentric) habits and idiosyncrasies are. No judgements here people:

1) I eat perogies (for those that don't know, these are Polish potato pockets that you boil and fry in butter) by cutting off the outter layer first, eating the potato inside second, and then eating the outter layer and pocket itself. I know it sounds really gross, but in my mind it makes sense.

2) I can't stand seeing the outter rim of a sink covered with water so I am constantly wiping down my kitchen and bathroom sinks dry.

3) I rub my feet together like a cricket when I can't fall asleep. It keeps me warm and knocks me out in a hot second.

4) I'm obsessed with grooming my eyebrows. I constantly tweeze them, no matter how much time I do or don't have.

5) I constantly crack my knuckles even though I am really scared of developing arthritis (is that even true?)

Four Walls

"It's not the four walls, but the people in them that made this home."

It was a toast, a prayer, a few words that Willo, my oldest brother, said during an emotional and final, holiday meal in our childhood home. After 30+ years in the same place my parents had decided to retire to Florida. They were trading New York's bitterly cold winters, a declining neighborhood and a small house, for cumulous clouds, palm trees and a palace with more space and land than they knew what to do with.

For the longest time, I'd been hoping they'd move...not because I wanted to be far away from them but because I wanted to see them, for once, do something for themselves, not just for us, their kids.

But when it came down to it, I was beyond emotional. The place where I'd spent my entire life was now owned by another family. I couldn't look anywhere in a single room and not think of every moment of my life there. It felt like there was an 8mm movie of my childhood playing in my head. These are just a few snapshots of what was flashing through:

*The living room wrestling matches with my brothers that I never won

*Walking up the driveway to the side door after school and being greeted by the scent of arroz con habichuelas

*Fleeing up and down the plastic covered staircase that led to my bedroom in anger/jubilation/sadness/boredom

*Locking myself in the bathroom (the only quiet place in my house to this day) to talk on the phone for hours at a time

*Sitting at my kitchen table talking, eating, drinking with my mother/best friend/brother/father

*Primping for dates and first kisses in front of the mirror in my bedroom

*Watching my mother roll a coco on the floor to get rid of bad spirits and then give la casa una limpieza with incense, prayers and candles

*The corner of our doorway that had a glass of water held upside down on a plate. (Context: mi mami is an old school puertoriquena who is superstitious like a mugh and who has this amazing intuitiveness that I feel fortunate to have inherited)

*My parents bedroom where I slept until I was 11 years old. It was a refuge where I often fled to when I was sick, menstrual or in need of emotional solitude or support.

*The basement which served as a defacto study during high school, which also hosted a myriad of familial celebrations from surprise birthday parties to holiday shindigs.

*Spending just about every Saturday dusting, vacuuming and straightening up la sala because I wouldn't be allowed to do anything or go anywhere until I did.

*My brother's bedrooms where I spent hours listening to them talk (I am the youngest so I was just happy that I was allowed inside and not being kicked out), spin records, hatch plans or just simply hang out.

This list of memories is endless--the point is that my parents, who migrated from Puerto Rico as kids, knew inherently that they wanted more for their own kid's childhoods. Dad grew up in a 1 bedroom Brooklyn apartment with 5 brothers and his parents and spent the better part of his adult life trying to recreate the sugarcane fields of his ninez. Mami had spent part of her own childhood in the mountains of Fajardo and the remainder living with sisters, aunts and cousins when abuela could finally afford for her to move to NY. I can only imagine and assume that having her own room was an idea that didn't become real until she got married. So for that reason my little house on a wide street in Long Island is always going to be a treasure. No matter if the heating sucked because the pipes were old and we used the stove to warm the first floor or if its lack of ventilation made it an oven in the summer forcing us all to sleep in basement sometimes or bunched up in Mom and Dad's room. It was home, my home because of the care my parents put into making it one. So home, because of them, is wherever they are.

"Allow me to reintroduce myself..."

Hola! My name is Jessy and I'm a 28-year-old U.S. Latina (Puerto Rican to be exact) living, loving and learning in NYC (Brooklyn!). I'm a journalist/editor/poet/truth seeker/media-mogual-in-training. *Additional slashes will be added when I've taken on other skills* I've been writing since I was in the single digits and decided at 10 this is what I would do when I "grew up." So while I don't feel completely grown, I've been pursuing my love of words ever since.

I'm an intense and passionate person so I don't believe in doing anything half-ass, but much to my surprise, although I technically started this blog back in June 2005, this is my first time posting anything. So seven months and one new year later I'm finally sitting down to get things going. That's the great thing about holidays, birthdays, life-changing experiences, it's God's way of nudging you into action, giving you another opportunity to do something--anything--one more time.

So what took me so long?

I hesitated in revealing my thoughts out of fear (I am an artiste after all and am sensitive to all my creations. Why put myself out there for public consumption?), laziness (I'm a big napper especially on cold days), and procrastination (I'm always running around doing something so there's always a reason to not do something else). But without risk there is no gain. If I want to change the world and make people think, what better way than using a free-forum that technology has provided me with? So here I am...Jan. 2, 2006 finally getting started.

What you'll find on here are my thoughts, opinions, rantings, ravings, and musings about the world as well as my little corner of it. FYI...I have the habit of code switching (or speaking Spanglish as some call it) so I'll do my best to translate where I can. But like the movie, nuances are lost in translation, so you won't always get what I'm saying. Sorry!

And in case you're curious about the name of my spot...that's pretty easy to explain.

Although I was born and raised in the states, I've always hungered for knowledge about my background and history. All I heard growing up from my Dad was that I should never forget where I come from (and no he wasn't talking about the suburbs of Long Island where we lived) but rather my Puerto Rican culture, heritage and ancestory. But I didn't always know what that meant. As a kid, being Puerto Rican was the rice and beans my Mom cooked, the salsa music that was always blaring out of our stereo system and the Spanish language that I grew to associate with home, love and familia. But growing up in a predominately African-American community, I knew that I was different. So I started asking my family questions and researching on my own what "being Puerto Rican" was all about. One of my many discoveries was our history of resistance and the struggle of Puerto Rican nationalists who fought to gain the island's independence from U.S. colonial rule. One of those people was Lolita Lebron, a woman who who was part of the struggle and who led an armed attack on the U.S. Congress in 1954. I read the transcript of a letter that was found in her purse after the failed attack and upon her arrest. I viewed it as her "love letter" to the world. To honor her and the respect I have for her tenacity and valor, I titled this blog after her and the idea that this, in manyways, is my love letter to the world.

With that I bid farewell. Until next time...