32 Thank You's

Laying awake in my bed this morning, I listened to rain on my windows and relished the fact that I got to sleep in on my 32nd birthday. My typical morning ritual of recounting my lessons, my goals and blessings, is somewhat different since I decided to start a day early. And rather than just think about or consider those things, I decided to recount what I'm most thankful for this year. Mostly because of how hard it was. I had serious milestones, unexpected and wonderful high's along with heartbreaking lows. I doubted myself, I questioned my purpose and I even allowed it to bring me down at certain points. But I recognize how fortunate I am to have the things, people and experiences that I have in my life. Without them, I would not be the resilient woman I am (like a basketball I always bounce back). So I am focusing on the positives that uplifted my life through this trying year and using them as a source of power and strength for the new one. (I say this because my birthday is my 'new year' versus the calendar one). Enjoy...

I am thankful for:

1* My patience which is infinitely greater than I ever realized. It grows a little stronger everyday and I couldn't get through without it.

2* My mami Rosa and my papi Willie for raising me the way they wanted to, not the way they were expected to.

3* My brothers Will and Alex for being bedrocks of knowledge, laughter, and ninja-like strength. They were p.i.t.a.'s too, but I'm focusing on the positives here people...

4* My BFF Mel. She shares my core like a split apart. Which explains why we've had each other's back for 20 years and counting...

5* The universe for bringing me my partner. Eight years after we met, we came together at exactly the time we were meant to and ready to be in each other's lives.

6* My Angel. For being who he is and teaching me so much about life and love and partnerships. I love you PB.

7* My humility. It reminds me of how much I don't know and how much I want to know.

8* My late blooming. I don't think I would have appreciated/enjoyed my life and its experiences if it had been thrown at me all at once or I tried to rush through it.

9* My sensitivity. It colors everything I see and do. It makes me infinitely more humane and empathetic. That is truly priceless.

10* My little daily lessons that remind me that I know nothing/everything/something.

11* The protection and love of the orishas, mi ile, my elders and especially that of my padrinos.

12* For ride-or-die-know-me-and-still-like-me-double-digit/two-hand-friends that I've grown with.

13* The so bad they're good for me treats that I can't live without: cupcakes, french fries, sangria...

14* Thoughtful people who understand the world is bigger than they are and their contribution is but a small piece of the greater whole.

15* Intellect; my own and that of others.

16* Chase the Bear.

17* Conversations with thought provoking people. It keeps my brain moving and creativity flowing.

18* Rediscovering books I once loved and those I've never read.

19* Finding old friends (there are many from various times in my life) who I can reconnect with effortlessly no matter how much time has passed since we've seen or spoken to one another.

20* A good red wine

21* Splurging on meals that cost more than they should. Something about eating and enjoying different tastes reminds me that life is here to be enjoyed.

22* My many families (blood, spiritual, chosen)

23* My CC's

24* Unconditional love

25* My inquisitiveness. It is what pushes me to question and ask questions.

26* A great mani-pedi. Nothing like your digits and tootsies looking stellar. And the massage that comes with each doesn't hurt.

27* Knowing that what I want isn't always what I need.

28* Laughter because it cures everything.

29* Silence

30* Music

31* Another year that I can look back upon and be grateful to have lived

32* The gift of using/shaping/sharing words. Without it I would be lost.

Hi Hater!

Below is a piece I wrote, and have since edited, for my sorority newsletter. I post it on this blog because the more I think about it, all women, not just my Hermanas or those who I take responsibility for, should consider the concept of how women treat one another. Enjoy - JRod

"Women hate women." - Chris Rock

And apparently, I hate women too. My most recent obsession is The "Real Housewives" series, Atlanta and New Jersey respectively. Weekly, I’m drawn into–dare I say it?—the entertainment of how these women live, relate to each other and get caught up in drama. But the core of what entertained me—the drama—was actually sad. I realized how these women presented themselves and the images they reflected—self-centered, materialistic, insecure—was what we, women especially, were buying into. But like a bad car accident I can’t tear my eyes away. So whether I like it or not, I validate the stereotype giving onus to the idea that these images are the norm.

When I actually considered Chris Rock’s words, I realized he touched on something many of us hadn’t, or are afraid to voice or even consider: women do hate women. And it’s easy to find examples of it. Flip through any radio station, Facebook/ MySpace/ Twitter entry, television channel and you'll see, read and hear the declarations, accusations and anger that we direct at each other. The Real Housewives, The Flavor of Love, Charm School, The Bachelor….the list of media images is endless. Accepted societal perceptions dictate that women are supposed to fight over men, are untrustworthy, are wildly insecure, rationalize their insecurity with horrid behavior towards other women, are catty, and do not uplift one another. I believe that, subconsciously, women “hate” on each other. Not with malintent or purpose but in a socially acceptable way; from the way we comment on a woman clothes, body, hair, speech, walks, etc., to how we react to other women’s attitudes.

I’m by no means saying that’s the “norm” for everyone. But it’s what has become typically accepted and more bothersome, expected. By men, by women, by our society at large.

What should, at times, be healthy competition snowballs into rivalry and denigrates to dissent and eventually outright hostility. And it’s not anyone’s “fault” when we’re all responsible for either reflecting contentious feelings/behavior we receive or projecting our own insecurities on to others.

The heart of the matters lies with the fact that this sociology destroys community rather than builds it. The constant and excessive action—whether its’ self-initiated or reactive—wears us down and builds upon misogynistic perceptions rather than creating new, positive ones. It also demonstrates how we look outside of ourselves at negativity for positive reinforcement and detract from our actual intentions and potential power.

Some of us are fortunate enough to have intellectual capital—the privilege of higher education, social consciousness, civic-mindedness, ambitions and aspirations—we’re better than we portray ourselves to be. And as women, we are responsible for one another.

I don’t say this to preach, accuse or blame. I say it because I wish to change the dynamic that we contribute to.

I’m guilty as charged, if not more so, because my actions are accompanied by a keen consciousness that these issues exists. Rather than negate each others’ existence or cut each other down, let’s build one another up and change perceptions on a larger, global scale. If we are to move forward as a group and overcome the obstacles and battles placed before us at every turn, we need to start with our attitudes and ourselves.

In doing research to write this, I came across a quote that struck me as beyond appropriate for how we as women can move ourselves forward: "We cannot create functional movements if we refuse to address the dysfunction within us.” – bell hooks.

I couldn’t agree more.

Insanity At Its Best

I love New York.

I am a life-long New Yorker. I was born and raised in the 'burbs (Long Island to be exact) but spent a good deal of my childhood in the outer boroughs thanks to my Brooklyn-ite parents. This means that I regularly glimpsed the special kinds of insanity and uniqueness that comes with daily life in New York City.

So tonight I had a chance to see this insanity which reminded me of the kind and type of freedom that NYC affords to its inhabitants. As soon as I boarded the uptown A train from W. 4th street (in the West Village which for anyone who knows its history has its own brand of crazy) I saw it happen. A young man,dressed in jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt had a gleaming red face. I wasn't sure if he was a teen en route from a belated Halloween celebration or if he was a theater geek. And then....it happened.

My man, with his dirty blonde 'fro and red painted face, pulled off his pullover and began quietly talking to himself, full Joker grin in place. He quickly bent down and stood up with a bottle of red paint in hand and began covering his arms, torso, neck and face (mouth included) with the gooey red substance.

Most of the curious onlookers/fellow passengers looked on in wonderment, standing as observers like most New Yorkers do, not saying much of anything. After covering his upper body in the goopy paint, he proceeded to press his face against the glass, giggle and put his fingerprints on white stickers that he pulled from his book bag.

"I'm living art!" he exclaimed to the man in front of him on the crowded car. Though the man didn't give him much of a response, he continued with his feedback.

As I watched him pull his shirt back on, his jacket arm in arm and a fuzzy hat on his head, I realized that only in New York, and only in the subway, would that type of behavior be common and acceptable and unquestioned. It reminded me of all the other unusual events I had seen on the subway: the man who stripped in the middle of a car on a dare; the man so engrossed in his music and dancing that he put on an unintentional show for all to see; the woman who boarded the train with a life sized version of a firetruck and stood in front, protecting it.

I believe New York City, its energy, its vibe, all allow a degree of freedom and autonomy that can't be found anywhere else.

Geeze, despite living across the river, I still love New York.

Putting Some Pep In My Step

I woke up on this crisp, fall Wednesday in October and made up my mind that I would have a good day. Attitude is definitely a state of mind and I realize that I choose how and what mood/'tude I'll take the moment I wake up.

And ya know what?

It really was as simple as that. My mood hasn't dampened (despite still being sick with a sinus cold), my spirits are high (sitting outside in the park during lunch helped) and my feet haven't hurt once today despite having worn heels. I realized my good mood enhancers were so simple I had to share. Wanna hear about 'em?

Here they go:

1. Putting on dark red lipstick-it makes me feel instantly dressed up

2. Wearing a dress - it is hands down the most no brainer solution to the question: what do I wear today?

3. Rocking high heels - anything that makes your legs look better is a plus

4. Sipping perfectly brewed cafecito with the right amount of creamer - even better when someone else makes it for you

5. Shutting out the world via my ipod in favor of classic dancehall - 'nuff said.

6. Hot showers - bad for your skin but an awesome way to wake up

7. Feeling sun shine on my face-it's got vitamins and is good for ya too

8. Crossing items off my work 'to do' list-because it means they won't be there to do the next day!

9. Art - words, pictures, sounds, doesn't matter. Any art will do.

10. Realizing that the work day has FLOWN by and it's almost time to go home! =)

Domestic Violence: The Same Sad Song

Violence against women is nothing new. I know at least 10 people who have been victims of domestic violence; six women, four men; two older, three younger, five the same age as me.

So I wasn't surprised to learn that nearly one in four women are beaten or raped by a partner during their adult life. But I was surprised to learn that during this month of domestic violence awareness, a New York state Senator, Hiram Monserrate, was acquitted of slashing his girlfriend in the face. She gets emotional and physical scars and he gets to keep his Senate seat.

Last December, Monserrate allegedly hit his girlfriend in the face with a drinking glass, roughing her up after and prolonging medical attention by driving her to a hospital 30 minutes further from his home when a local hospital was just five minutes away. Nearly a year later, the same woman retracted her accusation and Monserrate gets off with a felony conviction.

This begs the questions: What standards/moral values are public officials held to? Should they be stricter? Should behavior in your personal life hold any weight on your position?

If we're going to crucify others for how they have sex, where they choose to do it and with who (which in reality is no one's business) why aren't we more outraged when incidents like this are brought to light? And I say brought to light because many domestic violence incidents are not even reported or made public.

It also leads to the thought....what societal norms are in play where a woman will recant her story? How entrenched in the situation is she? How long has it gone on? And is this a "norm" for her?

Disturbed doesn't convey how astounded or shocked I am by the acquittal. This further perpetuates the idea that men can treat women however they choose and not be held responsible for their actions. Thanks Judge William Erlbaum. Batterers just got another point on the scoreboard.

Latino AIDS Day

Did you know...

*Latinos are 15% of the U.S. population but account for 18% of all new HIV infections

*Latinos born in Puerto Rico are at the greatest risk of contracting HIV through IV drug use and high risk heterosexual sexual behavior

*Latino men are three times more likely to be diagnosed with AIDS than white men

*Latina women are 5 times more likely to be diagnosed with AIDS than white women

*In 2006 HIV/AIDS was the In 2006, HIV/AIDS was the 4th leading cause of death among Latinos, 35–44 years old


For those whose lives have been lost: Light a candle, say a prayer, let them know their lives were not in vain.

For those fighting this illness: Remind them their lives are still valued and their illness does not define them.

For those whose lives have been touched, because in reality, all of us have been: don't consider yourself immune, respect the hard-learned lessons of those who have come before. Practice safe(r) sex, get tested, communicate with your partners. Your lives are in each other's hands.

*Photo provided by Elena from Flickr
**Facts provided by Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Read more here.

Pears, Pears Everywhere!

Pears aren't sexy. And for the first half of my life, that's what I was. Shaped like that is. I had thick thighs, wide hips and an ample bum that were and remain simultaneously, my 'Wow Factor' and bane of my existence.

I battled my body for years because it didn't fit: into clothes, into my imagined ideal (whatever that was), into my life. When I danced ballet my big butt was a pain in one; it never tucked in the way it was supposed to, my back's natural arch made it stick out more. I favored long sweaters and loose pants over fitted tops and tight jeans because I cringed at the unwanted attention my booty brought me. Once I hit 17 (and college) I stopped caring and started the long process of embracing my body and living in my skin.

So I gasped when Glamour, my favorite women's magazine, did the most daring thing ever. They printed this article and ran the picture above in their October '09 issue. There are pears everywhere! I'm thrilled to bits that women with tits, ass and hips--and those without--are finalyl allowed to be themselves and not reimagined.

Thanks Glamour! For being Sassy. Fierce. Daring. Finally.

Que Descanze en Paz, Michael Jackson

San Juan, Puerto Rico, the NAHJ conference at the Puerto Rico Convention Center; standing at a table of colleagues sipping white wine, trading niceties. That's where I was and what I was doing when I heard the news that Michael Jackson had died. It crystallized in a moment that I would always refer back to that moment when asked in the future.

"That can't be true!" I exclaimed as my colleague stood reading a text message from his friend back home in Texas. I couldn't believe it! It had to be some sort of a joke. First Farrah Fawcet...now this? He hadn't been sick, he was getting ready to go on tour. What happened? I took my skepticism and immediately checked my own mobile device to verify what I believed to be a terrible internet rumor. But as I checked CNN, the NY Times I finally knew it was true after checking my Facebook and reading all of my friend's status messages.

Finally it was confirmed and I couldn't help but wince. It was the end of an era. Michael Jackson and his music punctuated numerous memories in my life. MJ's Thriller was the first album I brought for a holiday party in kindergarten. "Billie Jean" was one of the first songs I remember singing to verbatim. I was mesmerized by his dancing and singing and kept torn out magazine pictures tucked between my Menudo scrapbook of the cute boy who sang songs I sang along to. I kept an MJ doll (sparkly white glove and all) with my precious Barbies. As I got older I admit, his music didn't "do it for me" the way it once had. I actually found myself reverting to his older work: PYT became my personal dance anthem while the Best of the Jackson 5 played on repeat during my college study sessions. I relished 'old Michael' and became excited when new songs caught my attention in the same way: Butterflies, Human Nature, Remember the Time, Bad, etc. etc. How could so much emotion and talent be in one individual? I didn't know but was incredibly grateful that it did.

I say all this to say, I can separate the man from the artist. I appreciate his talent and work and even his humanity. I don't discount other people's truths, perspectives or experiences: he was a human and innately flawed as we all are. But I can't and won't dispel an entire life, body of work or magnanimous soul based on it. Nor will I "dance on his grave". It's too simple.

So on the day of his memorial, I recall where I watched: New York, NY; my office conference room, surrounded by coworkers all silent as we watched and collectively mourned for someone's son, brother, father, uncle. His memorial seemed to reflect his life: a spectacular show that people couldn't tear their eyes away from. And I shed some tears for his humanity and hope that Oya has accompanied on his journey and pray he has found a peace that alluded him in life. R.I.P. MJ.

Sotomayor Shatters Another Ceiling

History was made today. I was so happy I cried as the hairs on the back of my arms stood on end.

Sonia Sotomayor - a Latina, a Boricua/Nuyoriquena from the South Bronx -- was nominated to the Supreme Court of the United States of America.

She "stands on the shoulders of all who supported" her. What she doesn't know is that her achievement is also ours, those nameless, faceless women of color, Latinas, puertoriquenas, who have dreams we don't always think are reachable.

Thank you Sonia for standing where you stand, doing what you've done and being where you are so that those of us watching can walk through the door you've opened. =) Another ceiling shattered, another statement made true, that you really canbe anything you want to be. And even if she doesn't for whatever reason get confirmed, she has still taken a place in history.


Love,
A proud, passionate and dream weaving Latina

Rape: It's really that serious.

I got a link to this opinion piece, Is Rape Serious?, from my friend Priscilla ('sup Extra P!). I thought it was an interesting piece considering my previous post about good samaritans and where society's moral compass is pointed (or not).

I realize in reading this, that the issues of women's safety and violation (in whatever form it takes) is a top-down, institutional problem. The way to go about resolving it is to work from both directions to eradicate it. If more people were aware of how things actually go down, perhaps they would demand a change.

ps-I don't "enjoy" writing about these things but feel a compelling obligation to put the ideas in the air and catalyze some kind of thought and hopefully emotion. They're too important not to.

Etiquette 101

I've always been big on etiquette and manners (aka home training). I was taught to say 'please' and 'thank you', apologize when I did something accidently, cover my mouth when I burped, well you get the idea...I've also always been big on reciprocity. Fighting fair, treating others how you want to be treated, giving people the benefit of the doubt, etc. But I can't for the life of me figure out how or why, I saw proper etiquette=an eye for an eye on my way home from work today.

My office happens to be located in the bustling streets of midtown Manhattan. Somewhere between the city's most beautiful sites like Grand Central Station and the New York Public Library and the tourists traps, garment factories and overpriced restaurants I ply my trade. With the hustle comes tons of people coming at you from every which direction. Courteousness, consideration and etiquette daily get tossed to the curb as people scatter to get to offices, showrooms and the next attraction. So I don't often take it personally when I catch an elbow or some other flailing body part when I'm on my way to and from the office.

Today I happen to be on the giving end thanks to my feeling under the weather. All I could think about was getting home. I got stuck in pedestrian foot traffic behind a group of slow moving, lip smacking, cell phone talking cats whose pronounced limps were more for show than anything else. As I (admittedly) blew past one of them, my very large purse (I'm a woman with lots of stuff, it's gotta go somewhere) knocked into said dude. I didn't stop to say sorry or anything else since home was all I had on my mind. But apparently my rudeness justified getting knocked in the shoulder by this same cat. I was compuzzled. What had just happened? As I turned and said "Excuse me!" he YELLED (what's with the yellers I keep running into?) "EXACTLY! THAT's WHAT I WAS WAITING FOR!" I was stunned. This dude had truly KNOCKED into me as I walked past to make a point about my etiquette or lack there of.

Now, I'm all for making a point but was that really necessary? Am I going to "learn my lesson" because some big dude knocked into me on the street? Since the entire thing was accidental in the first place, I think not.

After sizing him up and realizing this guy had no problem hitting a random person on the street, I resisted the urge to flip him the bird (my hand was already clenched and in position) or yell profanities at him. Someone who doesn't care about hitting a stranger isn't gonna care about doing something worse in public either. So I turned around, kept up my stride and walked away. But was baffled and upset none the less. Guess the boo is right, it's time to invest in some pepper spray for my purse...

U-N-I-T-Y: Have good Samaritans gone out of style?

This is a photo of a sign on my old block in the B-k. It was an homage to a woman who was raped. I was alarmed, but not surprised, that it existed. Says alot about the state of the world today, don't ya think?


"...and you shall love your neighbor as you love yourself."


It was the worst way to start my day. I walked to my office, excited about the warm weather ahead, happy I wasn't swathed in layers, so sunny I was wearing sunglasses.

That's when, steps away from the door of my office building,a young man accosted me.

"DAMN MA!," he screamed as he looked me up and down. "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! I GOT THAT NEW SHIT! COME HERE MA, LET ME TALK TO YOU..."


Yelling, swaggering, putting on a show for sidewalk spectators, cajoling me into a reaction. He screamed as though blocks separated us when in reality he was two feet away. I was relieved that my sunglasses hid my startled response and shielded me from making eye contact at all. I was used to catcalling and commentary, even getting my hand grabbed. But screamed on at 9am? Not so much. I was still half asleep and mentally preparing for my day. So, needless to say my defenses were down and I was unprepared.

I thought it would end when I stepped inside and he continued his show (without my guest role) without me. Negative. He stepped inside behind me as I walked through the front doors, continuing his tirade, which I had this point stopped paying attention to, as I deliberately ignored his hollering and hooting. Maybe he was delivering a package (he had a box in hand) or he had a meeting, it didn't matter. All that ran through my mind was the thought of enduring his unwanted advances as I stood waiting for the elevator to my floor.

The incident ended as quickly as it had begun. Just as I thought I was mentally ticking off a list of things to say, an elevator 'pinged' and doors slid open, and I stepped inside leaving behind the idiota that was still yelling comments as the doors slid closed. All I could mutter to the tense passengers, one being my coworker, was 'what a hell of a way to start a morning.' A quick chuckle and averted glances and it was done.

But the whole incident bugged me. Aside from the situation itself setting a tense tone for my morning, how was it that, no one, not even my coworker who was also waiting for the elevator or the security guard who greeted me as I walked in, said a thing. Boo,nada, mudos. Was it because they thought I could handle myself? Was it because I walked by pretending that the whole scene hadn’t happened? Were they silent assuming that his arbitrary rant was just that and that my safety was not in jeopardy?

The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to scream! I wasn't expecting anyone to be Superman and "save me" but how do you just stand by and not somehow, in someway, become involved? I was baffled that no one had said or done anything. I was visibly shaken, scared almost, that it had happened and while I may not have outwardly expressed my fear (that's just like blood for sharks) isn't there some sort of moral obligation that people, not necessarily male or female, have to help their fellow (wo)man?

This incident reminded me of how easily we as people walk through life oblivious, taking no charge or responsibility for each other. It further illuminated a question I had after reading a story in the paper a few weeks prior. In 2005, a young Queens woman, Maria Besdin, was attacked and raped on a subway platform while waiting to go to her boyfriend's home. She cried for help and although two transit workers were present (one was in a token booth, the other a conductor) neither did anything. The woman brought a suit against the New York City MTA for negligence. Although both men alerted transit command, neither left their stations, didn't call 911 or did anything additional to stop or aid Maria. The article reported that recently, a Queens court dismissed her suit against the MTA and its workers. The judge noted: "[the transit worker] pressed an emergency button in his booth and ruled the men had no responsibility to intervene and were following work rules."

I was jaw dropping-ly stunned. It made me ponder: What kind of moral standards or moral compass do we as a society, a global community, have? Do they exist? Do we as people not have the obligation to help our fellow man? Do you allow someone to be harmed, or God forbid killed, while you stand by and watch? Or worse yet, as you see and walk away? What kind of message does this action send to women about their safety in public places and spaces?

While I was far from being physically assaulted or violated, I realized, today’s cat calls could be tomorrow’s rape cases.

Readers, I have to ask...What would you do? What do you think that people’s threshold or tolerance for potentially harmful behavior should be? Where is your own moral compass? How do you think you would react in either situation? If you have encountered this dilemna what have you done?

Grita...

Nuyorican...Not So Much

I happen to come from a group of people that have a ton of synonymns for their cultural identity. Puerto Rican/U.S. Puerto Rican/Boricua/Borinqueno/puertoriqueno/(and yes) Nuyorican.

So I've never claimed this moniker mostly because its not my fave one and because it didn't wholly fit my identity. BUT I accept that it's a derivative that is often a synonym. For those that don't know its history it's a term that evolved in the late '60's and early '70's to identify second, third and now fourth generation Puerto Ricans born and/or raised in New York City whose parents, grandparents and great grandparents who migrated to New York during the wave of the Great Migration during the 1930s and 1940s. It later became a pejorative term island Puerto Ricans utizlied to describe non-island born Puerto Ricans. It would become a badge of pride as well as identification for those born stateside regardless of geography. In short: I own it whether or not I readily utilize it. So why bring it up at all?

Because I'm just appalled by MTV's recent True Life episode, "I'm A Nuyorican." But probably not for the reasons you think.

I don't theoretically take issue with the people they chose to highlight. Why? Because ...

a)Who on the Lord's green earth knows who showed up for that casting call. You tend to choose from the pool you have access to. Were these three young people ideal or optimal? Likely not. And lest we forget, this is afterall, a show for an entertainment network so whatever or rather whoever is going to make good TV will be what/who will get chosen.

b) These kids realities were the realities of their Nuyorican lives-you can't deny it, you can't erase it or conceal it. It simply is. But note the major and really key difference: it represents THEIR individual lives, experiences and issues. Whether we as a community want to acknowledge or support those lives is a whole other issue all together.

c) While some of these kids represent and reify stereotypes about our people and community (loud and obnoxious, hostile attitudes, ignorant, uneducated, etc.) remember people: stereotypes exist because there are people and experiences like them that exist. And we (individually and/or collectively but certainly not always intentionally) perpetuate those stereotypes each time we don't heighten expectations or don't present an alternative narrative.

Which in short leads to my actual beef...

Don't call this show "I'm A Nuyorican." Call it, "My P.R. Family Is Smothering Me" OR or "I'm Trying Not To Be Stereotype." This did NOT represent what ALL stateside born Puerto Ricans, Nuyoricans, etc. live like. It's a story of individual identity experiences. And speaking of that horrific title...would they call a show: "I'm an Indian," "I'm A Black" or "I'm a Guido" ? Get it together MTV. I'm not the only one who feels/thinks this way either. Check out this article in New York's Daily News.

I'm also disappointed that what is usually a quality doc series I've been a fan of for years missed the boat in a big way. Nuyoricans have such a rich history in New York and the network gave it a terrificly bad misnomer. In truth, I was waiting the whole time to understand how these kids "culture" was keeping them back (as their promo advertised), how they juggled it or how they struggled as a result. I'm still waiting...

As a story telling medium, the show failed failed to provide the audience with context the way other shows have. As I sat and watched it, I was bothered that none of these kids were asked to speak on anything but their personal histories. I thought: "Wow! Either they weren't asked or these kids don't know ANYTHING about their culture besides food, music, dancing and sports." As a journalist I realize that stories often times present themselves differently than originally planned. But appropriate and accurate language should be utilized as a result.

And the other alarms? These kids each in some way, shape or form had serious identity crisis. "I do my best JLo" or "All Puerto Ricans dance salsa and I hate it" or "All Puerto Ricans are loud and have attitude." Really? Then clearly you haven't left your hood or your building or your block for that matter. I know plenty of non-rhythm, classic rock loving, uncoordinated Nuyoricans and then some.

What I saw were three young people struggling with issues of their cultural identity, violence, familial dynamics, self-hate and esteem. But it was all disaplyed under a singular banner" I'm a Nuyorican. Oh pop culture/mainstream media...when are you ever gonna get it together? And better yet get someone (directors, producers, writers, etc.) in those creative meetings and casting calls with better judgement than to deliver this and expect it to get the pass. *Tsk, Tsk*

Artist: Will Work for Food

Poetry was the first love of my life.

The rhyming, the crafted verses, ABAB schemes, the singsong quality, the various forms it took. It had it all. And I just knew, at the age of nine, that I had found my calling.

Except for one thing.

When I announced I wanted to be a poet, a grade school teacher summarily burst my bubble and explained there was no money to be made in poetry. Once I discovered, or rather was told, that I couldn't make a living from composing couplets, I quickly amended my life dream/goal to read "writer" instead. It seemed to make sense. I was a pragmatic fifth grader and had been told that my short stories and class compositions were well well written and that I had a "natural talent" for writing.

Although I didn't know or understand it at the time, writing was an art. And a form I had embraced and warmed myself in once I realized how well it suited me. I regularly zoned out during class to write stories or doodle lines or outline characters. I started keeping a notebook in my bag, just in case, so I could writ whenever inspiration struck. Besides, how different was writing stories and essays from poetry? With my revised goals in mind, I marched forward.

Except for one thing.

No one explained how difficult it is to make a living as a writer either. Aspiring/frustrated laureates can spend their entire lives creating and never make a dime. Alot of the biographies I read talked about how 'this one died penniless' or 'that one couldn't get published until after they were in the grave.' So I rolled back and considered what it all meant...could I amend my purpose in life? Could I not be an artist? I knew intuitively the answer was no. So I carried forth and followed my obsession with words, and by this time my addiction to magazines, to college, post grad and journalism school.

Except for one thing.

No one told me that most writers and journalists become editors, who get to work with words all day, to sometimes write but mostly edit (which is mostly rewriting anyways) largely so they can have a stable check. I learned it quickly enough during my first magazine internship. So yet again, I edited my calling to include a slash: "writer/editor."

But I never stopped considering myself an artist. The definition and even the title itself may have changed over the years but I am still--at the core--in love with words, giddy over language and proudest when imagery spills to the surface in inspired flashes. I have happily added slashes to my occupation as I've acquired new skills, experiences and information. But I'm still the nine year old kid who wants to grow up to be a poet.

So imagine my dismay this past sumer as I sat in a room filled with writers, listening to media professionals and publishers, discussing how writers "come cheap," how some magazines spend more money on photography and design than writing, and how it didn't matter whether you had trained and experienced writers and editors because you could find someone to do the same work for less.

I looked around the room and had to ask myself why the skill that writers (specifically) and other artists (in general) deliver is so undervalued? Are we really a disposable corps of "dime a dozen" creative types with no intrinsic value? Are there so many hungry autors out there that one can easily, quickly and cheaply take anothers place?

And what about the range of us with different skills? Some of us are poets, others essayists, others still journalists or playwrights. Is that not ever taken into account? It seems that we're lumped together like one homogenous group, undervalued for our skills and devaluated if we dare speak up.

I was reminded of this experience yesterday as I saw an email battle between fellow jschool alumn. The outrage erupted over a start up news site that was seeking top notch contributors but had "no budget for content" asking folks to contribute for a by-line and exposure. The furor that rose seemed like common sense to most of us: how do you have a news site but no budget for content? It was also insulting to know that professional writers who have spent years working on their craft could not be appropriately compensated.

The truth is, art, can't and shouldn't ever be given a sticker value. While the need for original ideas, opinions, interpretations, encounters and perspective are still hungrily requested and even demanded to be displayed, published, broadcast and exhibited, artists continue to scrounge together a living so that they can simply exist and create. I don't know how many painters, singers, filmmakers, dancers, MC's or designers I know that hustle to make a living from their art OR conversely know those who have a "job" that pays them or have taken up other skills to make a living and spend their other hours creating. There is something wrong in the grand scheme of things when those who make artistic contributions are so undervalued and undermined for their gifts and talents.

Grita si me escuchan.....