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.....

31 Lessons

My new year starts on my birthday. And for the last several years, I've been employing the same routine each morning before I rise from my bed. I think about all of the things I've learned, accomplished, failed or mistakes that I've made. I also think about what I want to do with the following year of my life, what I want to learn, how I can get closer to becoming the me that I want to be. Having just celebrated my 31st birthday (and damn proud of it) a few weeks ago, I realized that 30 had been a hell of a year. It was full of major high’s and low's and lessons (big and small) at every turn. I took inspiration from my last birthday post (although this one is knocking on the door of the new calendar year, but whatever…) and decided to share what I had learned; whether it was about myself, about life, anything at all. Some of it might resonate, some of it might not. Either way, grita.

1. Love really does find you when you're not looking
2. If your world is small then little things are big
3. Griminess is a state of mind
4. Teaching is performance art
5. Exercise is good for the soul
6. Mid-day sex is an afternoon delight
7. God moves you when you're not paying attention
8. You never stop "growing up"
9. I'm allergic to jalapenos
10. Big Papa always has my back
11. Hermies are essential
12. I don't like tofu
13. Work to live, don't live to work
14. The right kind of love can give someone wings
15. Letting go is a process that can't be forced, rushed or taken lightly. It must be relinquished with intention and purpose
16. Everyone can be magic
17. Intuition is nothing without practice
18. Yoga is cathartic. Namaste.
19. Eating fear is good for your self-esteem
20. Being healthy should always be your first priority
21. Everyone has something to learn, teach and experience
22. Lust keeps a relationship alive
23. Change is real
24. Just breathe
25. Putting yourself first inevitably makes someone unhappy
26. Work smarter, not harder
27. Embrace all change because blessings are often disguised in what we perceive to be “negatives”
28. People knowing your name isn't the same as people knowing you
29. Ebo comes in many/any form
30. It may take years, but people always become transparent
31. Treat your self (mind, body, spirit) holistically because all the pieces are interconnected

We Baracked the vote! Obamanos! =)

I saw something tonight that I thought only my children would see in their lives: a qualified, articulate, intelligent, genuine human being elected as President of my country. And he's an African American man named Barack Obama. 

Apparently so did many of my neighbors in my Bushwick, Brooklyn neighborhood. I have heard shouts of joy and screams of joy. I've heard a few gunshots (it's Brooklyn, what can I say?) and lots of fireworks. The literal ones that lit the sky and the figurative ones that popped in peoples voices as they shouted through their windows, from their rooftops and from the corners.

Seeing what has transpired this past year through a muddy election season, I am beyond emotional, excited and full of hope. I spent today scared, nervous and on the edge of tears hourly. Afraid that manipulation, fear and prejudice would rule the day. But they didn't. And for that I am proud to be an American. Maybe for the first time in my life or at least that I can count on my hand. 

I do not however understand this: Why John McCain during his concession speech say that this was a moment for the African American community. I don't disagree. I believe that it is. But shouldn't we ALL as AMERICANS be proud that we've made such a monumental choice and step forward in our nation's wounded history? And what made it worse? The meek applause that greeted his commentary about it. Are those who are scared so afraid of acknowledging the reality of the world that we're living in? Get it together people. One news commentator on NBC pointed out that, "The U.S. is more multi-cultural, more multi-ethnic, multi-racial than it's ever been..." and it will only get larger and more "multi-fill-in-the-blank" here. Why is middle America and the South still so afraid of difference? If our country was going to fall into race wars, it would have done so long ago. 

I don't want to end this on a negative or pessimistic or cynical note though. I am incredibly hopeful and full of faith that our world, not just our country, is changing for the better. And that we can all act in a small way to ensure that the world continues to change for the better. This is just the first step mi gente. Don't forget about our local communities, the changes we still need to make, the mobillizing we need to do and the movement that is literally only just beginning. 

Si podemos y si lo hizimos. Pa'lante gente, pa'lante.

Unfinished Portrait

A few days ago, my Hermana Luivette Resto, released her first collection of poetry, Unfinished Portrait. It is a collection seven years in the making and documents her evolution, literary and personal. Lu and I met as pre-frosh at Cornell University in the summer of 1995. After a fight in '96 (*wink*) we were bonded for life.  

She is one of my greatest cheerleaders, critics and fellow writers. I am immensely proud of the words she has put out into the world. It's just the beginning but I encourage you to check out her work, her site, and get a copy of the book. 

Cheers to you Ms. Ilanisiw, I can't wait to join you on the shelf. But you'll always be "The Illest." =)

Sarah Palin was soooo NOT journalism major

I haven't sounded off on my opinions about Election '08 because I've been waiting for something to strike a chord in me but I felt like this one just took the cake. 

Aside from thinking that Sarah Palin as a VP nomination on the Republican ticket is an afront to women....

Aside from thinking that her choice to belittle Obama's community organizing roots (which are in fact the factors that clinched my support for him) 

Aside thinking that she's just an attractive window dressing with little substance or record to speak of...

Aside from thinking that she's in articulate (I listened to the audio from her interview with Katie Couric where she couldn't answer a single question with a legible response)...

This little diddy right here, takes the cake. The woman who was allegedly a journalism major in college, can't even name a news outlet where she gets her information from.....poor. 

Yes I Can

Shiftless. Lethargic. Sluggish. Lazy bones.

On just about any day, you could utilize any of the above words to describe me, especially in the mornings. I love sleep – napping is a hobby and I’m addicted to the artful joy of closing my eyes. I am also a nocturnal creature (I’ve recently been described as an owl, but that’s a post for another time) who prefers the twilight of the moon and finds herself in peak performance in the dead of night. So for as much as much as I enjoy sunshine, come the break of day, I will stay immobilized in bed, drunk with sleep, unable to shake the comatose state that I’ve been in for hours. And once I am physically up (but still not mentally awake) I will lollygag, linger, lounge in my little bed until I feel fully prepared to face the day.

I’m not saying I always lack motivation. I couldn’t have come as far as I have professionally or personally if I didn’t have some kind of fire in my belly. So for big things, I got it under control (most of the time). But for little things like doing laundry or going grocery shopping or exercising, my lazy bottomed alter ego often makes long, guest appearances.

So you can understand how much to my surprise, the last month or so, I’ve been rising from my bed, shockingly with little resistance, to dress and go running. Huh?

My boyfriend who recently heard me bemoaning how my clothes weren’t fitting right, that I needed more endurance and how I was unhappy with how I was feeling with my body gave me a much needed, swift kick in the ass. Understand, he’s an athlete who’s been into fitness his entire life and is used to pushing his body’s physical limitations. Oh and did I mention that he’s training for a triathalon? Yeah, he’s one of those. So during one of our many conversations, he suggested that I start running again.

Again. As in that it had happened previously, although sporadically and never seriously. I took my first stab at vertical motion in 2004 when I moved back to New York with a badly healed sprained ankle and an extra 15 pounds as a result. Regaining strength and dropping the extra weight I had packed on due to my immobility were enough to get me walking, jogging and eventually running to get my legs and butt back into shape.

My second stab came when I joined a gym in 2005 and I realized I couldn’t climb a few flights of stairs without seriously gasping for breath and causing pain to shoot up my once muscular thighs. So the treadmill and I got tight. Like, running (although painfully slow) for an hour, tight. That great habit lasted, on and off, for a few years until my workaholic tendencies took over and I put closing an issue or finishing a presentation above my own health.

But since I started working from home, I realized I had no excuse. My workday is mine to craft. So what was I waiting for? I agreed and let him take me out for my first run on an unusually brisk August Saturday morning. After running till my head hurt and my stomach turned, I agreed that I would keep it up, because I knew that I owed it to myself.

That’s not to say that it’s been an easy habit to form. It started with my boo calling in the mornings on his way to work to inquire if I’d gone running yet or was planning to later. The idea of saying no just didn’t feel like an option. There’s something to be said about being held to your word. But something changed. After the first few weeks, before he would even call, I was rising from my bed, with little resistance, to dress and go running.

So while my boyfriend still calls every other morning on his way to work to motivate me (God bless his heart) I know that the onus really falls on me. He can call all he wants, throw me outta bed when he’s here, but ultimately it’s my own self- determination that has to rear its head and make my feet move.

So while I am immensely grateful to the man for being a catalyst (*thanks babe*) I’m pretty damn proud of myself for actually following through. I’ve been talking about running and taking better care of myself for forever. But have allowed everything else to take precedence. There’s a lot to be said about self-motivation- that something inside of you that forces you to think and realize that you control what you want to do and that things are actually in your hands. And so waking up and putting on my running shoes and walking out of the door was a major reminder that I am capable of shaping things: my body, my mind, my life. I own agency and I can make things happen. I simply have to want to. And I do.

Seven Years Later

I fell asleep last night distinctly aware of what today's date would be. I was downtown last night and as I made my way to the train looked up and noticed the lights that were shining skyward where the towers had once been. The tangible reminder of what had happened seven years ago jarred me. I thought I would awaken and feel some of the emotions I felt that day and the days that passed after.

I did wake up with a feeling of urgency and desire to hide. I didn't go about my morning routine the way I normally did; I opted to laze around a bit, finish reading a book and clean my home instead. I also opted not to watch the news. I had no desire to be reminded full on of the date-- of 9/11-- and what had happened.

I remember/relive that day in 2001 when this time of year rolls around. The blissful ignorance of boarding a train in Queens for my job in downtown Manhattan, the annoyance of what I believed was a delayed commute, the disbelief when I rose above ground, the fear of being trapped in Manhattan as the towers crumbled, the exodus across the Queensboro Bridge praying I would make it home, watching the gray clouds billow above and out to the sky, the terror of hearing helicopters and planes above, the tearful relief that I was had made it back safely and the grief that so many others had not.

So each year, I do the same thing to remember instead of relive: I say a prayer, thank the higher power and those that guide and protect me that I'm alive to reflect and give thanks and ask that those who were senselessly lost are, as well as their families, remembered today and always.

Question of the Day

When did the N word become a pronoun/noun?

*Conjured while riding the J train back to B-k while sitting next to two teenage boys and trying not to throw up a little in my mouth from their ignorance.*

The Queen of Procrastination

I am, admittedly, a procrastinator.

I'm that person who, for whatever reason, was given the ability to thrive under pressure, to get a rush from doing things and doing them pretty well at the last minute. In college, I could write a 10 page paper overnight (granted I didn't sleep but that was just the way it went). I can throw together a meal an hour before company arrives. The day of a trip, I multitask and do laundry, clean my house and pack just hours before my departure.

But over the last few years my procrastination/laziness/avoidance has bloomed into all out neglect. I've missed deadlines (it wasn't really that drop dead was it?), I've not returned phone calls (no bigz, whoever it is will call back), I've been left putting immense amounts of pressure on myself (kept awake by my anxiety and racing thoughts of what didn't get done immediately followed by guilt) because I've been avoiding something/someone. Television, sleep, food, wine, etc have all been my excusable escapes.

I hate stress, I hate pressure, I hate feeling like I can't accomplish something as well as I want to because of lack of time. Yet the distaste for that emotional nutcracker/vicegrip has only slightly modified my behavior.

I read a fellow samurai's blog - and I'll mention him again because his journey is a captivating one that has catalyzed many thoughts/emotions/questions on my behalf - and I felt my eyes well with tears. He was discussing the concept of time and what we do with it, how once its wasted, its gone. There's no going back, recoop'ing, changing, redoing it. Se termino, escapo. Punto.

I can only relate my physical reaction to the many "lost" moments, experiences that, thanks to procrastination otherwise known as my own doing also known as lack of discipline also known as avoidance, have slipped through my fingers. A job application I purposely sat on for fear I might actually get it. A gym membership I squalored away because I was too lazy to take care of my person and health. Then there are those lost moments I recall for their fleetingness and rapidity that prove time moves and changes your life no matter how you protest: losing my aunt a week after being told of her terminal illness; the friend who was attacked on her way home from a late night class; my cousin's cancer diagnosis.

The swiftness of time can't be controlled or ignored. Simply used as a lesson to fortify our souls and bring gratitude and grace to our lives.

Thanks NWSO for the reminder...

More thank Blank Checks

I have been a fan of Junot Diaz since I was an undergraduate at Cornell University. As an alumn of the Cornell MFA program, Junot had once walked the grassy knolls and snow covered sidewalks of Ithaca that I did. He, like other conscious people of color, had while a graduate student been involved with campus and student issues like financial aid, campus housing, lack of Latino recruitment and retention, et al. I was most impressed and truly became a fan after reading his first book Drown, a collection of short stories, mostly focused on his take of the Latino immigrant experience in the urban New Jersey.

As an aspiring writer I was even more fascinated and impressed that he had survived the Cornell MFA program and written what he had wanted to write rather than compromising or appealing to the “literary canon” aka dead, white men whose words were taken as law or better yet as scripture.

However after reading a Q&A where he discussed his new book, The Brief and Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao, (a Pulitzer Prize winning work which I loved and highly recommend) I was left wondering how aware he was of the many sides to the Latino college experienced actually existed or if he even cared?

Diaz, like a percent of my contemporaries, immigrated to the U.S. as a child and experienced the poverty, the bullshit and the realities of urban life as a poor person of color in this country. When asked about his experiences at his undergrad alma mater, Rutgers, he responded: “You’ve got to understand, just so that we’re clear…I worked through college…for me college wasn’t just somewhere I showed up and daddy just sent a check.”

Excuse me? Just so that I’M clear I take issue with his statement. The problem you ask? There are a number of us whose parent(s), from every strata of the middle class spectrum, “sent a check.” And guess what? It still wasn’t enough to cover the cost and expense of sending a child to an institution of higher learning. In my situation specifically, I had every form of financial aid known to man: grants, loans, work-study, a required student contribution. Oh yeah, AND my folks pooled together a sizeable chunk of their monthly income to cover my tuition/expenses. Not something you expect from a kid who grew up in the ‘burbs and in a house her parents owned now is it?

My own education was nearly a dream deferred because of its cost. My parents, aware that I was aiming high (private and Ivy League schools dominated my college choices), gently cajoled me to attend my town’s local community college rather than the schools on my list. Why? So that they could actually afford to send their daughter to college rather than just talk about it. Thanks to my own tenacity, I wasn’t willing to set aside a four year experience that I knew would change my life. I insisted that I would take on whatever financial debt necessary to accomplish my goal of getting a college degree from the school of my choice.

So the presumption that those of us whose parents did make a economic contribution to their education were somehow not working or busting ass to pay for a degree that we would continue paying for long after the diploma was hung on our walls or that we took it completely for granted and didn’t appreciate the sacrifice behind our presence on those campuses, is not just factually incorrect, it’s deluded and insulting.

I had a number of friends who despite being “middle class” still struggled to stay in school for financial reasons. The reason? Typically, after students have finished their first year and reapply for aid for subsequent years, their total package is lowered. The hefty financial aid awards they were initially offered are instead diverted and used as a carrot to entice prospective freshman to attend. I remember one friend who after three years discovered her aid had been slashed in half. She took a job as a resident assistant to get free housing and a meal plan. This was just a year shy of graduating. Other people I knew saw their financial awards plummet by a substantial percent year after year, forcing them to get creative with how they did or didn’t spend the money they did or didn’t have: borrowing books instead of buying them, recycling notebooks, applying for food stamps, taking campus jobs during the summer to defer their expected student contribution for the year, etc. Or of course (the devil itself) putting expenses on their credit cards. [SIDENOTE: Whose idea was it to give a 17 or 18 year old a line of credit when they are just learning how to use a bank account? Horrible.] And yes, these were all kids whose parents “sent a check.”

Here’s a concept that Mr. Diaz may be unfamiliar with, not for his own fault but simply being unaware, lots of middle class kids struggle the same as those from poorer backgrounds. It may not be the same kind of struggle, but it doesn’t devalue their experience or mitigate its reality. So the next time you think someone is just “getting by” or “chillin’” or has it “easy” because their parents help them, stop to think about what their parents help means to their entire family and what’s being sacrificed elsewhere so that they can sit where they’re sitting.

Thought of The Day

Mi boca
me deja sin palabras
cuando mis emociones
necesitan escaparse
de mi pecho

No Justice, No Peace

Standing up for other people. Minding your neighbor. But yet in this country, you're treated like a criminal for doing either. Check the video above and the post below:

"South Bronx Rally Calls For Release Of Two Arrested Hip Hop Artists from NY1

South Bronx residents rallied Wednesday night to demand the release of two members of a local hip hop group who were arrested after a confrontation with police.

Rebel Diaz members Rodstarz and G-1, whose real names are Rodrigo and Gonzalo Venegas, were taken into custody in the Bronx Wednesday afternoon.

A press release from Rebel Diaz says the two saw the officers assault a fruit vendor, and when they took out a cell phone to record the incident, the officers approached them.

Authorities say the duo became unruly with the officers, who were helping sanitation and health officials investigate illegal fruit vendors in the Bronx.

But community members say that was not the case.

"They were questioning the police, why they were like taking the fruit from the fruit vendors. They just asked them questions, and they just got beat up,” said Wanda Salaman, executive director of local community activism group Mothers On The Move.

“They asked for the badge information from the police officer, and basically the police just started beating them up," said Teresita Ayala of Rebel Diaz.

The Venegas brothers remained in custody Wednesday night, charged with resisting arrest and obstruction of justice.

One of the officers involved sustained a minor hand injury in the incident."

Puerto Rico Gettin' Politricked

Let me preface this by saying, I believe in democracy, regardless of how flawed it can be and regardless of what version of it we practice here in this country. I also believe in every person's right to self-determination and agency that allows them to choose and direct their own paths. That view, I know, is directly informed and influenced by having been born and raised in the States.

So I post this article below s a public service announcement...

I'm not much for cutting and pasting other people's work on my own blog, but I felt like the only way to do this topic justice was to allow people to read it for themselves. My sister brought this piece to my attention and it touched a serious nerve. Yesterday morning I sat and read various news articles about which way Puerto Rican voters would sway during this weekend's upcoming primary, I immediately thought it was a cruel exercise in futility. How do you allow a group of people to vote on a potential nominee in a contest that they ultimately can not participate in? Although our island-born gente are American citizens by birth, they are not permitted to vote in Presidential elections. So in essence you're telling me that they get to pick who runs, but not ultimately who runs the country they are umbilically tied to? Riiiiiighhhhhhtttt...cuz that makes a whole lot of sense. Check out the commentary below..feel free to share your opinions...can't wait to hear what folks have to say.


May 27, 2008


http://www.counterpunch.org/alarcon05272008.html
An Insulting Spectacle
Puerto Rico's Turn

By RICARDO ALARCÓN de QUESADA

On June 1, primary elections will be held in Puerto Rico. For that reason, politicians and journalists will travel to the island to pay to it an attention they never paid before and to turn their visit into part of the spectacle of marketing of politics that in the United States is called "democracy." In this case, however, the spectacle becomes insulting.

The Democratic candidates will compete there for the favor of voters who are not part of U.S. society and therefore have no vote in the U.S. general elections next November. In theory, Puerto Ricans can decide who the Democratic candidate will be but cannot vote for him, or her, or the Republican rival, or any other candidate to the presidency of the United States.

Once the farce is concluded, politicians and journalists will pack their bags and go away, not to deal again with Puerto Rico for the next four years. Once again, they'll try to ignore the interests and aspirations of its noble and generous people.

This time, however, it won't be so easy. The following week, on June 9, the United Nations' Committee on Decolonization will again discuss Puerto Rico's status, as it has done every year since 1972. Many voices have been raised there, and in other U.N. entities, to demand that the United States put an end to its colonial regime and return to the Puerto Rican people the right to decide their fate, a right that was wrested from them more than a century ago.

It was not necessary to travel to another country to hear that demand. It was repeated, one summer after another, for more than three decades, from the skyscraper on Manhattan's First Avenue, in the heart of New York. But the major U.S. media and its politicians pretended not to notice.

This year, their disdain will be a bit more difficult. Before the Committee will speak representatives from the whole of Puerto Rican society, including representatives of all the parties and political movements on the island, along with the Socialist Internationale and the Conference of Political Parties of Latin America (COPPAL), which brings together the main parties in the continent, including several parties that now are governments.

They will raise a petition for the U.N. General Assembly to discuss in depth the case of Puerto Rico, as we unanimously agreed at the International Conference of Solidarity with Puerto Rican Independence, which we held in Panama in 2006 and reiterated this year in Mexico. In the name of all those who participated in those two events, Dr. Rodrigo Borja, former President of Ecuador, will address the Committee.

This Latin American demand echoes the one made in Havana in 2006 by the chiefs of state and government of the nonaligned countries.

Latin America is living through a new era, and Puerto Rico is not absent from it. Its turn, Puerto Rico's turn, is very near. It is coming much faster than some people in the North, drunk with demagoguery and ignorance, think.

Ricardo Alarcón de Quesada is Cuba's Vice President and President of its National Assembly.

Random Fun Facts

I love history. Whether that's because it allows me to understand myself or the world around me, I find it endlessly intriguing. I get abnormally excited when I pick up a new fact or piece of information about a topic I once knew nothing about or better yet I thought I knew alot about. I especially like sharing the information I've picked up with those around me. So much so that my coworkers and friends have come to call me "The History/Discovery Channel." So in the spirit of sharing knowledge, I'll be posting random fun facts for your reading pleasure about any number of things. I'll start with my favorite topic, mi patria, Puerto Rico.

So...

P.R. Fun Fact #21:

The island of Puerto Rico was colonized by Spain in the 1500s. But due to a push from criollos born on the island for greater independence, Spain gave the island autonomy in 1897. But the Spanish-American War ended their autonomy within months when the U.S. landed in Guanica and installed a military government. The Treaty of Paris made it official when PR was "ceded" to the U.S. All this transpired on an island that was viewed as autonomous by its original colonizers. Thanks Madre Espana!