I can't stand the sight of you. Your very presence annoys me. I'm sorry, but I just don't want another reminder of how careless I've become. And I don't want, can't take, one more thing to worry about.
So off you go, fingernails. See you in a few weeks. Maybe by then I'll have the time and the money to treat you the way you deserve. (CLIP CLIP!)
Friday, February 25, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Confrontation
As soon as she walked through the front door, I told her.
“You bought what?” My mother’s eyes bulged wildly. “Where is it?”
“In the kitchen,” I responded. She rushed past me to see if this abomination was really true.
“Ay!” I heard her exclaim a few seconds later, a sound mixed with both disbelief at what I’d done, and surrender at what stood before her.
Who could resist my new puggle puppy’s soulful gaze and sweet demeanor? His soft fawn fur, which wrinkled at the top of his little head? His tiny floppy ears?
My dad, apparently, could.
That night, he sat in his usual chair at the head of our 6-seater dinner table, his eyes giving me a deadly stare over the top of his intertwined fingers. My mother was in the kitchen, taking her time preparing his food, wisely staying out of it.
“Why did you buy a dog, Cindy? You know that I don’t like dogs,” he said in his piercingly steady voice.
I stood directly across from him at the opposite end of the table, close to the open doorway leading to the kitchen, just in case I needed a quick escape route. The front door was about fifteen feet behind me, but it was closed and locked, not suitable for my purposes. “I’ve always wanted a dog,” I began. “You bought me a dog for my 15th birthday, so why can’t I have one now?”
“And what happened with that dog? Do you remember? You couldn’t take care of him, and we had to give him away.”
“You and mom took the fun out of it! You wanted me to keep him in the kitchen the whole time. I couldn’t even play with him in my room!” I put my hand on the chair in front of me and focused on keeping my tone and volume in check. My father did not respond well to attitudes or yelling. “Besides, that was 7 years ago. I’m more responsible now.”
He shook his head slightly, several times. “Get that dog out of here. I don’t want dogs in my house.” This, I knew from years of experience, was his final answer.
I took a deep breath, having prepared for this very moment. “Well then, that’s fine. I guess I’ll have to take my dog and move out.”
My father was silent, the lights from the chandelier hanging above the table creating shadows over his tense face. “So you’re just going to leave? Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to look for an apartment that accepts dogs, I guess.”
He continued to sit there, thinking. My mother made noise with her pots and pans in the kitchen to hide her eavesdropping. The brass clock on the wall next to me ticked away the seconds loudly. Back in my room, a puppy whined and scratched at the closed door.
Finally, my father spoke. “What I don’t like is that you’re forcing me to accept this dog. You didn’t even ask. You bought it while we were on vacation, and now you’re forcing me to accept this dog, or else you’ll leave the house.”
“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” I said, stepping back and leaning my hips on the back of the dark leather loveseat behind me. “I’m saying that since you won’t let the dog stay, and I don’t want to give him up, my only option is to move out with the dog. I don’t want to go, but you leave me no choice.” I kept my eyes down as I said this, watching my foot play with the edge of the area rug that divides the dining room from the living room. I prepared myself for yet another one of his long silences.
“Well,” my father said matter-of-factly, after about two minutes. “I can’t stop you from leaving.” He finally lowered his hands from in front of his face, elbows still on the table, placing one arm on either side of his placemat.
I stood there for a few more seconds, and then shrugged my shoulders slowly. “Okay,” I said.
I turned in slow motion and walked out, passed my open-mouthed mother in the kitchen, and went back to the puppy waiting impatiently in my room.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Being Latino articles
So I've branched out and am now a contributing writer for Being Latino Online Magazine. For anyone interested, here are the links to my articles:
http://beinglatino.wordpress.com/2011/01/21/mamitis-and-marriage/#more-11638
http://beinglatino.wordpress.com/2011/01/25/latinos-sending-their-own-back-home/
More to come....!
http://beinglatino.wordpress.com/2011/01/21/mamitis-and-marriage/#more-11638
http://beinglatino.wordpress.com/2011/01/25/latinos-sending-their-own-back-home/
More to come....!
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Spare Cents
Standing tall and very still on a staircase platform underground, her sign read “SPARE CENTS. I AM NOT PERFECT.”
My hurried steps slowed down slightly as I took in her plea, written horizontally on a lined page of a spiral-bound notebook. Every day I pass countless people on the street, in the subway stations or on the subways themselves, singing their hearts out, playing an instrument, or just rattling their paper cup – all for some spare change. The less talented ones carry large wordy signs explaining their plights, much too long for rushing commuters to read through it all. Some have signs with only the words “PLEASE HELP” written on them. Usually in capital letters, their messages shout loudly at us, while the authors themselves sit or stand in silence. Still others forego the sign entirely and simply rely on their tattered clothing to speak for them. But this woman’s sign was different.
Like a subliminal message seeping into my brain, I couldn’t dismiss it like all the others. My conscience quickly caught the play on words. She wasn’t just asking me to spare some cents. She was asking me to spare some sense.
This woman could see right through me. I’ve grown numb to her sorry situation, and those of every homeless person in New York City. I have become senseless. I might as well be an inanimate object for all I’ve done to help them, which is nothing.
Most of the time, I keep my eyes averted. Looking them in the eye would acknowledge their existence. Constant reminders that life isn’t fair, their presence can sometimes exasperate me. I want to blame them for being there, when their only offense is having burst the egocentric bubble in which I live. “How could you let yourself get to this point?” I accuse them silently. And by doing this, I am able to turn my head and keep going, quickly sweeping that lingering guilt under my mental rug. But her defensiveness shocked me, and prevented me from executing my default response.
Clearly, her choice of words was no accident.
She chose not to speak in generalities. “NOBODY’S PERFECT” would have worked just fine. Instead, she made it personal, and in a trick gun maneuver, she took my pointed finger and turned it right back at me:
SPARE CENTS. I AM NOT PERFECT. (Don’t think this couldn’t happen to you. Just because you walk on by with your shiny black briefcase and your spit-polished shoes, and I’m standing here in my thread-bare cardigan and worn-out sneakers, doesn’t make you better than me. I’ve made some wrong choices, but you have, too. Bad things have happened to me, like they can happen to anyone. So don’t judge me just yet, because the only difference between you and me is that I’m here, and you’re there.)
Her original message was brief, but it was enough. With just six words, she slapped my face and turned it in the direction of my fears. I couldn’t even try to defend myself. I knew I deserved it.
The sharp sting of her words stayed with me as I continued to walk up the stairs and into the street, where I eventually encountered another homeless person. I read his sign (HELP. NEED MONEY FOR FOOD) as I walked by. “I want to believe you,” I said to myself.
A familiar voice echoed in my head. “It’s best if you don’t give them any money because most of them will just use it to buy more drugs and liquor. You won’t really be helping them.” My mother trained me from an early age not to trust these people.
“But how can you be sure?” I now asked my mother, and myself, in my head. “And isn’t it worth it, to spare some cents, just in case their story really is true?”
I think it is.
My hurried steps slowed down slightly as I took in her plea, written horizontally on a lined page of a spiral-bound notebook. Every day I pass countless people on the street, in the subway stations or on the subways themselves, singing their hearts out, playing an instrument, or just rattling their paper cup – all for some spare change. The less talented ones carry large wordy signs explaining their plights, much too long for rushing commuters to read through it all. Some have signs with only the words “PLEASE HELP” written on them. Usually in capital letters, their messages shout loudly at us, while the authors themselves sit or stand in silence. Still others forego the sign entirely and simply rely on their tattered clothing to speak for them. But this woman’s sign was different.
Like a subliminal message seeping into my brain, I couldn’t dismiss it like all the others. My conscience quickly caught the play on words. She wasn’t just asking me to spare some cents. She was asking me to spare some sense.
This woman could see right through me. I’ve grown numb to her sorry situation, and those of every homeless person in New York City. I have become senseless. I might as well be an inanimate object for all I’ve done to help them, which is nothing.
Most of the time, I keep my eyes averted. Looking them in the eye would acknowledge their existence. Constant reminders that life isn’t fair, their presence can sometimes exasperate me. I want to blame them for being there, when their only offense is having burst the egocentric bubble in which I live. “How could you let yourself get to this point?” I accuse them silently. And by doing this, I am able to turn my head and keep going, quickly sweeping that lingering guilt under my mental rug. But her defensiveness shocked me, and prevented me from executing my default response.
Clearly, her choice of words was no accident.
She chose not to speak in generalities. “NOBODY’S PERFECT” would have worked just fine. Instead, she made it personal, and in a trick gun maneuver, she took my pointed finger and turned it right back at me:
SPARE CENTS. I AM NOT PERFECT. (Don’t think this couldn’t happen to you. Just because you walk on by with your shiny black briefcase and your spit-polished shoes, and I’m standing here in my thread-bare cardigan and worn-out sneakers, doesn’t make you better than me. I’ve made some wrong choices, but you have, too. Bad things have happened to me, like they can happen to anyone. So don’t judge me just yet, because the only difference between you and me is that I’m here, and you’re there.)
Her original message was brief, but it was enough. With just six words, she slapped my face and turned it in the direction of my fears. I couldn’t even try to defend myself. I knew I deserved it.
The sharp sting of her words stayed with me as I continued to walk up the stairs and into the street, where I eventually encountered another homeless person. I read his sign (HELP. NEED MONEY FOR FOOD) as I walked by. “I want to believe you,” I said to myself.
A familiar voice echoed in my head. “It’s best if you don’t give them any money because most of them will just use it to buy more drugs and liquor. You won’t really be helping them.” My mother trained me from an early age not to trust these people.
“But how can you be sure?” I now asked my mother, and myself, in my head. “And isn’t it worth it, to spare some cents, just in case their story really is true?”
I think it is.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
My Father
I won’t deny that I used to be daddy’s little girl. I loved to play with him, accompany him on his errands, go with him to the ice cream store for a special treat. He usually gave me what I wanted, at least until I reached my teenage years. That’s when all of his Yes’s turned to No’s.
As the head of the family, my father’s word has always been final. He manages to silence a room with his resounding “No” which seems to echo off the walls. My father seldom raises his voice, so when he does, we listen.
It took me a long time to realize that my father is the more reasonable parent. Unlike my mother, he doesn’t let his emotions get in the way of his decisions. He’s willing to hear you out, but it takes a mighty solid argument to change his mind. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been able to accomplish this feat.
Disciplined, a man of routine, he wakes up every morning at 6:30am, showers, and is out the door by 8 ‘o’ clock on the dot. He eats his lunch at exactly noon, and his dinner must be on the table by 6pm every night, with the television set to the news channel.
He lives by these self-imposed rules that are set in stone, and this method works for him, but his rigidity inhibits him in other ways. For instance, he is allowed to take up to three weeks of vacation a year. For whatever reason, he has chosen his vacation time to be either the last three weeks of July, or the first three weeks of August, or some combination of the two. If some type of long-distance event were to come up during any other time of the year, you can be sure he will not be in attendance. Planning a long weekend is not a possibility. In fact, part of the reason I didn’t have a destination wedding was because I knew he wouldn’t come if it wasn’t during one of those three weeks in the summer, and we wanted to get married in the spring.
Despite his quirks, I can never complain about him not being a constant presence in my life. I cannot say that his patience is never-ending, but I can say he is the most responsible person I’ve ever met. I was never in need of anything. There was always food on the table, always a place to call home. He fulfilled his duty as a father, his label switching from playmate to provider as I got older. Even now, our relationship consists of greetings, questions asked and answered, and occasional disclosures about my daily life. Our silences are never uncomfortable. That’s just the way it is with us.
Ever since I moved out over a year ago, his role as provider doesn’t apply anymore. Our relationship is about to change yet again.
As the head of the family, my father’s word has always been final. He manages to silence a room with his resounding “No” which seems to echo off the walls. My father seldom raises his voice, so when he does, we listen.
It took me a long time to realize that my father is the more reasonable parent. Unlike my mother, he doesn’t let his emotions get in the way of his decisions. He’s willing to hear you out, but it takes a mighty solid argument to change his mind. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been able to accomplish this feat.
Disciplined, a man of routine, he wakes up every morning at 6:30am, showers, and is out the door by 8 ‘o’ clock on the dot. He eats his lunch at exactly noon, and his dinner must be on the table by 6pm every night, with the television set to the news channel.
He lives by these self-imposed rules that are set in stone, and this method works for him, but his rigidity inhibits him in other ways. For instance, he is allowed to take up to three weeks of vacation a year. For whatever reason, he has chosen his vacation time to be either the last three weeks of July, or the first three weeks of August, or some combination of the two. If some type of long-distance event were to come up during any other time of the year, you can be sure he will not be in attendance. Planning a long weekend is not a possibility. In fact, part of the reason I didn’t have a destination wedding was because I knew he wouldn’t come if it wasn’t during one of those three weeks in the summer, and we wanted to get married in the spring.
Despite his quirks, I can never complain about him not being a constant presence in my life. I cannot say that his patience is never-ending, but I can say he is the most responsible person I’ve ever met. I was never in need of anything. There was always food on the table, always a place to call home. He fulfilled his duty as a father, his label switching from playmate to provider as I got older. Even now, our relationship consists of greetings, questions asked and answered, and occasional disclosures about my daily life. Our silences are never uncomfortable. That’s just the way it is with us.
Ever since I moved out over a year ago, his role as provider doesn’t apply anymore. Our relationship is about to change yet again.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Flirting From the Inside
It’s a warm sunny afternoon in 1996. We are wasting time before heading home in our rolled-up Catholic school skirts. I am an awkward flagpole at 13, with my oversized glasses, braces, and messy black hair. My friend Erica is cute and petite, with her Jennifer Aniston haircut, dyed light brown, with dimples, and growing into her new body quite nicely.
“Watch,” she instructs, as she walks next to me on the sidewalk. She sways her budding hips with confidence, and stares at a thirty-something man who is about to walk by us in the other direction. She catches his eye, and then she smiles. It wasn’t just any smile. It was like she had a secret that she was sure he wanted to know. At first the guy looked uncomfortable, but to my surprise, he started smiling back. Then she giggled and looked away as he passed by us.
“Wow!” I said. “How’d you do that?”
“It’s easy!” she said. “You should try it sometime.”
There was no way I was going to embarrass myself by trying that stunt. I was pretty sure I’d get nothing but a weird look in return. But I was amazed at how simple she made it seem.
This was just one of many times she tried to teach me the art of flirting. She encouraged me to get close to a guy I liked and make conversation with him. Once I had him in my clutches, she told me to smile and laugh at his jokes, act impressed by whatever he had to say. I would read all the “10 Ways to Get His Attention!” articles in seventeen magazine (number 5: Wear dangly earrings!). But to this day, I don’t think I ever mastered it.
I never managed to catch a man’s eye from across the room and have him approach me because he just had to talk to me. I never felt the confidence that Erica already had at such a young age. However, almost every guy I ever dated, including my husband, was my friend first, and I managed to win him over with personality alone. Once I’m in my comfort zone, I can pull out my own bag of tricks (i.e. humor, intelligence), and they don’t include flipping my hair over my shoulder. That’s how introverts work: from the inside.
“Watch,” she instructs, as she walks next to me on the sidewalk. She sways her budding hips with confidence, and stares at a thirty-something man who is about to walk by us in the other direction. She catches his eye, and then she smiles. It wasn’t just any smile. It was like she had a secret that she was sure he wanted to know. At first the guy looked uncomfortable, but to my surprise, he started smiling back. Then she giggled and looked away as he passed by us.
“Wow!” I said. “How’d you do that?”
“It’s easy!” she said. “You should try it sometime.”
There was no way I was going to embarrass myself by trying that stunt. I was pretty sure I’d get nothing but a weird look in return. But I was amazed at how simple she made it seem.
This was just one of many times she tried to teach me the art of flirting. She encouraged me to get close to a guy I liked and make conversation with him. Once I had him in my clutches, she told me to smile and laugh at his jokes, act impressed by whatever he had to say. I would read all the “10 Ways to Get His Attention!” articles in seventeen magazine (number 5: Wear dangly earrings!). But to this day, I don’t think I ever mastered it.
I never managed to catch a man’s eye from across the room and have him approach me because he just had to talk to me. I never felt the confidence that Erica already had at such a young age. However, almost every guy I ever dated, including my husband, was my friend first, and I managed to win him over with personality alone. Once I’m in my comfort zone, I can pull out my own bag of tricks (i.e. humor, intelligence), and they don’t include flipping my hair over my shoulder. That’s how introverts work: from the inside.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The "Ground Zero Mosque"
A seemingly endless procession of Muslim men and women are walking out of what will soon be the new mosque only a couple of blocks from Ground Zero. People holding signs have been standing outside the doors all week – supporters of the mosque, not protestors as I’d originally thought. One sign reads: America Supports All Faiths.
News reporters and their cameramen record the event. One of them is interviewing a Muslim woman who has just stepped out of the building. What’s going on? I’m not exactly sure. I’m just one of the many passersby who stopped to see what was going on as I was on my way to work this afternoon.
Police cars line the street. There is a tension in the air, like everyone is waiting for something to happen. Besides the occasional driver shouting obscenities at the crowd, though, everything seems to be under control for the moment.
Suddenly, I am transported back in time, feeling like I’m an onlooker in one of those black and white clips you might have seen in history class of when the first African-Americans are escorted out of school during the time of desegregation. We stand there. We watch. We wait.
After a few minutes I leave, not wanting to be late. However, I am left with that tense feeling, and I think about the mosque and all those people who just walked out of the building. How must they be feeling?
I can understand why people are against the mosque being built so close to where the World Trade Center buildings were. The events of 9/11 are still fresh in our minds, like a wound that reopens whenever one really thinks about it, especially for the families of the victims, and especially now that the anniversary is rolling around again. However, even these families are not all crying out in one united force in opposition to the mosque. Even they are divided on this subject.
Some people are outraged. Some people are scared. They believe terrorists will use this mosque as a type of headquarters to plan their next attack. But are we talking about terrorists, or are we talking about Muslims? We must remember that not every Muslim is a terrorist. Some Muslims really do just want to go to a mosque in order to practice their faith.
That being said, it must also be noted that Feisal Abdul Rauf could have decided to build a mosque anywhere in the city. So why, of all places, is he deciding to place it there? He had to have known that there would be controversy due to the location.
Despite the fact that this can be considered a very distasteful business move, we mustn’t forget that America was built on the premise of freedom. We may not always like what people say or do, but it’s still their right to do it. I don’t know why this specific location was chosen, but arguing about whether it’s right or wrong is a moot point. He bought the property fair and square, and he has the right to do what he wants with it. We don’t have to like it, but we’re going to have to accept it because that is what tolerance is all about.
The emotional reaction to the building of this mosque is exactly that: emotional. I’m not denying those emotions. People have expressed their views, both negative and positive, as is their right. However, in this touchy situation, we need to think with our heads instead of our hearts to realize that by opposing this mosque we may end up looking hypocritical, as well as inviting even more animosity from the Muslim community.
News reporters and their cameramen record the event. One of them is interviewing a Muslim woman who has just stepped out of the building. What’s going on? I’m not exactly sure. I’m just one of the many passersby who stopped to see what was going on as I was on my way to work this afternoon.
Police cars line the street. There is a tension in the air, like everyone is waiting for something to happen. Besides the occasional driver shouting obscenities at the crowd, though, everything seems to be under control for the moment.
Suddenly, I am transported back in time, feeling like I’m an onlooker in one of those black and white clips you might have seen in history class of when the first African-Americans are escorted out of school during the time of desegregation. We stand there. We watch. We wait.
After a few minutes I leave, not wanting to be late. However, I am left with that tense feeling, and I think about the mosque and all those people who just walked out of the building. How must they be feeling?
I can understand why people are against the mosque being built so close to where the World Trade Center buildings were. The events of 9/11 are still fresh in our minds, like a wound that reopens whenever one really thinks about it, especially for the families of the victims, and especially now that the anniversary is rolling around again. However, even these families are not all crying out in one united force in opposition to the mosque. Even they are divided on this subject.
Some people are outraged. Some people are scared. They believe terrorists will use this mosque as a type of headquarters to plan their next attack. But are we talking about terrorists, or are we talking about Muslims? We must remember that not every Muslim is a terrorist. Some Muslims really do just want to go to a mosque in order to practice their faith.
That being said, it must also be noted that Feisal Abdul Rauf could have decided to build a mosque anywhere in the city. So why, of all places, is he deciding to place it there? He had to have known that there would be controversy due to the location.
Despite the fact that this can be considered a very distasteful business move, we mustn’t forget that America was built on the premise of freedom. We may not always like what people say or do, but it’s still their right to do it. I don’t know why this specific location was chosen, but arguing about whether it’s right or wrong is a moot point. He bought the property fair and square, and he has the right to do what he wants with it. We don’t have to like it, but we’re going to have to accept it because that is what tolerance is all about.
The emotional reaction to the building of this mosque is exactly that: emotional. I’m not denying those emotions. People have expressed their views, both negative and positive, as is their right. However, in this touchy situation, we need to think with our heads instead of our hearts to realize that by opposing this mosque we may end up looking hypocritical, as well as inviting even more animosity from the Muslim community.
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