Moving and taking a seat

Between the business of moving as in, packing and boxes and address changes, and the current events that have overtaken my thoughts this week, events that really just stem from the already existing pains and horrors of racism and white supremacy, I found it hard to write. I’m considering the possibility of posting every other week instead of every Thursday, though two weeks may be too big of a window, I don’t know.

I started trying to recap what was going on in DR, the open letter signed by Junot Díaz, Julia Alvarez, Mark Kurlansky and Edwidge Danticat, which caused a rebuttal from Dominican writer Giovanny Cruz. I’ve tried sorting out my own perspective on the matter, what writers Diaz and Alvarez have meant to me, and the message of Cruz's response. I started writing about what took place in the Emanuel AME Bible study room in Charleston and weighing out the concept of forgiveness- the struggle to do it, the problems with it, the amazing-ness of it. But it all seemed to go off in too many directions and I haven’t yet been able to tie it up into a nice, little cohesive bow in terms of essay and words, or finding “my point”, or at least to the point where I put it down on paper. Or screen. You know what I mean..

A lot of writers/bloggers and people in general seem numb at this point and tired of seeing his face, discussing the same hatred, tired of defending and explaining rage, emphasizing what should be obvious, that black lives matter. What I’d like to do here instead is share this vlog by ray(nise) cange.

I’m sure I’ll elaborate in other posts and find that nice, neat way of tying it all up for you, and for myself. But this week I felt that this was a voice and message really worth sharing and hearing out.

Peace.

Beauty and the Boricua

The National Puerto Rican Day parade was on Sunday. I didn’t get to go this year because of another commitment I had made awhile ago, but I was there in spirit. I checked up on it through hashtags on Facebook, Twitter and a few minutes on TV before heading out the door with my son.  As I’m writing this, I’m blasting my salsa music on Pandora radio; mainly Puerto Rican/Nuyorican artists, like Willie Colón , Frankie Ruiz, Eddie Santiago, Hector Lavoe, the Fania all stars, Tito Puente, but of course some Cuban and Colombian artists como Celia Cruz y Joe Arroyo and it makes for good fuel for me to write about my brush with past parades.

The first Puerto Rican Day parade I attended was in ‘93 and I had just turned sixteen. I went by myself which wasn't uncommon, the way I often went to the movies alone (masturdating before it became a word). My hair was worn back and up somehow and I probably wore a big pair of shiny, gold hoop earrings and some 90’s style denim like a sleeveless button shirt or denim skirt.

I remember us the spectators more than the actual floats. But I do recall a performance artist in the parade marching or staggering in a “drunken stupor”, bottle in one hand, life-sized street light (prop) in the other, clothes disheveled, tilted fedora. A display I thought was so clever and disrespectful at the same time. More towards the Upper East Side a little white girl in a limo popped out from the sunroof, inspecting her surroundings.

“Boooooo! Spoiled brat!” some teenage boys yelled out to her. I was embarrassed at how they so blatantly attacked a little girl’s lot, so obviously and painfully jealous they had to have been.

I also remember seeing so many beautiful people, happy to be there. One young woman in particular looked to me like a glamorous fashionista but simplified, à la Audrey Hepburn. A stylish bob, maybe bangs, clean, fresh looking makeup. I remember her laughing, so full of joy and it looked so carefree. I remember thinking how gorgeous she was and that wow, she’s Puerto Rican like me, that we share some kind of history, some kind of culture, which in turn just made me feel better about myself.

As a pre-teen I saw my dark hair and olive skin as drab. My boring, brown eyes? Dull. Eric, the boy of Ukraine background who I had a crush on, had captivating eyes that switched from blue to green depending on his mood, his shirts, and the lighting. Most of my friends from school shared the same kind of sparkling sea blue/green eyes, strawberry blonde highlights in their soft hair, their fair skin, coupled with the relative ease in which they carried themselves. They were well understood by their elders, didn’t struggle with a second language when communicating with family from what I could gather. I could be completely off on this assessment though.

Michelle, my close childhood friend of Irish, Polish, and German descent, wrote to me one summer while I was in the Dominican Republic. She wrote that her mom showed her where DR was on the map and that she colored it blue. This made me feel very special and “visible”, if you can understand my meaning here. I found my friends’ European background diversity so interesting- Greek, Russian-Jewish, Italian, Irish, German, Polish, Ukraine… why didn’t I feel the same way about my own home countries of PR and DR? Sociologists and activists can probably explain it more accurately, throwing theories of imperialism, and white supremacy in the mix and I wouldn’t argue that but I think there’s also a gender driven insecurity at work here...I dunno. I’m still exploring this.

For the most part, the white girls at my junior high school seemed to look down on or get weirded out by girls who wore “too much make up” or put “too much” gel in their hair, or who wore bamboo earrings, or the triangle (more like trapezoid) ones which made me think of Egypt. I told Salina, a very friendly, stylish, Colombian-American, how beautiful I thought hers were and she smiled and said, “thanks!”. Those earrings were fabulous but looked too grown up and out of place on me. The same thing with bright, red lipstick. I loved that look but in no way could I decently pull it off. I also thought it was cute when the “Spanish” girls kissed each other hello and it left a little mark on the other girls’ cheeks, and kind of romantic when it was to their boyfriends, like a branding that both parties seemed pleased to exhibit. I kissed my hellos and goodbyes with family but not friends, and I didn’t have a boyfriend yet. Eric teased Salina about it saying, “What’s with all the kissing and lipstick stains? What, are you a lesbian?” Whereas she would laugh and reply, “shut up!” with no apparent hurt feelings, just a laughing kind of,  haha yeah whatever, dick!

Since she didn’t seemed to be offended, I didn’t step in and speak out. I let him make fun of Latino customs and implications of being gay. It seems as though any chutzpah I might’ve had growing up as a somewhat spunky little kid greatly dissipated in my ‘tween years. Some of the Chinese girls in our school also had their own style, which were bold, stark, black and white colors and patterns, sharply cut jackets and chunky, purple/blue/red streaks to complement their silky black hair.  So sophisticated and cool as they listened to their Depeche Mode... but I never came to their defense when the white girls would tease them behind their backs. In my head I was all like, “and you guys think you’re so much better? With your corny pastels, lanyards (but I had lanyards too and loved them, who are we kidding), teased hair, crispy bangs, and acid wash jeans? I don’t think so!” How I wish I were able to get those thoughts from the inside to the out but again, I didn’t speak up.

At around 14, my eyes started to take on the almond shape of my mother’s, which had a more bewitching appeal. Around that time too, I started appreciating the more “Latina” kind of beauty, even though in reality, Latina encompasses pretty much every skin tone, complexion, hair texture, eye color, etc. I guess I mean more my own olive skin, dark hair kind of beauty. And it’s “funny” because I often pass for white, so even little white passing ol’ me wasn’t immune from white beauty standards and felt insecure about anything “less than” that.  But diversity seemed to become more popular and represented in the media as we grew into our adolescence.

The next time I went to the parade was either in ‘94 or ‘95, this time with two friends I met in church who both lived in the Chelsea projects (Chelsea-Elliott houses). We had so much fun and kept yelling back, “Hooooo!” to anyone who sang out,  “A-Puerto Rico!” over and over again. An aunt on my Dominican side found my budding Nuyorican pride annoying. “Ay, porque Tennille is like, very proud of being Puerto Rican!”, she once explained to someone, saying the word “proud” as if it were a defect of some kind. I would never refer to it as a defect myself, but I can see how my pride can be perceived as a little ‘off’, or something curious. For starters, I’ve never been to PR,  and if I did, it was only due to airplane delays en route to DR, my Spanish ain’t exactly what you’d call on point (it is my second language but if I were to do this blog in Spanish for example, it would take me a lot longer to complete!), and whenever I answered someone’s question concerning my ethnic background, I would get surprised looks and responses like, “you don’t look it!”. I probably still do and will continue to. That’s fine though. People are entitled to their opinions and impressions. It still doesn’t define me nor my identity. Not anymore.

Two more scenarios pop up as I’m writing here. In Santiago, DR on my grandmother’s front porch (not an elevated porch, just the area in front of the house where rocking chairs rest. Patio?), we were dancing to the radio one night for fun, being silly. She laughed and said that I move my hips like a Puerto Rican when doing the merengue. Xiomara, my Dominican mother-in-law (I’m not married, but she’s practically my mother-in-law at this point) says that I add milk to my coffee like a Puerto Rican. I didn’t know that was something exclusive to Boricuas pero, okayyy!

In ‘97 or ‘98, I went to the parade with my Titi Janis and her girlfriend at the time, who was documenting the event with her video camera. On my way to meet up with them, I remember some guys trying to touch a girl and she was not having it. The incident came and went, we all moved along the metal barriers and kept walking. It was nothing like the misogynist, violating incidents of harassments in 2000 that I read about and saw on the news. I haven’t gone to the parade since. But that’s more an unintentional doing than something deliberate on my part. Something else always seems to come up on the same day, like it did this year. And I actually think I did go again in ‘04. Either way, my sister and I plan to go next year. We’re not letting the fear of getting harassed take over our enjoyment and pride. There are so many other reasons why we want make it out there, and to the Dominican one as well in August. Beauty, appreciation, pride, family, a sense of a common history, representation. Being at the parade really helped bring out a lot of those things to light for me, and it is something that no one can take away.

****************************************

As I was writing and rewriting this entry this week, the NY Daily News decided it would be a good idea to represent the parade in this way.

These women were NOT:

• in the parade
• photographed the same day of the parade
• Puerto Rican

So basically, they have blatantly lied. There was a protest today concerning this, something again, I tried to make but couldn’t because of various commitments. So I do the next best thing/s. Checking updates, sharing relevant articles and links, and phoning the Daily News to let them know how much they messed up on this. Here is some more info and insight on this issue. Peace.

http://www.nprdpinc.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/Letter-to-Daily-News-.pdf

http://www.sofritoforyoursoul.com/sir-the-puerto-ricans-are-here-and-they-look-pissed-the-anatomy-of-institutional-failure-at-the-daily-news/

http://www.latinpost.com/articles/60479/20150617/new-york-daily-news-takes-heat-over-puerto-rican-day-parade-photo.htm

Reunited, and it feels so...

TW: suicide attempt, racism

My 20 year reunion at La Guardia High School of Music, Art, & Performing Arts was last weekend and I already can’t wait until the 25th one. As I was leaving, fellow alumni gave me the family ‘guilt’ trip of, “What? You’re cutting out? So soon?” I hugged them goodbye like we were long, lost brothers and sisters in a family reunion. Since I didn’t graduate there, the gratitude I have for their welcoming attitude, their insistence that I’m still family, is held so dear to my heart and something I wouldn’t have felt as deeply had I not attended this reunion.

Some pre-reunion talk

There are however, reasons I left midway and finished elsewhere a year later. There were a lot of things I put myself through at the time, as well as shit that straight up happened to me without my consent; I was both victim and perpetrator. There was the church I became involved with at 13 that mentally set us apart from the rest of the secular, “sinning” folks outside. This disillusioned and isolated me and eventually led to my suicide attempt at 15. I delve into this more in other writings and I feel the need to get on with other points here, so forgive me if I seem to be glossing over certain things.

At 16, I was prescribed meds, curled up in my bed a lot and at one point wrote the words, “I will hurt myself” under my wooden table nearby. My mother likened me to an ostrich who buries their head in the sand but is still seen by others and therefore, is not hiding or escaping much. I was also assigned to see a social worker once a week who stopped working after having her baby, so as helpful as those sessions were, they didn’t last long.

Later that year, coming out of the NY Public Library on 42nd and 5th, I met an older man, about 30, who was on in his way inside. He bumped his head against part of the revolving door and joked that it was my fault because he was too busy looking at me, admiring my beauty. He had sort of a French accent and as he kept talking, gave me his number. He suggested it was fate and in my naïveté, went to see him one afternoon. He seemed so nice and friendly. He immediately started having sex with me and believe it or not, it was not something I was expecting. Statutory rape was not a term I understood until years later. At 17, I had my most horrific experience that winter. I was walking home one night, two houses away from my own, and was suddenly grabbed from behind, thrown into a car and sexually assaulted by a man I never saw before or since, not even in the mug shots. I definitely explore these things more in my writing and continue to do so.

My point here is that when I take these trips down memory lane, they are far from pleasant. It’s more like walking through hot coals being very discerning over where I’m stepping, where I should linger, and of course as always, when to move on.

When I was 14, the high school of my (first) choice accepted me, thanks largely due to the monologue rehearsals with my Titi Janis, my dance rehearsals with the after school programs, “Song and Dance” and “Once Upon A Time”, and some serious, down on my knees praying. Though I didn’t get into Dance, the Drama department took me in after a callback which made me an official Drama major in this very special school, one borough and 3- 4 trains away (the R to the E to the D to the 1 was one of the ways I was able to commute). I had culture shock (and thrill) on a few levels. Coming from the pseudo suburbs in Queens to super urban Manhattan, the “city”, from being with older kids who smoked and got high right in front of the building and in the bathrooms, to the creative ways many of them dressed and expressed themselves, from the constant singing from the Vocal majors, belting out their talent in hallways and the cafeteria, to the actual demographics. The schools I attended before were mainly white middle class and a working to middle class immigrant population. Elmhurst, Queens resides in the most crowded and diverse district in the world, district 24.

“But no black people!” my friend Dave half-joked as I described it to him one day. He was right though. Elmhurst schools are diverse, but La Guardia’s range is just as incredible, if not more so- from rich to poor, light to dark, straight to queer, hailing from every nation I’m sure, everybody walks those halls. It is truly brag worthy.

My first week of drama class consisted of an acting exercise where everyone would walk around in a circle mimicking each other’s movements. Whenever the person in front of us changed what they did, we were supposed to follow suit as the person behind us was supposed to do, and so on. Aisha, the girl behind me, made fun of the way I moved. Raw, nervous, and defensive, I put up a front, sucked my teeth and retaliated with, “Well, I’m not into that black shit!” As I said it, I immediately felt its stupidity.  My real intention was not to try to develop any bigotry in me, but to ruffle her feathers somehow. Hurt people hurt people and a person’s race and gender are the most obvious targets, especially among strangers. I didn't know her well and since we're both girls, the only outward thing I saw left to pick on aside from her being tall, was being black. So I reacted to let her know not to fuck with me. Well, the joke was on me because all Aisha did was laugh, while anyone else who heard me laughed along too as if to say, “Hahaa, this stuck up bitch went too far!”. I was effortlessly shunned. I was a fly they easily flicked away.

But what did I really mean by “black shit”? Moving well? I wasn’t into that? Did I prefer to move awkwardly?? Was I implying that black people only move well? That there isn’t a single black person whose moves are less than stellar? And only black people move well? It makes less and less sense the more I break it down. Yes, I felt hurt by being mocked and yes, that hurtful garbage came out of my mouth in return, but there is no way I can honestly stand by its meaning. Ever. Not when black is present, if not in my skin tone, then in:

my family,

my roots,

my blood,

my history,

my friends,

my countries (USA, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic),

my culture,

my teachers,

Even if blackness weren’t so prolific in my life and this world, it's still a shit remark I have to kick to the curb, so that it can rot and obliterate.

I didn’t get to see Aisha at the reunion that night, I don’t know if she attended. I saw one of her old friends who told me that she didn’t keep in touch with her anymore. I apologize for what I said. If the ones directly (or indirectly) involved that day do not understand or forgive me, I realize they have that right. I’m not after those coveted ally cookies. My job as a human being is to put it out there, fess up and own up to what I’ve said and done. To learn, grow, transform, and take it from there.

Even though not everyone remembered me that night last weekend, it was alright. I didn’t remember every single person there either. Even when they reminisced about their prom and the senior dance festival, I was fine, and comfortable enough to walk slightly apart from the crowd from time to time during the building tour. I just found my way back into conversations when it became relevant, or I initiated my own. I considered it a triumph of some kind to be able to make it out that day. Everyone was happy and reveling in the nostalgia, and some were able to acknowledge how weird it was too. But we all had “spirit” and knew how to enjoy ourselves without getting bogged down. Our saudade is a spring board that can develop, spread and help us take flight and the past is a time we can always return to, even when we’re by ourselves, but it helps when we’re all there for each other. Despite the endured and inflicted pain, it is still possible and miraculous in some cases, to feel a true sense of joy, camaraderie, and sentimental goodness that comes when you revisit a time, or in this case, old classmates and friends.

Saudade and my Heavy First Week of June

The word “June” looks like flowers to me somehow. I also love the way it sounds. June evokes flowers, blue skies, fresh air, and kites, even though lately it’s been riddled with April-like rain for years here. June is fun, Gemini energy.

For me the first week of June is crammed with bittersweet significance. It kicks off with my own birthday on the 1st, and then my dear cousin Joanne’s birthday the day after, someone I used to live downstairs from. June 5th is triple loaded for it’s my son’s father’s birthday, a man I’ve known for about 5 years and haven’t seen in the last four, my paternal grandmother’s birthday, and the day my mother died. June 7th is my cousin Yvonne’s birthday, someone I’ve always considered to be my “long distance sister”, and the day my maternal grandmother died. Finally, my 20th high school reunion falls on June 6, this Saturday (no idea what to wear yet).

On my birthday I wake up feeling so goddamn special, it never fails, no matter what I’m going through in life. June 1 seeps into my mind, a happy, reflective thing, and I feel as if I’ve climbed another rung in the  ladder of life, I got to reach the next number, the next number this year being 38. This year, thanks to my sister putting the upbeat, get-up-and-go “Spoon” song, You Got Yr Cherry Bomb on my phone, it was in my head as I woke up and it propelled me throughout the morning of getting the kids to school and on my way to work. I have no problem making it “all about me” on this day, if not externally then in my swelling head. The triumphant thought of, “Yayy, I got to revolve around the sun once more!” swirls inside me all day.

Inevitably throughout the year those feelings turn more into, oh nooo I am really up there, aren’t I and I start to long for the days of being younger. But I always do this, and it’s so stupid. I remember freaking out when I turned 20! No more teen years to live out! It didn’t help when my friend Liz teased me about it, her having months over me before she turned the same age.

There are things I wish I could do over in my life or re-live, but when I learned about the Brazilian term for nostalgia, saudade, as much as I thoroughly understood it, saudade is ultimately something I don’t want to be stuck in. I have friends who seem to glorify its heartache and a father who is content in his own time warp in terms of taste in movies and music. I love a lot of the old movies he’s gotten me into and I like older music, and not just in a distant, appreciative way but in an embarrassingly, out of touch, obnoxious, geeked out level.  And I know I'm not alone in this or anything, but still. 

I’m aware of the dangers of getting lost in yesterday and drowning in them so I try to tiptoe over those saudade puddles. Maybe that’s why I like my birthday so much at first because it's proof that I’m still moving ahead.

My children help me with this too, in a way. Eventually I have to get pulled back up onto the surface of today and get on with it because of them; the lunch boxes, appointments with the pediatrician, putting the toys away and getting them to do the same. And I get to look forward to the more beautiful things like the excitement they get when they lose their baby teeth, noticing them articulate their ideas more, their facial expressions developing, and being a part of their affection and understanding.

When I told my father and sister about my 20th high school reunion they both reacted with, What? That long? Yeah, that long. A second grade girl at the school I volunteer in thought I was turning 21, 23 the most, not 38. I’m telling you, our perceptions of time can be so terribly warped. You can press on and still appear to be staying in one place.

These June dates provoke so much in me and I know it’s fine to sit with that, and reflect on what they mean. But I can’t let it dictate my “everything”. They are after all, just dates on a calendar. I can honor my mother anytime, for example. I can also remember my ‘Grandma’ and ‘Mami Ana’ whenever I want to, or show some love to my fellow Gemini cousins. It’s all within reach and not bound to that one annual date. But this is a glimpse of my first week this month and what it means to me.