Oi, Mareeza

After my last entry, “Tita Says Who’s your Girl,” I was inspired to expand on the female singers who I consider to be “my girl”. I started putting together a collage on Paintshop, googling images of the 18 “girls” that came to mind and shrinking their picture to more of a thumbnail size so that they all could fit in together. I thought that I could post it up here. Well, this was my first time using Paintshop in this way and our desktop at home wasn't working well; the 5, 6, and hyphen keys stopped working and the i only worked if you pressed really hard. Then my son spilled water on the keyboard so now it doesn’t work at all.

The first images I chose were Billie and Ella. I was able to reduce (or skew) the size but I wasn’t able to do it with some of the others. Some of the bigger ones weren’t as much “my girl” so it came off a little misrepresented, looking as though I ranked Dana Fuchs over Ella Fitzgerald or Laura Nyro. So now I’m thinking; the ones whom I could do a full blown essay on in terms of how they’ve affected my life/soul would probably be Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Laura Nyro, Janis Joplin, and Marisa Monte. I’ve written a bit about Ella Fitzgerald before in ‘08 with something called, “Ella’s Blues in D.R. and Rome”. Monte happens to be the only one still alive out of these five, so just for the sake of that sole distinction, let me focus on her here.  Alongside Ella Fitzgerald, she is my favorite female vocalist.

Marisa Monte is from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Her last name is pronounced “Monchi” not the way I automatically want to pronounce it, since saying it correctly makes me think of the Monchhichi commercials I used to see as a little girl. She studied opera in Italy for a while but returned to Brazil. My dear friend Rodrigo, whom I was intermittently involved with, tells me it’s because she missed Brazil too much. He’s the one who first introduced me to her. We were at his friend Sylvester’s house when I first heard her soft, gentle voice and I just had to know who she was. He made me a copy of her 1994 album mistakenly labeling it, “Bread and Charcoal”. It’s really called, “Verde, anil, amarelo, cor de rosa e carvão” (“Green, indigo, yellow, pink and charcoal”) or “Rose and Charcoal” for short. We went to one of her concerts in 2006 when she was in New York. There was a Brazilian guy sitting a few seats to our left crying at the saudade of it all. We also went to Brazil a couple years earlier mainly to see my old high school friend, Juliana- who’s from Belo Horizonte (pronounced ‘Orizonchi’, like ‘Monchi’). I played my “Rose and Charcoal” CD a few times in the plane during the nine hour flight. I cried when we landed as if it were my long lost homeland, as if it were “Mi Tierra”, even though it never was (as far as I’m existentially aware!) 

I didn’t really know what Marisa (and that’s pronounced more like Mareeza) looked like yet but while we were there, people would say that I looked like her- though she is a little thinner, a lot taller, and our noses are different. Our birthdays are 1 month (and ten years) apart- she’s July 1, 1967 and I’m June 1, 1977.

“Mom, why does she looks so much like you?” my son asked as we were watching her fantastic ‘96 “Barulhinho Bom- Uma Viagem Musical” concert film. That made me laugh.

I lent this film to his father Agustin, the year we met. When I lent it to him, I described it as something that it is very much like how I am. I couldn’t explain what I meant exactly, but I felt it captured/conveyed/portrayed a part of me, in essence. Blown away after seeing it, he returned it asking, “Which part is ‘like you’? There’s so much going on- I saw romanticism, adventure, music, travel...” I smiled and agreed. For my 29th birthday he searched high and low to get me both of her new CDs at the time, ‘Universo Meu Redor’ and ‘Infinito Particular’. He liked her too and wondered where she’d been all his life, and how come he never heard of her before. Before all that, when he and I were first talking, I had a hard time keeping up my end of our conversation in Spanish (he’s Dominican).

This kind of thing happens to me all the time; my flow will be ok for a while but then I'll start stammering, forgetting a word, a proper conjugation, or a phrase. I'll fall into this downward spiral that forces me to revert and switch back into English. I compare my ease with these two languages with shoes. With Spanish, it feels like I have on red, fancy, high heels. They stand out and they’re gorgeous, but after a while they pinch and it’s not long before I start to wobble. I definitely can’t run in them. English on the other hand is like slipping into some old, comfortable sneakers. Not as attractive, but super comfy and more flexible/agreeable with my lifestyle. I can run, jump, skip, and zip down the stairs with those babies on. Not that I'm flawless in English, I'm just a lot more agile. But with Agustin, I really wanted to keep my end up Spanish-wise and do my best- and I couldn’t. I was failing. And “choking”. And just plain nervous and kind of falling in love. Typical.

The song she does with Paulinho da Viola, “Para Ver As Meninas” has the line, “Não diga nada sobre meus defeitos”- she elongates the word “defeeeiitos” (defects/flaws) which of course, makes me think of my “defeitos”. “Eu não me lembro mais/quem me deixou assim” “I do not remember anymore/Who left me like this?” Exactly- who the hell left me like this, besides me?

My mother spoke perfect English and Spanish. She was the ideal, elegant bilingual who really could’ve interpreted for the United Nations if she wanted to- but she felt like it was such a chore to even translate for her mother and so she didn’t enjoy things like that. She married my dad and we all spoke English at home since that’s the language he’s most comfortable with. Nevertheless, I’d always hear Spanish around me growing up, when other family spoke, gossiped and joked around, ubiquitous Sabado Gigante and noticias my maternal grandparents tuned into, and commercials with the grandiose, fast-paced voice overs. Those are all are etched in my mind without fully comprehending everything. “Para Ver As Meninas” probably had nothing at all to do with what I was thinking and feeling. In fact I think it was more having to do with divorce, but it cut right through and brought me to tears.

I guess it’s because I’ve always been chasing and struggling with Spanish, and probably always will be, Sisyphus style.

When we were in Brazil, it felt like I was back in the Dominican Republic in some ways. I also realized something about my experience with learning Brazilian Portuguese and told Rodrigo and Juliana. I said that this is my less stressful, “familiar foreign language”. Briefly learning Japanese through Rosetta Stone had the same “no pressure, just fun” feel to it, but Portuguese is way more similar to Spanish, so I feel a closeness with it- but without the emotional baggage. When I mess up, I don’t feel that shame or embarrassment. For me, Marisa was the extraordinary singer who guided and transported me to this more content state of mind. Her voice opened a door for me, a new way of feeling and experiencing another Romance language and all my words of praise here don’t take the place of listening to her sing.

June 30, 2018

Tomorrow's her birthday and I happened to find this online- Marisa facts :) https://connectbrazil.com/marisa-monte-10-top-songs-and-stories-about-brazils-mpb-star/

Tita says, Who’s Your Girl

We do not need some outside credential, or certification, to justify our worth or experience; it is there, underneath the surface, always for us to tap into when we’re not sure of our next work move. What feels right? If we were truly listening to our hearts, we might wonder, what would our abuelitas advise? – Michelle Herrera Mulligan

As someone who has scrambled around to acquire various credentials over the years, this was a nice article to run into. From teacher workshops to notary public, medical billing, and proofreading certificates, I’m always trying to push myself and earn validation. Push myself where exactly, I’m not always sure. This year I’m taking Vanessa Mártir’s essay-a-week challenge (her hashtag is #52essays2017), but so far I’m doing it more like twice a month which would turn into to 24 essays at the end of the year, if even that. These self-exploratory mini memoirs are leading me ‘somewhere’, no doubt. But like I said, reading this quote felt good. It made me think of not so much my abuelitas, at least not at first. I called my paternal grandmother "Grandma" and my maternal one "Mama Ana" or "Mami Ana" so I don't exactly associate the words abuela or abuelita with my grandmothers. But one of my bis-abuelitas, my great grandmother on my father’s side, Berta Astor, maiden name Mendoza a.k.a. “Tita”, comes to mind. "Tita" sounds closer to "abuelita"- and I was told that title of hers stuck because my father couldn't pronounce "abuelita" as a baby, he said "Tita" instead.

Tita was originally from Arecibo, Puerto Rico but came to live in Spanish Harlem in the 1920’s, then later in the Bronx.  She had seven children, went to church regularly I think, and hosted informal English classes in her kitchen, as my other paternal great grandmother Maria had done. Her birthday was on May 4th, as in the “May the fourth be with you” joke, and the same day as Audrey Hepburn’s except, 20 years earlier, in 1909. Tita died in December of 2004 when she was 95 (“and a half,” my dad would include), so she would have been 108 this year.

Tita and I weren't that close. I mean, how could we be? We were “great grands” apart and many, many relatives in between. I felt closer to her daughter-in-law, my Grandma Lillian, someone she considered too wild for her son, or so I heard. But when I think of Tita, I remember her big family gatherings in Castle Hill, her backyard BBQ’s, the welcoming cheers we received as we walked in, and our “Puerto Rican good-byes” when we left, meaning all the goodbye hugs and wrap-up convos that took place before we actually left. Going upstairs to use the bathroom or getting our coats to leave, I would see her old, beautifully framed family portraits on the walls, bedroom dressers and night stands.

One time I drew her a picture of myself. I told her it was so that she could remember me. She assured me that she didn't need that, that she can remember me without any drawings and it made me feel special and loved. Someone with so many children, grandchildren, son and daughter-in-laws, etc would still remember little ol’ me. Maybe that was also her polite way of not having to accept my scribbly, scrappy drawing. 

These days my daughter tells me something similar about me taking so many pictures, that I do it so that we won’t forget what we look like. I tell her yes, but also reassure her that we also have our memories.

Once Tita asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said something like a singer or an actress. She nodded in acknowledgement and then told me that as long as I’m an honest and good person, that that's what matters more. One of my favorite sayings is, “It doesn’t matter how rich, talented, educated, cool or attractive you think you are. How you treat others ultimately tells all. Integrity matters most” 

Tita really liked the 1964 “Eydie Gorme y Los Panchos” album and so do I. My parents had the CD and I’m sure she had the 33 ⅓ rpm LP.  

She felt that Gloria Estefan was nice but “hasn't lived enough yet” to really get into her. I understand what she meant, she’s more of a “safe” or pleasant singer, nothing too edgy or hopelessly heartbroken. Still, I felt that the story behind her song, “Coming Out of the Dark” was moving and I might decide to see "On Your Feet!” on Broadway one day (but for $200 a pop? Ehh...).

When I was little I liked Gloria Estefan in “The Miami Sound Machine”, with songs like, “Rhythm is Gonna Get You, “1-2-3” and “Conga” and yes, when I was 10 I belted out “Anything For You” to myself on the corner of my block one morning, dedicating it to my unrequited crush on Omar like I was in some gotdamn musical or video. I liked her sad “Cuts Both Ways” and “Words Get in the Way” songs as well. But it wasn't until her 1993 “Mi Tierra” album did I really start paying attention.

I bought the cassette, pulled out the Spanish lyrics and copied them down in my black and white composition notebook, ready to dissect and learn. Her first album in Spanish, with a stunning 1940’s vintage black and white cover and gardenias in her soft wavy hair, as opposed to the wet, frizzy late 80’s waves- which looked great too, don’t get me wrong!

I poured over the lyrics, looking up words I didn't recognize (Oh, I would love to be a Spanish to English translator one of these days... see, now there's another certificate I gotta chase after!)

Tita misread my passion for ‘vintage’ style and language and assumed that Gloria Estefan was “my girl”. That's what she called her when one of her songs played on the car radio one day.  Deeming certain singers or movie stars your girl or your boy was definitely something both Grandma Lillian and Grandpa did. Yule Brynner, Richard Burton, and Michael Jackson were some of Grandma's 'boys', Cyd Charisse, Doris Day, and Eleanor Parker were Grandpa's 'girls'. Now that I’m thinking about it more, over a dozen singers and actresses come to mind who are more “my girl” than Gloria Estefan. Billie, Ella, Marisa Monte, to name a small few. But I let her believe it because it wasn't an outlandish misconception, it was just a little off.

Grandma Lillian died in April of 2001, three years before Tita. A few of us stayed over her house in Connecticut during the funeral services that week and I slept next to Tita in the TV room couch that opened up as a bed.  I was devastated about Grandma's death and kept to myself at night, usually in tears. We were both lying down one night and she reached over to pat and rub my back a little- no words, just compassion, acknowledging how I felt without having to explain myself.

These are things I’ve learned from Tita by example, whether she knew it or not; the beauty of unspoken compassion, striving to be a good person, placing that as most high, relying on the strength of your own heart and memory, and the love of boleros. And she got me to weigh in the singers I consider to be more “my girl” ;)

One of the many family reunions. Tita, in the light blue dress and pink cardigan, looks as though she is looking at me, in the white sweatshirt with black and white stripes. I don't know what year this is, but it has to be the 80's. '87?

I believe this is in '93. Me, around 16, posing with Tita and my mom in Connecticut. This is a rare shot because any picture of me with Tita always included the rest of the family.

Another rare one I came across this morning (7/29/18)- Grandma (Lillian), me, and Tita- early 80's I'm guessing. (I'll try to properly rotate it eventually- I'm having no luck with that so far).

This hangs in our hallway now. My dad says this is the late 50's, at the Copacabana. Tita is sitting on the far left.

Poems after National Poetry Month

I started writing this one at the end of April. I wanted to comment on National Poetry Month and actually, was trying to write this in the middle of the month, but Dr. Schneider’s memorial was coming up, so that took precedence. I wrote Doc- Our Favorite Rambling Man instead. But now we’re already in May, and April, National Poetry Month, is over.

Last week I went back to poetry.com, the website where I used to post my poems about a decade ago. But I couldn’t remember my password, nor the password of the hotmail address I used to use in order to log in, and that was frustrating. What also seems frustrating for me is to write about writing, or poetry, in the first place. Paisley Rekdal wrote a good piece about what’s not so great about designating a month for poetry. Still, I’d like to try to gather some of my thoughts, memories, and feelings concerning poetry so, here it goes..

Titles and summaries of my poems

1. Our Encounter : about visiting my boyfriend at the time when he was in Rikers. It wasn’t a romantic poem, I was trying to convey my feelings of dread
2. Why I Can't See Fiona: what Fiona Apple’s music meant to me, especially after seeing her Elvis Costello rendition of “I Want You”
3. To Have Fallen In Sync:, when I met and fell in love with my son’s father, claiming that we both fell in love with each other at the same time. This one rhymed.
4. So: when he left me, or when I truly knew that he wouldn’t be coming back to me, that there was no more hope of that ever happening. This one also rhymed and was way shorter.
5. These Waves: about how I felt when I read an old journal entry of me writing about an argument I had with my mother. How emotionally out of control I felt because of her death and how I can never go back and try to make amends anymore.
6. Each Week in His Way: about a teacher I admired
7. Just Tryin’: about my feelings, and trying to cope

Maybe one day I’ll round up all those poems together in one place and post them here. But I think this will do for now...  

Here are 2 poems I found on YouTube a couple years ago that I like, and also like the way the poets visually enhanced their work

In my freshman year in high school, my English teacher talked to us about Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken. 

That stuck to me, the idea that we’re on paths in life and why he’d value a road that no one else has embarked on.

What also stuck to me was what this Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe book said somewhere in the preface: that poetry is best as a “contact sport”

My (ex) Boyfriend

Early on when Flaco and I were dating, I found a greyish paperback in his room. One of his old teachers had given it to him. It had various Federico Garcia Lorca poems in its original Spanish and then translated into English on the following page (unless he also wrote some in English?). Flaco’s teacher inscribed on one of the first pages telling him, “I hope you find your mountain”. I’d read it every now and then, looking back and forth at the English and Spanish pages, comparing the two languages, like I often do in my head. The two poems that I remember most are, 'The King of Harlem' and 'The Old Lizard'.

My Family

So much of my family puts out amazing poems. 

My cousin wrote this for his beloved Heather; even the ones he wrote before meeting her or not necessarily written about her, he attributes them to her anyway. My sister creates such fantastic poems on the regular, so does my father, and my cousin Yvonne shares poems with me quietly, like she's confiding and revealing her innermost thoughts and feelings; something she can’t just do by simply talking with me. well, she can, she does; but with her poems she’s telling me, here’s a better way to express it, a more fun, or more profound way.

My mom

I often wonder about my mom. Towards the end of her life she told me that she was working on a poem, or thinking about working on a poem, still an abstract idea in her mind. It had something to do with how we’re all like plants, needing love and to be taken care of, and even after we die we decompose, fertilize, and allow more life to carry on; the beautiful cycle of life and death, and Life again. I wonder if she ever finished that poem, or if she ever even started it.

Her mom

This is when I visited my grandmother’s mausoleum in the Dominican Republic for the first time. In a little envelope, I placed Julia Alvarez’s poem, “A Woman’s Work” and with the help of my friend Rodrigo, translated it into Spanish. Not that she's able to read it at this point but… hey, you never know. Maybe on some level, she is...