It seems I usually write something on Christmas, in the form of one of those Facebook "Notes." Those are so old fashioned and not nearly important enough, because I am now a blogger. That makes me at least twice as but no more than five times more important than I was before. But then all this shit happened, and I decided I wasn't gonna to write. But then one thing in particular happened, and I'm also listening to Shakira and Celia Cruz and the Bangles so I'm practically dripping with sentimentalism, and I've been playing NHL14 Hockey on the PS3, and my hands are drawn to the keyboard like so many moths to the flame, and I'm eating this delicious gouda cheese (I f***ing love gouda cheese) with pretzels and a caffeine free Coca Cola, so I'm gonna write.
Just one disclosure: I'm not really SURE the one thing that happened, happened. I mean, I'm pretty sure, and for your, the readers' (all 8 of you--I've gained one) sake, I recommend you ignore the disclosure, and just go on assuming it happened, because it will (probably) make more sense that way. But I try to cover all the angles....
*****
Of course, even without this thing, my Christmas season has been lovely. I make a big hugabaloo about the Holidays, but really, there is very little for me to be unhappy about. Sonia does all the grunt work (willingly, I emphasize) so I worry not a wit about presents. I get two weeks off work, much more than about 80% of the working population. That's what allows me to stay up late, drink Coke, and listen to Jewell. For the first time, I believe, ever, we are home for BOTH Christmas and Thanksgiving. I've missed seeing my family, but it is certainly nice to nest, especially in this freaking weather. Plus, my sister and her family were here last night and today, and it was great. (Guns n' Roses' "November Rain" now fomenting nostalgia). As usual, my wife provided an excellent bounty for my children and myself. And my sister-in-law provided a wonderful dinner.
This is all wonderful but becoming sort of par for the course. And I didn't think I had it in me to produce another original, illuminating piece of prose for this holiday. But it's funny, I just checked Facebook for--well, God knows what reason, we just do it, it's akin to breathing these days, no?? And I was jolted out of my complacency.
*****
For those of you who don't know, I traveled to Spain a few years ago for what was optimistically called a "Course for teachers of Spanish in other subjects"--i.e., teaching science, social studies, math, etc. in Spanish to non-Native Spanish speakers. It was two weeks and I learned a ton, although much of it had nothing to do with Spanish teaching, but with me meeting the world (or at least Europe). (For more information, see a Facebook note from August 13, 2010). Of course, at the end of the session, we all exchanged Facebook info and swore we'd stay tight. And we did, for a while. Human nature. As the visceral memories fade due to time and distance, it's not nearly as important.
There was one particular woman with whom I bonded. We kept the correspondence up for quite a time...a couple times a month for a while, then once a month, pretty soon a quick heads up when one of us had a couple extra minutes. We had a common interest in writing--she writes well, I pretend to write. Since last summer, we've maybe talked twice, maybe a cursory "How are things" or a smartass remark to something the other wrote.
*****
Soraya plays now. For all your Spanish speakers, this is a little known woman who grew up in New Jersey of Colombian parents and simply drives straight to the heart. Anyway, I was getting ready for a snack tonight, and thought I'd check out the FB real quick before settling in for a book. And it was the weirdest timing--I saw a picture of my friend, with her husband, and she appears to have a baby bump, and there's baby booties on the Christmas tree, and he has her hand on her tummy. So I'm pretty sure she's expecting (disclosure applies here, and quite probably loss of a friendship if I'm wrong). And I felt this completely unexpected wave of happiness washing over me, it was literally 10 minutes before Christmas day ended in Iowa, and things sort of clicked. She's probably real busy with this change in her life, and I thought "So, this is why I haven't heard anything in so long. She's getting ready for the biggest moment of her life". No matter how many times it happens, a loved one's expecting never loses that impact--that hope, that joy, that happiness that a real good person gets the chance to make his or her impact on another little life, even if (and maybe especially if) the person is a long ways away, and you hear very little from them. A special Christmas gift, from 7000 miles away.
*****
Sheryl Crow. "Strong Enough". Lie to me...I promise, I'll believe...Lie to me....Just please, don't leave.... And the hits just keep on coming....
*****
So since I decided if I'm gonna write anyway, I've gotta tell this one story that is, to me, Christmas.
The eight regular readers of this column know that I have certain problems with the way education is practiced nowadays. In particular, I have an issue with the way certain practices can lead to situations in which we view students as test score numbers rather than children growing up. Now, as a credit to my colleagues, this is something that is minimalized in my school. But still I don't like where it's headed.
I have a student. She has been selected for reading intervention. Does she need it? That is an open question. Is she benefitting? Another question worth exploring. But try as I might, I struggle doing the appropriate paperwork and keeping up the checks I am expected to do. I know she's behind, but she's also a normal ten year old; she likes keeping up with her friends and likes to tell me I'm not cool (all in good fun--I think....). I can't help but think instruction, not multiple assessments, may do her more good than said assessments....
*****
On Friday, the last day before Christmas Break, I received a call from my wonderful office manager, Pamela Romero. Seems that my student's brother, off for basic training at Ft. Benning, Georgia, was making a surprise visit home for the holidays. He wanted to surprise her at school. The young man wore his fatigues and walked in while my student was swapping candies with a classmate. She looked up, saw first her mom, wondered what was going on, and then jumped out of her seat and bear hugged her brother.
Fuck numbers. That's a little girl who misses her brother. And I can't think of a better image of Christmas, and I hope I keep it in my head for a long, long time.
*****
"Green Eyes" by Coldplay will, more than likely, close out my evening. I came here with a load...and it feels so much lighter, now I met you....and honey you should know....that I could never go on without you....
The Green Eyes have been different things to me, at different times. Tonight, they'll be the spirit of Christmas, the spirit of every day, Them Sheeyits, seeing me to bed on my 37th Christmas, and promising that I'll feel lighter if and when I give my will over to them, instead of imposing my world on the world.
Besos minha gente...la quiero mucho....Mark
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Monday, December 16, 2013
Of hard-boiled eggs and the true spirit of Christmas
I consider myself one of those people perpetually trying to improve my diet but in the end just breaking even. I'm trying to stock the house with whole grains, have a glass of milk every night before I go to bed, eat oatmeal for supper (instant; I tried the real stuff but it just wasn't the same). I buy fruit for snacks, drink straight black coffee instead of soda for my morning caffeine hit, have a tin of almonds in my desk for unexpected hunger bouts.
Trouble is, every time I improve in one thing, I let something else go. Like today: no soda all day at school, then I slammed a twenty ounce coke and now I'm working on another one. It's SO f***ing good. Or I work it out so I can have two pieces of whole wheat cinnamon toast in the morning with my coffee, but many times just get too "rushed" to make it....but still have no problem finding the time to stop by the gas station for Hostess Chocolate Cupcakes (nothing like pure unadulterated sugar in the morning).
I'm actually pretty impressed by my latest effort. Every morning, when the kids go out for recess, I've taken to eating a precooked hard boiled egg, seasoned generously with Lawry's Seasoning Salt. It's a substantial source of protein and fills me up until lunch time. And up to now (knock on wood), I haven't changed compensated this act of good nutrition with another one. A step in the right direction? We'll see....
*****
I teach fourth grade and work alongside a team of five other people. These five people are fucking amazing. We're a family all on our own, and pretty well aware of what's going on in everybody's lives, even when it involves fairly mundane dietary choices. Everyone approved of my move and one woman, in particular, was impressed. She is also a healthy eater but she's a real healthy eater, not nearly as wishy-washy as me. So I said (apparently, last Friday) that I would bring her a hard-boiled egg, too. I thought it was a fairly innocuous chance to bond over morning snacks.
However, it is generally (though not always) the case that my wife boils my egg for me in the morning. I asked her to prepare two for tomorrow.
"Why?"
"I told my friend I'd bring her one."
"I am not cooking for another woman!"
"Why not?"
"Because first it's an egg, then it's dinner, then it's who knows what?"
The conversation continued, and "dinner" was correlated with other activities, but the final result was sealed from the get-go. No hard-boiled egg for my friend. I'll break the news tomorrow...hopefully she doesn't shed too many tears....
*****
This conversation, and this blog, occur between the sounds and visuals of Sonia's television program. I generally avoid television, with the large exception of sports, and better than average sitcoms like "The Bing Bang Theory". But it's nice to be in the same room although we are doing different things. She's watching all these detective shows, where there are several attractive men and women, an older man, and an alternative, chubby woman working the computers. I don't mind the shows so much--after all they're all pretty much the same (except Law and Order. Don't touch my f***ing Law and Order).
What I'm hearing tonight, though, more that the shows, are the f***ing commercials. I must admit, I'm doing better this Christmas season than in the last few. I've really been working on accepting life on life's terms, and although I'm not quite there, I sense progress. (It helps that, as teachers, we get two weeks off). But still, and I know this is SO f***ing hipster, I'm so damn sick of the commercialism. There is a large part of the population that only sees this last month as the last chance to turn their books to black, putting ever more pressure on us to keep buying, to buy a gift for our aunt's husband's stepdaughter because, well, if you're in the Christmas spirit, you should want to.
Sometimes I want to say, "Fuck it. Fuck Christmas."
But that'd get me a divorce faster than the hard-boiled egg.
*****
Seeing upper middle class families buy expensive video games and iPads and laptops and even cars is even harder in the context of my current job. The current percentage of students receiving free or reduced lunch in my sons' school is 54%; it's even higher in West Liberty. I do recess duty twice a week and kids don't have boots, they have old, worn down jackets. They don't have stocking hats. Most of them handle it with impressive stoicism, walking around to keep warm and not complaining. I dress with an extra layer of pants and a hundred dollar jacket. I tell them to stick it out.
*****
A few weeks ago a couple of teachers stood up at a faculty meeting and said, "Listen, guys, we've got to do something. We've been here fifteen years and never seen it like this. The poverty is "in your face" (their words). And all these dumbass school reformers, all they want to talk about is fucking test scores. It's been accepted principle for decades in the education world that a child (or an adult, for that matter) must have certain needs taken care of before they can focus on the relatively inapplicable things we learn in school. You go to work when you're hungry, when you're sleep deprived, when you're home life is patas arriba. When you're cold, when parents aren't home at night because they're each working two jobs. It's called "Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs" (google it if you haven't heard of it). Some of the worst culprits in this are the teachers themselves.
Anyway, off my soapbox. Some brainstorming was done and they came up with this idea where kids would bring in all the change they could and we'd make a contest out of it to see which grade raised the most money. We called it the Penny Wars. First grade won, but that's not really the point (except for maybe the first graders....) In five days, around 500 1st-5th graders managed to raise over $1500, money that would go straight to our backpack program, in which backpacks of ready to prepare food goes home with needy kids every single weekend. So simple, so beautiful. So inspired. It's a public school, but I think the Holy Spirit might be among us.
*****
Despite my most virulent anti-Christmas intentions, real-world events are weakening me. Not sure I'll be Kris Kringle yet, but after church yesterday morning I feel my heart, like the Grinch, growing three sizes. Our interim pastor, in perhaps one last act of impetuousness (or revolution), emptied our discretionary fund and divided it into fifty dollar bills. At the offertory, when we usually offer our gifts to God, we were to take the fifty dollars and take them into the community, to those who might be able to use them, to spread the good news of Christ. I'd never seen or heard anything like that.
When the basket got back to me (we were in the back), there were still to fifty dollar bills. I thought about West Liberty. I thought about the need and I thought about the Penny Wars and the thin jackets and the free and reduced lunches and I thought that finally, a church got it right. Money, straight money, where it needs to go, no strings attached.
$1500 is a lot of money. $1600 sounds even better. Why look around the world when you can look around the hallways?
*****
Christmas fast approaches. I'm anxious for it to pass, to stop hearing the f***ing commercials, and to stop being told to be happy whether I feel like it or not. But things feel better this year. Things feel real.
Maybe, just maybe, that little baby that probably wasn't really born in a barn, and probably wasn't born of a virgin, and most probably never received any visits from any supposed "Wise Men", up in Heaven at the Right Side of the Father (according to the Catholics, at least), maybe he's smiling. Maybe he's saying, these Earth people are finally getting the hang of it.
I only claim to speak for myself. But right now, that's good enough for me.
Feliz Navidad, minha gente, y beijinhos, beijinhos, beijinhos.
Plum
Trouble is, every time I improve in one thing, I let something else go. Like today: no soda all day at school, then I slammed a twenty ounce coke and now I'm working on another one. It's SO f***ing good. Or I work it out so I can have two pieces of whole wheat cinnamon toast in the morning with my coffee, but many times just get too "rushed" to make it....but still have no problem finding the time to stop by the gas station for Hostess Chocolate Cupcakes (nothing like pure unadulterated sugar in the morning).
I'm actually pretty impressed by my latest effort. Every morning, when the kids go out for recess, I've taken to eating a precooked hard boiled egg, seasoned generously with Lawry's Seasoning Salt. It's a substantial source of protein and fills me up until lunch time. And up to now (knock on wood), I haven't changed compensated this act of good nutrition with another one. A step in the right direction? We'll see....
*****
I teach fourth grade and work alongside a team of five other people. These five people are fucking amazing. We're a family all on our own, and pretty well aware of what's going on in everybody's lives, even when it involves fairly mundane dietary choices. Everyone approved of my move and one woman, in particular, was impressed. She is also a healthy eater but she's a real healthy eater, not nearly as wishy-washy as me. So I said (apparently, last Friday) that I would bring her a hard-boiled egg, too. I thought it was a fairly innocuous chance to bond over morning snacks.
However, it is generally (though not always) the case that my wife boils my egg for me in the morning. I asked her to prepare two for tomorrow.
"Why?"
"I told my friend I'd bring her one."
"I am not cooking for another woman!"
"Why not?"
"Because first it's an egg, then it's dinner, then it's who knows what?"
The conversation continued, and "dinner" was correlated with other activities, but the final result was sealed from the get-go. No hard-boiled egg for my friend. I'll break the news tomorrow...hopefully she doesn't shed too many tears....
*****
This conversation, and this blog, occur between the sounds and visuals of Sonia's television program. I generally avoid television, with the large exception of sports, and better than average sitcoms like "The Bing Bang Theory". But it's nice to be in the same room although we are doing different things. She's watching all these detective shows, where there are several attractive men and women, an older man, and an alternative, chubby woman working the computers. I don't mind the shows so much--after all they're all pretty much the same (except Law and Order. Don't touch my f***ing Law and Order).
What I'm hearing tonight, though, more that the shows, are the f***ing commercials. I must admit, I'm doing better this Christmas season than in the last few. I've really been working on accepting life on life's terms, and although I'm not quite there, I sense progress. (It helps that, as teachers, we get two weeks off). But still, and I know this is SO f***ing hipster, I'm so damn sick of the commercialism. There is a large part of the population that only sees this last month as the last chance to turn their books to black, putting ever more pressure on us to keep buying, to buy a gift for our aunt's husband's stepdaughter because, well, if you're in the Christmas spirit, you should want to.
Sometimes I want to say, "Fuck it. Fuck Christmas."
But that'd get me a divorce faster than the hard-boiled egg.
*****
Seeing upper middle class families buy expensive video games and iPads and laptops and even cars is even harder in the context of my current job. The current percentage of students receiving free or reduced lunch in my sons' school is 54%; it's even higher in West Liberty. I do recess duty twice a week and kids don't have boots, they have old, worn down jackets. They don't have stocking hats. Most of them handle it with impressive stoicism, walking around to keep warm and not complaining. I dress with an extra layer of pants and a hundred dollar jacket. I tell them to stick it out.
*****
A few weeks ago a couple of teachers stood up at a faculty meeting and said, "Listen, guys, we've got to do something. We've been here fifteen years and never seen it like this. The poverty is "in your face" (their words). And all these dumbass school reformers, all they want to talk about is fucking test scores. It's been accepted principle for decades in the education world that a child (or an adult, for that matter) must have certain needs taken care of before they can focus on the relatively inapplicable things we learn in school. You go to work when you're hungry, when you're sleep deprived, when you're home life is patas arriba. When you're cold, when parents aren't home at night because they're each working two jobs. It's called "Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs" (google it if you haven't heard of it). Some of the worst culprits in this are the teachers themselves.
Anyway, off my soapbox. Some brainstorming was done and they came up with this idea where kids would bring in all the change they could and we'd make a contest out of it to see which grade raised the most money. We called it the Penny Wars. First grade won, but that's not really the point (except for maybe the first graders....) In five days, around 500 1st-5th graders managed to raise over $1500, money that would go straight to our backpack program, in which backpacks of ready to prepare food goes home with needy kids every single weekend. So simple, so beautiful. So inspired. It's a public school, but I think the Holy Spirit might be among us.
*****
Despite my most virulent anti-Christmas intentions, real-world events are weakening me. Not sure I'll be Kris Kringle yet, but after church yesterday morning I feel my heart, like the Grinch, growing three sizes. Our interim pastor, in perhaps one last act of impetuousness (or revolution), emptied our discretionary fund and divided it into fifty dollar bills. At the offertory, when we usually offer our gifts to God, we were to take the fifty dollars and take them into the community, to those who might be able to use them, to spread the good news of Christ. I'd never seen or heard anything like that.
When the basket got back to me (we were in the back), there were still to fifty dollar bills. I thought about West Liberty. I thought about the need and I thought about the Penny Wars and the thin jackets and the free and reduced lunches and I thought that finally, a church got it right. Money, straight money, where it needs to go, no strings attached.
$1500 is a lot of money. $1600 sounds even better. Why look around the world when you can look around the hallways?
*****
Christmas fast approaches. I'm anxious for it to pass, to stop hearing the f***ing commercials, and to stop being told to be happy whether I feel like it or not. But things feel better this year. Things feel real.
Maybe, just maybe, that little baby that probably wasn't really born in a barn, and probably wasn't born of a virgin, and most probably never received any visits from any supposed "Wise Men", up in Heaven at the Right Side of the Father (according to the Catholics, at least), maybe he's smiling. Maybe he's saying, these Earth people are finally getting the hang of it.
I only claim to speak for myself. But right now, that's good enough for me.
Feliz Navidad, minha gente, y beijinhos, beijinhos, beijinhos.
Plum
Saturday, December 7, 2013
A Night Out With The Boys (and some girls)
First of all, my most deepest apologies to all seven people who actually read this blog and realized I hadn't written anything since October 1. I will make that excuse that just seems to work for everything: Life has been crazy. Seems to me whenever we don't see each other for whatever reason, either party can simply say "Life's been crazy", and everything is forgiven.
Everybody's life is crazy; I realize that. It's part of what makes these years magical. Two little kids, two full time jobs, two steps forward and one step back. I'm doing good just to go through a week and not have any cars stolen. My parents did it; their parents did it; and my boys will do it (should any woman, of course, accept them). Life.
*****
So. Weekends, especially since soccer season ended in October, have become a sacrosanct time in our household. We get caught up on eating, cleaning. And another wonderful development this fall: my boys have fallen in love with college football. Over the last few weeks, a routine has set up on Saturday mornings. The kids get up early (goddamn, do they get up early!) and play NCAA Football in preparation. If I'm on my game, I get to the gym before we settle in. 11:00 games, 2:30 games, 6:00 games, 7:00 games, 9:00 games, 10:30 games. Sonia gets fed up but she doesn't object to the bonding.
Niko hast taken an especially strong interest in the football endeavors of the University (if you can call it that) of Alabama. You see, Alabama is rated number 1 in the video game and Niko knows every single player on the team. He has learned to create himself as a player and plays several different positions. We hear ALL about EVERY game; every catch; every throw; every rush; every tackle. And we always find out who the Player of the Game is; he's especially thrilled if it's Niko Plum.The boy is in love.
Last week we settled in at 2:30 for the Iron Bowl. Auburn-Alabama. Number 4 vs. Number 1. Winner quite possible goes to the National Championship. I, of course, want Alabama to lose with every single bone in my body but don't want Niko to know this. The game is a wild one, with the wildest possible finish: Alabama goes for a last second field goal that would win the game. It's short. Auburn fields the kick, and returns it 108 yards for a touchdown with no time on the clock. Game over. I'm jubilant but can't express that in front of my child. So I rave about the play itself, the absolute craziness of it all. Niko watched the replays, forlorn. Five or ten minutes passed. Then he walked into the red room, not saying a word, found his mom, and began to cry.
*****
As special as all this has been to me, I have had a yearning for several weeks that, due to my caretaker responsibilities, has gone unfulfilled. Tradition dictates that I spend a few Saturdays each fall watching the game out with some buddies. Usually it's the Hawkeyes but not always; it doesn't particularly matter. It's the custom, the act of going out and having five games happen around you, the bullshitting about football and life. This weekend, Sonia finally said she felt good enough to have the boys, and me and the boys went out. Iowa's done, but there were several conference championships running, and plenty to see on TV: the last weekend of the college football dance. We ate, we talked about nothing. My God, did it feel good!!
As luck would have it, I ran into a friend of mine who said they were also getting together at another establishment, to celebrate the birthday of an ex-colleague of mine in the Department of Spanish. So, me and the guys moved our football watching to that bar, where I had the chance to reconnect with several friends from the Department WHILE watching football. Heaven, I tell you. It is a special feeling when you see these people, and they all miss you, and in some ways you feel light years removed but at the same time I feel like I could head straight back and draw syntactic trees until I became dizzy. In particular, I enjoyed the opportunity to talk with my friend celebrating her birthday; one of those people you're very close to and then POP, you change lives, and that's that. At least we agreed to get coffee in the near future...
In short, I needed tonight to remind me that I can still watch the ballgame, toss around the bullshit. I don't know if it's trying to "relive the glory days"; I'm not sure how glorious football games and Joes Place are, anyway. But I'm at that age where people do that, I suppose, and it's important.
*****
Around 10:30 tonight, I had a little time to myself, and I remarked to myself how late it was getting, while my college friends began to plan their next bar. They would be dancing. I would most definitely not be.
Around that time, Michigan State began to pull away from the Buckeyes in the Big Ten Championship. I remarked on this to my buddies and then realized I still needed to talk to someone else about it. But he was at home, in bed, sleeping. And I had that moment that I've had before, but somehow more acutely this time, the moment that all parents have from time to time, when suddenly that trip out to get your own space is interfering with something bigger, where YOUR space doesn't seem as important as OUR space.
*****
I've sworn up and down and back up again that I will never play that game, that guilt game that so many American parents seem to be plagued by, that absolute fear that any time devoted to themselves is somehow child-raising blasphemy, I know it is absolutely 100% healthy for Mom to have time for Mom, Dad to have time for Dad, Mom and Dad to have time for Mom and Dad. And it is healthy for the kids to see this, and recognize this.
And I did enjoy my time tonight. I'm glad I got to celebrate a birthday with a friend, even if (or especially if) I don't get to see her, hardly ever. And I'm glad I got to watch the game with my friends.
But it's one thing to say the words, and another thing to fully feel them. Tonight was great, but it wasn't perfect. Perfect would have been a five minute visit to Niko. "What a game, hey, buddy!! The Spartans got it done. What was your favorite part of the game? Who do you think the Player of the Game should have been?" And then I tuck him in, and kiss him goodnight, and transport myself back to Joes.
Impossible, I know. I sense many such situations in the future...
To Niko and Orlando, Wiley and Jeremy, Fernando y Emily, Anastasia y Asma, and of course Sonia, and all those who ride along with me in this life....
Everybody's life is crazy; I realize that. It's part of what makes these years magical. Two little kids, two full time jobs, two steps forward and one step back. I'm doing good just to go through a week and not have any cars stolen. My parents did it; their parents did it; and my boys will do it (should any woman, of course, accept them). Life.
*****
So. Weekends, especially since soccer season ended in October, have become a sacrosanct time in our household. We get caught up on eating, cleaning. And another wonderful development this fall: my boys have fallen in love with college football. Over the last few weeks, a routine has set up on Saturday mornings. The kids get up early (goddamn, do they get up early!) and play NCAA Football in preparation. If I'm on my game, I get to the gym before we settle in. 11:00 games, 2:30 games, 6:00 games, 7:00 games, 9:00 games, 10:30 games. Sonia gets fed up but she doesn't object to the bonding.
Niko hast taken an especially strong interest in the football endeavors of the University (if you can call it that) of Alabama. You see, Alabama is rated number 1 in the video game and Niko knows every single player on the team. He has learned to create himself as a player and plays several different positions. We hear ALL about EVERY game; every catch; every throw; every rush; every tackle. And we always find out who the Player of the Game is; he's especially thrilled if it's Niko Plum.The boy is in love.
Last week we settled in at 2:30 for the Iron Bowl. Auburn-Alabama. Number 4 vs. Number 1. Winner quite possible goes to the National Championship. I, of course, want Alabama to lose with every single bone in my body but don't want Niko to know this. The game is a wild one, with the wildest possible finish: Alabama goes for a last second field goal that would win the game. It's short. Auburn fields the kick, and returns it 108 yards for a touchdown with no time on the clock. Game over. I'm jubilant but can't express that in front of my child. So I rave about the play itself, the absolute craziness of it all. Niko watched the replays, forlorn. Five or ten minutes passed. Then he walked into the red room, not saying a word, found his mom, and began to cry.
*****
As special as all this has been to me, I have had a yearning for several weeks that, due to my caretaker responsibilities, has gone unfulfilled. Tradition dictates that I spend a few Saturdays each fall watching the game out with some buddies. Usually it's the Hawkeyes but not always; it doesn't particularly matter. It's the custom, the act of going out and having five games happen around you, the bullshitting about football and life. This weekend, Sonia finally said she felt good enough to have the boys, and me and the boys went out. Iowa's done, but there were several conference championships running, and plenty to see on TV: the last weekend of the college football dance. We ate, we talked about nothing. My God, did it feel good!!
As luck would have it, I ran into a friend of mine who said they were also getting together at another establishment, to celebrate the birthday of an ex-colleague of mine in the Department of Spanish. So, me and the guys moved our football watching to that bar, where I had the chance to reconnect with several friends from the Department WHILE watching football. Heaven, I tell you. It is a special feeling when you see these people, and they all miss you, and in some ways you feel light years removed but at the same time I feel like I could head straight back and draw syntactic trees until I became dizzy. In particular, I enjoyed the opportunity to talk with my friend celebrating her birthday; one of those people you're very close to and then POP, you change lives, and that's that. At least we agreed to get coffee in the near future...
In short, I needed tonight to remind me that I can still watch the ballgame, toss around the bullshit. I don't know if it's trying to "relive the glory days"; I'm not sure how glorious football games and Joes Place are, anyway. But I'm at that age where people do that, I suppose, and it's important.
*****
Around 10:30 tonight, I had a little time to myself, and I remarked to myself how late it was getting, while my college friends began to plan their next bar. They would be dancing. I would most definitely not be.
Around that time, Michigan State began to pull away from the Buckeyes in the Big Ten Championship. I remarked on this to my buddies and then realized I still needed to talk to someone else about it. But he was at home, in bed, sleeping. And I had that moment that I've had before, but somehow more acutely this time, the moment that all parents have from time to time, when suddenly that trip out to get your own space is interfering with something bigger, where YOUR space doesn't seem as important as OUR space.
*****
I've sworn up and down and back up again that I will never play that game, that guilt game that so many American parents seem to be plagued by, that absolute fear that any time devoted to themselves is somehow child-raising blasphemy, I know it is absolutely 100% healthy for Mom to have time for Mom, Dad to have time for Dad, Mom and Dad to have time for Mom and Dad. And it is healthy for the kids to see this, and recognize this.
And I did enjoy my time tonight. I'm glad I got to celebrate a birthday with a friend, even if (or especially if) I don't get to see her, hardly ever. And I'm glad I got to watch the game with my friends.
But it's one thing to say the words, and another thing to fully feel them. Tonight was great, but it wasn't perfect. Perfect would have been a five minute visit to Niko. "What a game, hey, buddy!! The Spartans got it done. What was your favorite part of the game? Who do you think the Player of the Game should have been?" And then I tuck him in, and kiss him goodnight, and transport myself back to Joes.
Impossible, I know. I sense many such situations in the future...
To Niko and Orlando, Wiley and Jeremy, Fernando y Emily, Anastasia y Asma, and of course Sonia, and all those who ride along with me in this life....
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Sonia's Surgery, Part 1
Today was a day to celebrate the marvels of modern technology, and enjoy the peacefulness of nothing, simultaneously.
*****
Sonia was born with a bad hip. "Congenital Hip Displacement" is the term in English for it; essentially, her right femur was not hooked into the socket joint in her waist. This is much more common than I would've imagined before I met her and learned about the condition. If not detected early a child will never walk. Fortunately, Sonia's parents' family doctor alerted them to the condition when she was around three months of age (now, it is routinely checked for after birth in the hospital). They popped the femur bone in the best they could and little baby Sonia spent the next several months in a full body cast while the joint formed.
It wasn't perfect but for Peru in 1973 it was pretty damned good, and Sonia had a fairly normal childhood. She did all the things that kids do: skate, ride bicycle, swim, play sports, dance. It was never a serious issue, not when the family moved to La Paz, Bolivia, or when her and her sister moved to the United States when she was 27. Her principal means of income for the first few months in Iowa City was newspaper delivery via bicycle. I met her two years later and aside from the scars, which I do remember she did explain to me but in typical male fashion do not remember the content thereof, had no idea of this issue. This is a woman that would dance salsa for hours on end in high heels; nothing to worry about there!
It wasn't until after we were married and were moving our stuff into our first apartment that I actually recall any sort of permanent condition being mentioned. Her mother (it's always the mother, isn't it?) kept urging her not to carry even slightly heavy things. I asked Sonia why and she said because of her hip, which she explained to me (and I remembered this time). Her and I both dismissed it and proceeded about our lives. Niko was introduced to us not long after; we were sure to inquire as to whether her hip would be an issue in child delivery and upon being assured it wouldn't, put the issue again to the back of our minds.
*****
All parents, and especially modern day parents, however, know that children change everything. A baby MUST be carried; there is no other means of transport. And what starts out as a light object goes quite quickly to being, to put it mildly, slightly heavy. And I emphasize here "modern day parents" because between my generation and my children's came the rise of the ubiquitous car seat, required by law, carried absolutely everywhere (one of my friends had to have back surgery in her thirties, largely attributed to this syndrome). Sonia's mother's warning which we had ignored for a few hours on moving day was now routinely ignored as a matter of course. Orlando came to us a couple years later, and thus the warnings were roundly violated for four straight years.
Towards the end of 2009 we got our first sign that things weren't so okay. Sonia and her sister were on their way to work when their car flipped over. Luckily I wasn't working that day and was able to meet Sonia and accompany her to the emergency room, where she complained of a headache and some pain in her hip. They checked her for a concussion and then as a precautionary measure decided to check x-ray her hip. The emergency room physician wasn't an expert in orthopedics but was sufficiently concerned by what he saw to refer us to one.
It wasn't good. The doctor was frankly shocked that Sonia was walking, let alone actively raising two young children. The wear and tear of the previous years had fomented a serious case of arthritis; there was virtually no tissue between the femur and the hip, and to make things worse, the femur wasn't even really in the hip. Furthermore, he informed us that there was no way to correct this short of surgery, and that even he, who routinely performed hip replacements, would not be able to operate on Sonia's hip due to the complicated nature of her condition.
"So what do we do?" we asked.
"I'll prescribe Celebrex," he said. "That will ease the pain for a while. But eventually, I'd say a maximum of 10 to 15 years, she'll have to have surgery."
We were hoping the hip would give her the maximum. But life with Niko and Orlando is far from ideal, especially when your husband decides that a masters degree in linguistics is a good idea with two kids, and after years of fighting the insurance company over the Celebrex, it was becoming a matter of not if there was pain but how much. As I prepared to graduate from grad school this spring, Sonia seemed to come to some kind of inner resolution. She asked the doctor to give her the names of doctors who could perform the procedure she needed.
*****
Fortunately, we live in Iowa City, Iowa, a town of 70,000 with a hospital that belongs in a major metropolitan area. Our appointment was July 17. Dr. Callaghan himself, the very designer of the parts that Sonia needed, came in after a while attended by his retinue of residents and students (Iowa is a teaching hospital, after all). He spent about twenty minutes with us; he pulled and prodded on Sonia's leg; he explained to her the risks inherent in all surgeries; he recommended she have the surgery; he said he had performed over 6500 of them. Sonia will probably deny it but she had tears of gratitude in her eyes:
This man understood her pain. Moreover, he could fix it.
To be continued....the author is going to bed :))))
*****
Sonia was born with a bad hip. "Congenital Hip Displacement" is the term in English for it; essentially, her right femur was not hooked into the socket joint in her waist. This is much more common than I would've imagined before I met her and learned about the condition. If not detected early a child will never walk. Fortunately, Sonia's parents' family doctor alerted them to the condition when she was around three months of age (now, it is routinely checked for after birth in the hospital). They popped the femur bone in the best they could and little baby Sonia spent the next several months in a full body cast while the joint formed.
It wasn't perfect but for Peru in 1973 it was pretty damned good, and Sonia had a fairly normal childhood. She did all the things that kids do: skate, ride bicycle, swim, play sports, dance. It was never a serious issue, not when the family moved to La Paz, Bolivia, or when her and her sister moved to the United States when she was 27. Her principal means of income for the first few months in Iowa City was newspaper delivery via bicycle. I met her two years later and aside from the scars, which I do remember she did explain to me but in typical male fashion do not remember the content thereof, had no idea of this issue. This is a woman that would dance salsa for hours on end in high heels; nothing to worry about there!
It wasn't until after we were married and were moving our stuff into our first apartment that I actually recall any sort of permanent condition being mentioned. Her mother (it's always the mother, isn't it?) kept urging her not to carry even slightly heavy things. I asked Sonia why and she said because of her hip, which she explained to me (and I remembered this time). Her and I both dismissed it and proceeded about our lives. Niko was introduced to us not long after; we were sure to inquire as to whether her hip would be an issue in child delivery and upon being assured it wouldn't, put the issue again to the back of our minds.
*****
All parents, and especially modern day parents, however, know that children change everything. A baby MUST be carried; there is no other means of transport. And what starts out as a light object goes quite quickly to being, to put it mildly, slightly heavy. And I emphasize here "modern day parents" because between my generation and my children's came the rise of the ubiquitous car seat, required by law, carried absolutely everywhere (one of my friends had to have back surgery in her thirties, largely attributed to this syndrome). Sonia's mother's warning which we had ignored for a few hours on moving day was now routinely ignored as a matter of course. Orlando came to us a couple years later, and thus the warnings were roundly violated for four straight years.
Towards the end of 2009 we got our first sign that things weren't so okay. Sonia and her sister were on their way to work when their car flipped over. Luckily I wasn't working that day and was able to meet Sonia and accompany her to the emergency room, where she complained of a headache and some pain in her hip. They checked her for a concussion and then as a precautionary measure decided to check x-ray her hip. The emergency room physician wasn't an expert in orthopedics but was sufficiently concerned by what he saw to refer us to one.
It wasn't good. The doctor was frankly shocked that Sonia was walking, let alone actively raising two young children. The wear and tear of the previous years had fomented a serious case of arthritis; there was virtually no tissue between the femur and the hip, and to make things worse, the femur wasn't even really in the hip. Furthermore, he informed us that there was no way to correct this short of surgery, and that even he, who routinely performed hip replacements, would not be able to operate on Sonia's hip due to the complicated nature of her condition.
"So what do we do?" we asked.
"I'll prescribe Celebrex," he said. "That will ease the pain for a while. But eventually, I'd say a maximum of 10 to 15 years, she'll have to have surgery."
We were hoping the hip would give her the maximum. But life with Niko and Orlando is far from ideal, especially when your husband decides that a masters degree in linguistics is a good idea with two kids, and after years of fighting the insurance company over the Celebrex, it was becoming a matter of not if there was pain but how much. As I prepared to graduate from grad school this spring, Sonia seemed to come to some kind of inner resolution. She asked the doctor to give her the names of doctors who could perform the procedure she needed.
*****
Fortunately, we live in Iowa City, Iowa, a town of 70,000 with a hospital that belongs in a major metropolitan area. Our appointment was July 17. Dr. Callaghan himself, the very designer of the parts that Sonia needed, came in after a while attended by his retinue of residents and students (Iowa is a teaching hospital, after all). He spent about twenty minutes with us; he pulled and prodded on Sonia's leg; he explained to her the risks inherent in all surgeries; he recommended she have the surgery; he said he had performed over 6500 of them. Sonia will probably deny it but she had tears of gratitude in her eyes:
This man understood her pain. Moreover, he could fix it.
To be continued....the author is going to bed :))))
Thursday, September 19, 2013
The Solution
A cold beer. That steady hum that only fingers on a keyboard can produce. Crickets. Shawn Colvin's "Polaroids". Looking for the Solution....
*****
I just finished reading the newspaper, and that is definitely not the Solution. It is really scary to think that of all the people running the show in this world, the two I right now associate with compassion are the new Pope (these days a Pope can sound compassionate simply by saying the Church should not go apeshit over gay marriage) and Ben Bernanke (an unelected Very Rich Man who is immensely disliked by other Very Rich People because he tries to look out, at least a little bit (but a shitload by Wall Street standards), for people who are not Very Rich People).
*****
It is even hard to think of the beginning of my day right now. It was so long ago, lost between the twists and turns of Daddy Daycare, teaching fourth grade, and eighty mile per hour winds.
*****
Education is a challenging profession right now, for me. I should just be hitting my stride, only thirty-six, fresh off a two year leave of absence to study my passion, language (isn't it sad that language is my passion?). I'm full of new knowledge and I love my students. I love the town I teach in (it's a small town thing--I can't explain it here if you don't get it). I love my coworkers.
And yet it seems as though the education system is looking for any positive areas and rip them open into the harsh light of our brave new world. The advice I would give for a new teacher is not to work on methods or improving your knowledge base but to study up on data. Data is the show, folks. It is the end all, be all of the education system right now. Why? Because it's all the rage in business. Business uses data to drive their decision making and since we are just training workers anyway, not citizens, we best be making the kids understand as well that they are being seen through the prism of the output they give us on tests. And please don't be naïve and say that this is a once-a-year snapshot, not these days. It is at least a once-a-month deal, and if the test is hard for you, we'll do it more to make sure we get more data from you. And effective teaching now does not imply good management or the ability to inspire or solid planning or the ability to communicate on many different levels or your knowledge base or even experience or student or parental reviews. An effective teacher is she who can collect, record and process monumental levels of data.
And just to make sure the record records right, I've got nothing against data. I'm a baseball fan, for Christ's sake. We're the geekiest ones in the whole goddamn bunch.
*****
The body is such a funny thing. I spent a little time today but far too much time yesterday worrying about a series of Facebook comment I received from a friend. You see, a few years ago Sonia went on a trip with her mom and sister and I started this little series in which I essentially presented myself as a moving disaster of a parent, lost without Mommy around to run the show. It was dumb but it helped pass the time and (some) others seemed to enjoy it. So I just started doing it whenever Sonia left and never really thought of it as anything else than self-deprecation on a Facekookian scale. So when my friend reproached me yesterday saying I was kind of being a drama queen and a woman couldn't get away with a "Mommy Daycare" series, I was a little shocked and then the questions began. If you have anxiety or know someone who does, you know. Is she right? Am I a drama queen? Am I a show-off? Am I narcissistic? Am I doing a disservice to feminism? Why the fuck am I writing about how my kids are eating school lunch instead of taking a packed lunch from home?
Well, the point here is not to answer any of those questions. I never figured out the answer, because I barely thought about it today. For some reason, my body was totally programmed to worry yesterday, and today it was programmed to battle. I have done, to my knowledge, absolutely nothing different. I even eat, as one of my coworkers has duly noticed, the exact same lunch every day. There is absolutely no reason that today should have been different from yesterday, or yesterday from today. But it was.
I am in a perpetual battle, as my fellow anxiety people will recognize, to accept and be thankful for those times when I'm not racing through every option in my head. Thinking is a great pleasure for me, but it's sometimes the absolute bane of my existence. Definitely, not the Solution.
*****
Most veteran teachers who are being sincere with you will tell you that prep time is not so valuable for academic reasons as it is for psychological ones. This is not to say that I never get anything done during my prep. On the contrary, I'm usually pretty busy. I'm making copies, planning, gathering resources, answering emails, etc. But prep time is MY time. I am in charge of what I do during that time and I'm not responsible for the kids for forty minutes and neither am I in some meeting that I may or may not find useful. In a profession where you give and give and give, this is a sanctuary.
And, yes, prep time does occasionally slip into a period of unproductiveness. So it was today, when a fellow teacher stopped by and we got to talking, and we talked about the last half of our prep period, but we both sort of needed it, you know, and these social bonds are so important to a good working environment.
Was I a better teacher today because of my prep? Well, if you've been reading at all, you'll know I wasn't, because I didn't do anything with data. Still, I felt just that much closer to any Solution that might be out there....
*****
Tonight Orlando had soccer practice. Yesterday Niko had practice and since I had a bunch of stuff to do and his practice was an hour and a half, I just left him while I did a bunch of other stuff I wanted to get done with Orlando in tow. I had promised the same to Niko today (although what that boy thought he was missing with trips to Dollar General and Radio Shack, I'll never know) but upon arrival at the soccer fields tonight the clouds were ominous, sort of like a teachers' inservice without data (okay, I'll stop!!). I told Niko we were gonna stay just in case it started storming.
And my did that storm come. Niko had been disappointed but that passed in about two minutes and he was off playing Star Wars with a couple buddies and it was one of those prairie storms that you can just see coming in, you could see the lightning getting closer and it got darker and then the lightning was real close and the coach called it and the mom of the week was trying to get the snack out as quickly as possible and WHOOSH the wind just picked up like a mofo and it was raining. I had sent Orlando to the car and was helping the coach get picked up and got all the cones and I was running to the car and Orlando wasn't in there yet, he was outside and crying, he could barely move because of the wind and I could taste gravel from the parking lot and I got Orlando inside the car and I thought Niko was in there already because I had seen a mother heading for the playground and thought she had gotten him and I screamed "Niko! Donde estas? Donde estas?" but you couldn't hear a fucking thing because the wind was so loud and then I heard more crying and he came out from behind another car, another parent was watching him because he hadn't seen me helping the coach and he ran to me and I got him in the car and closed the door and ran around and got in the driver's seat. And they were both crying, they'd never seen or felt anything like it and I just said, "Todo esta bien, todo esta bien" and eventually they calmed down enough to get their seat belts on and we drove home in the rain, wind and lightning.
*****
I honestly do not know if I'm a good parent or not. And oddly enough, with all my anxiety, it does not seem to bother me very much. A stupid Facebook thing--that, I'll worry about. But I made my peace with God a long time ago that with this whole parenting thing, I'm just doing what I can, and the rest is in His/Her/Its/Their hands.
*****
I know I'm speaking from a place of privilege when I say the storm this afternoon was a big deal for my kids, what with them being seven and five. But nonetheless, it was, and I promised them on the way home that we'd eat some popcorn and watch some TV and just recover. I'm letting them sleep in my bed tonight and I even laid down with them while they fell asleep. And as their breathing slowed but my mind jumped to the blog post I wanted to write, I prayed, not for the last time, to be able to recognize when God presented to me, in all its many parts, the Solution....
*****
I just finished reading the newspaper, and that is definitely not the Solution. It is really scary to think that of all the people running the show in this world, the two I right now associate with compassion are the new Pope (these days a Pope can sound compassionate simply by saying the Church should not go apeshit over gay marriage) and Ben Bernanke (an unelected Very Rich Man who is immensely disliked by other Very Rich People because he tries to look out, at least a little bit (but a shitload by Wall Street standards), for people who are not Very Rich People).
*****
It is even hard to think of the beginning of my day right now. It was so long ago, lost between the twists and turns of Daddy Daycare, teaching fourth grade, and eighty mile per hour winds.
*****
Education is a challenging profession right now, for me. I should just be hitting my stride, only thirty-six, fresh off a two year leave of absence to study my passion, language (isn't it sad that language is my passion?). I'm full of new knowledge and I love my students. I love the town I teach in (it's a small town thing--I can't explain it here if you don't get it). I love my coworkers.
And yet it seems as though the education system is looking for any positive areas and rip them open into the harsh light of our brave new world. The advice I would give for a new teacher is not to work on methods or improving your knowledge base but to study up on data. Data is the show, folks. It is the end all, be all of the education system right now. Why? Because it's all the rage in business. Business uses data to drive their decision making and since we are just training workers anyway, not citizens, we best be making the kids understand as well that they are being seen through the prism of the output they give us on tests. And please don't be naïve and say that this is a once-a-year snapshot, not these days. It is at least a once-a-month deal, and if the test is hard for you, we'll do it more to make sure we get more data from you. And effective teaching now does not imply good management or the ability to inspire or solid planning or the ability to communicate on many different levels or your knowledge base or even experience or student or parental reviews. An effective teacher is she who can collect, record and process monumental levels of data.
And just to make sure the record records right, I've got nothing against data. I'm a baseball fan, for Christ's sake. We're the geekiest ones in the whole goddamn bunch.
*****
The body is such a funny thing. I spent a little time today but far too much time yesterday worrying about a series of Facebook comment I received from a friend. You see, a few years ago Sonia went on a trip with her mom and sister and I started this little series in which I essentially presented myself as a moving disaster of a parent, lost without Mommy around to run the show. It was dumb but it helped pass the time and (some) others seemed to enjoy it. So I just started doing it whenever Sonia left and never really thought of it as anything else than self-deprecation on a Facekookian scale. So when my friend reproached me yesterday saying I was kind of being a drama queen and a woman couldn't get away with a "Mommy Daycare" series, I was a little shocked and then the questions began. If you have anxiety or know someone who does, you know. Is she right? Am I a drama queen? Am I a show-off? Am I narcissistic? Am I doing a disservice to feminism? Why the fuck am I writing about how my kids are eating school lunch instead of taking a packed lunch from home?
Well, the point here is not to answer any of those questions. I never figured out the answer, because I barely thought about it today. For some reason, my body was totally programmed to worry yesterday, and today it was programmed to battle. I have done, to my knowledge, absolutely nothing different. I even eat, as one of my coworkers has duly noticed, the exact same lunch every day. There is absolutely no reason that today should have been different from yesterday, or yesterday from today. But it was.
I am in a perpetual battle, as my fellow anxiety people will recognize, to accept and be thankful for those times when I'm not racing through every option in my head. Thinking is a great pleasure for me, but it's sometimes the absolute bane of my existence. Definitely, not the Solution.
*****
Most veteran teachers who are being sincere with you will tell you that prep time is not so valuable for academic reasons as it is for psychological ones. This is not to say that I never get anything done during my prep. On the contrary, I'm usually pretty busy. I'm making copies, planning, gathering resources, answering emails, etc. But prep time is MY time. I am in charge of what I do during that time and I'm not responsible for the kids for forty minutes and neither am I in some meeting that I may or may not find useful. In a profession where you give and give and give, this is a sanctuary.
And, yes, prep time does occasionally slip into a period of unproductiveness. So it was today, when a fellow teacher stopped by and we got to talking, and we talked about the last half of our prep period, but we both sort of needed it, you know, and these social bonds are so important to a good working environment.
Was I a better teacher today because of my prep? Well, if you've been reading at all, you'll know I wasn't, because I didn't do anything with data. Still, I felt just that much closer to any Solution that might be out there....
*****
Tonight Orlando had soccer practice. Yesterday Niko had practice and since I had a bunch of stuff to do and his practice was an hour and a half, I just left him while I did a bunch of other stuff I wanted to get done with Orlando in tow. I had promised the same to Niko today (although what that boy thought he was missing with trips to Dollar General and Radio Shack, I'll never know) but upon arrival at the soccer fields tonight the clouds were ominous, sort of like a teachers' inservice without data (okay, I'll stop!!). I told Niko we were gonna stay just in case it started storming.
And my did that storm come. Niko had been disappointed but that passed in about two minutes and he was off playing Star Wars with a couple buddies and it was one of those prairie storms that you can just see coming in, you could see the lightning getting closer and it got darker and then the lightning was real close and the coach called it and the mom of the week was trying to get the snack out as quickly as possible and WHOOSH the wind just picked up like a mofo and it was raining. I had sent Orlando to the car and was helping the coach get picked up and got all the cones and I was running to the car and Orlando wasn't in there yet, he was outside and crying, he could barely move because of the wind and I could taste gravel from the parking lot and I got Orlando inside the car and I thought Niko was in there already because I had seen a mother heading for the playground and thought she had gotten him and I screamed "Niko! Donde estas? Donde estas?" but you couldn't hear a fucking thing because the wind was so loud and then I heard more crying and he came out from behind another car, another parent was watching him because he hadn't seen me helping the coach and he ran to me and I got him in the car and closed the door and ran around and got in the driver's seat. And they were both crying, they'd never seen or felt anything like it and I just said, "Todo esta bien, todo esta bien" and eventually they calmed down enough to get their seat belts on and we drove home in the rain, wind and lightning.
*****
I honestly do not know if I'm a good parent or not. And oddly enough, with all my anxiety, it does not seem to bother me very much. A stupid Facebook thing--that, I'll worry about. But I made my peace with God a long time ago that with this whole parenting thing, I'm just doing what I can, and the rest is in His/Her/Its/Their hands.
*****
I know I'm speaking from a place of privilege when I say the storm this afternoon was a big deal for my kids, what with them being seven and five. But nonetheless, it was, and I promised them on the way home that we'd eat some popcorn and watch some TV and just recover. I'm letting them sleep in my bed tonight and I even laid down with them while they fell asleep. And as their breathing slowed but my mind jumped to the blog post I wanted to write, I prayed, not for the last time, to be able to recognize when God presented to me, in all its many parts, the Solution....
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Praying for Syria
They seem to think it's simple.
Or maybe it's me. I spent the day attending soccer games, watching college football, feeding my kids, laying on the couch. Even got into a discussion about how anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medicine should best be used.
But it's simple. Bomb Syria or feed Syria. Love Syria or hate Syria. Love Obama or hate Obama. Right?
These things, they're out of my hands. I cannot do anything. I simply pray.
You may say that praying is the act of the desperate, those who have no other recourse.
You may say that praying is useless, that it is a sign of weakness.
You may say that praying is a sign of strength, the ultimate recognizance that as humans, we accomplish nothing.
I'd do more if I could, but I can't. I pray because I can.
Besos, Mark
Or maybe it's me. I spent the day attending soccer games, watching college football, feeding my kids, laying on the couch. Even got into a discussion about how anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medicine should best be used.
But it's simple. Bomb Syria or feed Syria. Love Syria or hate Syria. Love Obama or hate Obama. Right?
These things, they're out of my hands. I cannot do anything. I simply pray.
You may say that praying is the act of the desperate, those who have no other recourse.
You may say that praying is useless, that it is a sign of weakness.
You may say that praying is a sign of strength, the ultimate recognizance that as humans, we accomplish nothing.
I'd do more if I could, but I can't. I pray because I can.
Besos, Mark
Thursday, September 5, 2013
My Last Two Wasted Nights
My last two nights have been pretty much wasted. Then again, they were kind of the best nights of my life. You see, Niko started soccer practice last night. 5:30-7:00. And Orlando started tonight, from 6:00 to 7:00. As a man, I naturally saw this situation and thought "Okay, I'll take one night, and Sonia will take the other." My wife, on the other hand, saw this situation and naturally said, "Why don't we both go to both practices, since they're the first ones of the season?"
That wasn't gonna happen.
*****
Sonia decided that, whatever the case, she wanted to see each boy's first practice. I quickly switched to offense on Wednesday and asked Orlando, "Hey buddy, do you want to go watch Niko practice on the hot field, or stay at home in the cool air?" Remarkably (if you know Orlando you'll understand why it's remarkable) he said, "Well, it's kind of hot, so I'll stay home." Done deal! We all got home and I got Niko his pregame meal--bread and butter, grapes, a glass of milk. I got started on some laundry and listened to NPR and ignored Orlando's repeated attempts to watch NetFFFFLLLLix. Sonia got home around 5:20 and rushed out with Niko to the soccer fields.
I made Orlando a quesadilla and read the newspaper and switched around laundry while he ate. He finished eating and asked again to watch NetFFFFLLLix. I said, "Maybe in a while." Then a funny thing happened. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper and he was playing with his toy cars and I just rolled off and into him, just on a whim. He said "Papi!" but then I sort of pushed him and we started laughing. Then I pretended I was going to eat his belly and he squealed and tried to escape and said "What are we playing, Papi?"
I almost stopped then. That kind of made me sad. My five year old son was so surprised I was playing he couldn't just roll with it, he needed to know what it was. But I just said "We're just playing, bud. I'm gonna eat your belly" and he squealed and escaped. He picked up a rubber sword somebody gave to him at some point and came at me with it. We sort of invented this game where I could block the sword with my hands or my feet, but if he got me anywhere else it hurt me. He killed me several times but was always ready to revive me with a kiss (I told him they had to do it like they do in "Snow White"). At one point I died maybe the sixth or seventh or eighth time and he was wheezing and I said "Are we done?" and he said "One more time, Papi, One more time."
*****
No such subtleties were required tonight. Once again I picked up the boys from school and I asked Niko what he was going to do during Orlando's practice. "Orlando got to stay home with Papi last night," he said. "I'm going to tonight."
The same routine. Pasta and hot dogs for Orlando, Niko worked on his homework. Sonia got home and ran off with Orlando. I finished laundry last night (I use the word "finished" quite loosely, probably as only a man can) so I made a salad for Sonia and I and then when Niko finished his homework I took a picture of it and got him his supper. It's amazing the difference, two years and a whole different personality. Niko and I watched Seinfeld and he laughed almost as hard as I did and continually asked about the characters ("Does George has a drivers' license?" "Why are they driving to another airport?" (Bonus points if you know which episode we watched!)).
But deep down in that seven year old heart, that boy had but one desire, voiced with the same passion that Orlando has for NetFFFFLLLix: he wanted to play his old man in NCAA Football on the PS3. I hemmed and hawed but he finally had me cornered. Niko always plays as Alabama. (See, once he was just KILLING his brother in football, so I had Orlando be Alabama and Niko be New Mexico State. It's sort of like Brazil playing Qatar in soccer). I took Auburn--nothing like a good rivalry, right? When Sonia got home with Orlando, we were going into the fourth quarter, just four points separating us, and Orlando, much to his mother's chagrin, rejected being read a book and chose to watch the game, to the point where we actually had to pause the game when he went to the restroom.
Auburn came out on top, 26-24. And I'll be damned, that Niko is growing up. Not one tear. A good sportsmanlike handshake, and off to bed they went. He's growing up, that little bastard.
*****
Just before Orlando laid down in his bed, he asked me, "Papi, when are we gonna play that game again?" And I said, "What game?" And he said, "You know, that one where I have the sword and you can block it with your hands and feet and when you die, I give you a kiss and we keep fighting." And I said, "Another day. I promise, buddy, another day."
May God help me keep my promises.
Besos, Mark
That wasn't gonna happen.
*****
Sonia decided that, whatever the case, she wanted to see each boy's first practice. I quickly switched to offense on Wednesday and asked Orlando, "Hey buddy, do you want to go watch Niko practice on the hot field, or stay at home in the cool air?" Remarkably (if you know Orlando you'll understand why it's remarkable) he said, "Well, it's kind of hot, so I'll stay home." Done deal! We all got home and I got Niko his pregame meal--bread and butter, grapes, a glass of milk. I got started on some laundry and listened to NPR and ignored Orlando's repeated attempts to watch NetFFFFLLLLix. Sonia got home around 5:20 and rushed out with Niko to the soccer fields.
I made Orlando a quesadilla and read the newspaper and switched around laundry while he ate. He finished eating and asked again to watch NetFFFFLLLix. I said, "Maybe in a while." Then a funny thing happened. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper and he was playing with his toy cars and I just rolled off and into him, just on a whim. He said "Papi!" but then I sort of pushed him and we started laughing. Then I pretended I was going to eat his belly and he squealed and tried to escape and said "What are we playing, Papi?"
I almost stopped then. That kind of made me sad. My five year old son was so surprised I was playing he couldn't just roll with it, he needed to know what it was. But I just said "We're just playing, bud. I'm gonna eat your belly" and he squealed and escaped. He picked up a rubber sword somebody gave to him at some point and came at me with it. We sort of invented this game where I could block the sword with my hands or my feet, but if he got me anywhere else it hurt me. He killed me several times but was always ready to revive me with a kiss (I told him they had to do it like they do in "Snow White"). At one point I died maybe the sixth or seventh or eighth time and he was wheezing and I said "Are we done?" and he said "One more time, Papi, One more time."
*****
No such subtleties were required tonight. Once again I picked up the boys from school and I asked Niko what he was going to do during Orlando's practice. "Orlando got to stay home with Papi last night," he said. "I'm going to tonight."
The same routine. Pasta and hot dogs for Orlando, Niko worked on his homework. Sonia got home and ran off with Orlando. I finished laundry last night (I use the word "finished" quite loosely, probably as only a man can) so I made a salad for Sonia and I and then when Niko finished his homework I took a picture of it and got him his supper. It's amazing the difference, two years and a whole different personality. Niko and I watched Seinfeld and he laughed almost as hard as I did and continually asked about the characters ("Does George has a drivers' license?" "Why are they driving to another airport?" (Bonus points if you know which episode we watched!)).
But deep down in that seven year old heart, that boy had but one desire, voiced with the same passion that Orlando has for NetFFFFLLLix: he wanted to play his old man in NCAA Football on the PS3. I hemmed and hawed but he finally had me cornered. Niko always plays as Alabama. (See, once he was just KILLING his brother in football, so I had Orlando be Alabama and Niko be New Mexico State. It's sort of like Brazil playing Qatar in soccer). I took Auburn--nothing like a good rivalry, right? When Sonia got home with Orlando, we were going into the fourth quarter, just four points separating us, and Orlando, much to his mother's chagrin, rejected being read a book and chose to watch the game, to the point where we actually had to pause the game when he went to the restroom.
Auburn came out on top, 26-24. And I'll be damned, that Niko is growing up. Not one tear. A good sportsmanlike handshake, and off to bed they went. He's growing up, that little bastard.
*****
Just before Orlando laid down in his bed, he asked me, "Papi, when are we gonna play that game again?" And I said, "What game?" And he said, "You know, that one where I have the sword and you can block it with your hands and feet and when you die, I give you a kiss and we keep fighting." And I said, "Another day. I promise, buddy, another day."
May God help me keep my promises.
Besos, Mark
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
We're all carrying a deadly weapon...
That is cement....That is a sidewalk and that is not an unarmed teenager with nothing but Skittles trying to get home....And the suggestion by the state that that’s not a weapon, that that can’t hurt somebody, is disgusting. --George Zimmerman Lead Defense Attorney Mark O' Mara in closing arguments to the jury.
In the end the Party would announce that two and two made five, and you would have to believe it. It was inevitable that they should make that claim sooner or later: the logic of their position demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience, but the very existence of external reality, was tacitly denied by their philosophy. The heresy of heresies was common sense. And what was terrifying was not that they would kill you for thinking otherwise, but that they might be right. For, after all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable—what then? George Orwell, 1984
This entry is heavy on the quotes. I realize that, and I came quite close to clipping pretty well the Orwell quote, but I just felt like it was all so relevant, that it all had to stay.
And such it is. As you've probably guessed, this post is about the case of Trayvon Martin. I certainly realize that many people know a lot about this case and most have formed some sort of opinion about it. I also know that I probably won't be changing any minds. There are some other things I won't do, or at least I won't do to the point that one can discuss the case without doing so:
--I will not discuss gun control or "Stand Your Ground"
--I will not discuss race.
Now, it is impossible to really discuss this case without those two aspects, but I'm going to attempt to minimize them. For I am going to make the radical suggestion that even if everything George Zimmerman has said is the absolute truth, he should be in jail.
I think that this case has struck a chord with so many people for a number of reasons. Now, of course, the fact that Trayvon Martin was black and thus more likely to be deemed "suspicious" by Mr. Zimmerman is one of them. So is the fact that he had "no duty to retreat even if possible". People far more dedicated to these causes than me are rallying to them and I applaud them. But I see this case, and I suspect many others do as well, as a moral test for our society.
It is a simple moral test: Can we call a spade a spade? When something is wrong, can we say it's wrong? Or do we equivocate? Do we try to find a way to make 2 + 2 = 5? We haven't been doing so well in such situations during my adult life. When our country's leaders swore that Iraq had "Weapons of Mass Demonstration" I supported sending troops, my friends, to that country. We were clearly snowballed. George W. Bush joked at a fundraiser "Where were those darned WMD's again?" We failed to get angry.
There is clear economic evidence that while our country's economy is producing more than any other time during history. Yet the bottom 90% of the population has seen no real gain in economic power since the late 1970's. Quite literally, the rich are getting richer and everyone else has to swim harder against the current. Wall Street absolutely massacred the country in 2008, but somehow, no one did anything wrong. Yet families working two jobs are booted daily out of their houses, houses they were told were guaranteed investments, that were the key to their middle class status. We're not angry.
Maybe what needed, I thought with no pun intended, was a black and white case. Somewhere where the facts were so obvious and the case so down to Earth that no one could be swayed by propaganda. In February of 2012, a seventeen year old boy was walking home when a man ten years his senior began to follow him in his truck. The man was so suspicious of this young man that he got out of his truck to look for him. He had a gun. Would he had even had the courage to get out of his truck without a gun, seeing as the youth looked so "suspicious?"
What happened next only two people have ever known. One is George Zimmerman. He claims that the youth, Trayvon Martin, "jumped" him, was beating him, was pounding his head into the sidewalk, that he thought he was in "great bodily harm", and therefore had no choice but to shoot Mr. Martin. Mr. Martin died within a few seconds of being shot through the heart. Mr. Zimmerman went to the doctor the next day, not because he was so wounded, but because he wanted to get back to work!
The other person who knew what happened is Trayvon Martin. He has never told his story.
*****
Both Mr. Martin and Mr. Zimmerman became cause celebres for certain pockets of the population. So many people rallied for Mr. Martin that the State of Florida was forced to act. So many people rallied for Mr. Zimmerman (but not publically, for the most part), that he found himself able to hire the best defense attorney in the state and also pay a not insignificant bond. Without Mr. O'Mara, would Mr. Zimmerman have even had a chance? Hard to say. That bit about a "sidewalk becoming a deadly weapon" was a stroke of genius. I guess all of us are, and have been for quite some time, unknowingly in possession of a deadly weapon. Who knew?
*****
The state of Florida did not do a real good job with this case. Whether that was human error or just the facts at hand is debatable, but the prosecutors did get one good shot in there (I swear I am not trying to make puns). After Mr. O'Mara had cross-examined a physician to try to emphasize the severity of Mr. Zimmerman's wounds, the prosecutor asked on redirect "Would you describe Mr. Zimmerman's wounds as more or less severe than a bullet wound to the heart?"
Mr. O'Mara objected, successfully, but the point was made. For I believe all of us were, as Nate Silver might say it, losing the signal for the noise. For after all the courtroom legalese, the truth looms. The truth does not go away. The truth is this: An armed man thought a young boy looked suspicious. He followed him. They scuffled. Mr. Zimmerman killed Mr. Martin.
All of the rest should not matter. It is just noise. It might matter if, say, Mr. Zimmerman had been in his home and Mr. Martin had entered. It might have mattered if Mr. Zimmerman just been walking home, or if Mr. Zimmerman had been carjacked by Mr. Martin. But none of that is true. Mr. Zimmerman either provoked, or set the table for, a fight that night. (Incidentally, it is the height of irony that the defense wanted the jury to believe Mr. Zimmerman was defending himself, while completely ignoring the fact that, even if Mr. Martin started the fight as attested to by Mr. Zimmerman, doesn't he have the right to proactively defend himself against an armed, older man stalking him?). As he began to lose the fight, he shot Mr. Martin.
He killed him. The boy was walking home and he was killed. The boy was walking home and he was killed. The boy was walking home and he was killed....
*****
But Mr. Zimmerman is "not guilty". Apparently Mr. Martin deserved to die for having defended himself (and this is if you believe everything Mr. Zimmerman says). I have trouble accepting that. We are, as a society, failing to call a spade a spade yet again. A man provoked a fight with a teenager, shot him, and is somehow not guilty. I will admit, I've lost sleep over it. My son will someday be seventeen, and who knows who might think he'll look suspicious? Why do the Mr. Zimmermans out there get to decide, without punishment, who lives or dies? And most important, who decides who are the Mr. Zimmermans of the world, and who are the Trayvon Martins?
*****
Some folks have called this "a tragedy that should never have happened". Such platitudes are nice but ignore the fact that we know who MADE it happen and refuse to judge him. One website I saw went so far as to proclaim Mark O'Mara the "Atticus Finch of 2013". This person was not joking. I'm not sure if he was intentionally being ironic or just didn't get it.
Dr. King said that the arc of moral justice is long but bends toward justice. I believe he's right. I believe that in fifty years, we'll look back on this acquittal and say "What were we thinking?" If we're not thinking that in fifty years, I'll feel like this was all for nothing. I suppose it's human nature, to want Trayvon Martin's death to result in some sort of good.
Until then, be careful with all those concealed concrete carriers.
Peace, Mark
In the end the Party would announce that two and two made five, and you would have to believe it. It was inevitable that they should make that claim sooner or later: the logic of their position demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience, but the very existence of external reality, was tacitly denied by their philosophy. The heresy of heresies was common sense. And what was terrifying was not that they would kill you for thinking otherwise, but that they might be right. For, after all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable—what then? George Orwell, 1984
I call it cruel, and maybe the root of all cruelty,
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact. "A Ritual to Read to Each Other", William Stafford
This entry is heavy on the quotes. I realize that, and I came quite close to clipping pretty well the Orwell quote, but I just felt like it was all so relevant, that it all had to stay.
And such it is. As you've probably guessed, this post is about the case of Trayvon Martin. I certainly realize that many people know a lot about this case and most have formed some sort of opinion about it. I also know that I probably won't be changing any minds. There are some other things I won't do, or at least I won't do to the point that one can discuss the case without doing so:
--I will not discuss gun control or "Stand Your Ground"
--I will not discuss race.
Now, it is impossible to really discuss this case without those two aspects, but I'm going to attempt to minimize them. For I am going to make the radical suggestion that even if everything George Zimmerman has said is the absolute truth, he should be in jail.
I think that this case has struck a chord with so many people for a number of reasons. Now, of course, the fact that Trayvon Martin was black and thus more likely to be deemed "suspicious" by Mr. Zimmerman is one of them. So is the fact that he had "no duty to retreat even if possible". People far more dedicated to these causes than me are rallying to them and I applaud them. But I see this case, and I suspect many others do as well, as a moral test for our society.
It is a simple moral test: Can we call a spade a spade? When something is wrong, can we say it's wrong? Or do we equivocate? Do we try to find a way to make 2 + 2 = 5? We haven't been doing so well in such situations during my adult life. When our country's leaders swore that Iraq had "Weapons of Mass Demonstration" I supported sending troops, my friends, to that country. We were clearly snowballed. George W. Bush joked at a fundraiser "Where were those darned WMD's again?" We failed to get angry.
There is clear economic evidence that while our country's economy is producing more than any other time during history. Yet the bottom 90% of the population has seen no real gain in economic power since the late 1970's. Quite literally, the rich are getting richer and everyone else has to swim harder against the current. Wall Street absolutely massacred the country in 2008, but somehow, no one did anything wrong. Yet families working two jobs are booted daily out of their houses, houses they were told were guaranteed investments, that were the key to their middle class status. We're not angry.
Maybe what needed, I thought with no pun intended, was a black and white case. Somewhere where the facts were so obvious and the case so down to Earth that no one could be swayed by propaganda. In February of 2012, a seventeen year old boy was walking home when a man ten years his senior began to follow him in his truck. The man was so suspicious of this young man that he got out of his truck to look for him. He had a gun. Would he had even had the courage to get out of his truck without a gun, seeing as the youth looked so "suspicious?"
What happened next only two people have ever known. One is George Zimmerman. He claims that the youth, Trayvon Martin, "jumped" him, was beating him, was pounding his head into the sidewalk, that he thought he was in "great bodily harm", and therefore had no choice but to shoot Mr. Martin. Mr. Martin died within a few seconds of being shot through the heart. Mr. Zimmerman went to the doctor the next day, not because he was so wounded, but because he wanted to get back to work!
The other person who knew what happened is Trayvon Martin. He has never told his story.
*****
Both Mr. Martin and Mr. Zimmerman became cause celebres for certain pockets of the population. So many people rallied for Mr. Martin that the State of Florida was forced to act. So many people rallied for Mr. Zimmerman (but not publically, for the most part), that he found himself able to hire the best defense attorney in the state and also pay a not insignificant bond. Without Mr. O'Mara, would Mr. Zimmerman have even had a chance? Hard to say. That bit about a "sidewalk becoming a deadly weapon" was a stroke of genius. I guess all of us are, and have been for quite some time, unknowingly in possession of a deadly weapon. Who knew?
*****
The state of Florida did not do a real good job with this case. Whether that was human error or just the facts at hand is debatable, but the prosecutors did get one good shot in there (I swear I am not trying to make puns). After Mr. O'Mara had cross-examined a physician to try to emphasize the severity of Mr. Zimmerman's wounds, the prosecutor asked on redirect "Would you describe Mr. Zimmerman's wounds as more or less severe than a bullet wound to the heart?"
Mr. O'Mara objected, successfully, but the point was made. For I believe all of us were, as Nate Silver might say it, losing the signal for the noise. For after all the courtroom legalese, the truth looms. The truth does not go away. The truth is this: An armed man thought a young boy looked suspicious. He followed him. They scuffled. Mr. Zimmerman killed Mr. Martin.
All of the rest should not matter. It is just noise. It might matter if, say, Mr. Zimmerman had been in his home and Mr. Martin had entered. It might have mattered if Mr. Zimmerman just been walking home, or if Mr. Zimmerman had been carjacked by Mr. Martin. But none of that is true. Mr. Zimmerman either provoked, or set the table for, a fight that night. (Incidentally, it is the height of irony that the defense wanted the jury to believe Mr. Zimmerman was defending himself, while completely ignoring the fact that, even if Mr. Martin started the fight as attested to by Mr. Zimmerman, doesn't he have the right to proactively defend himself against an armed, older man stalking him?). As he began to lose the fight, he shot Mr. Martin.
He killed him. The boy was walking home and he was killed. The boy was walking home and he was killed. The boy was walking home and he was killed....
*****
But Mr. Zimmerman is "not guilty". Apparently Mr. Martin deserved to die for having defended himself (and this is if you believe everything Mr. Zimmerman says). I have trouble accepting that. We are, as a society, failing to call a spade a spade yet again. A man provoked a fight with a teenager, shot him, and is somehow not guilty. I will admit, I've lost sleep over it. My son will someday be seventeen, and who knows who might think he'll look suspicious? Why do the Mr. Zimmermans out there get to decide, without punishment, who lives or dies? And most important, who decides who are the Mr. Zimmermans of the world, and who are the Trayvon Martins?
*****
Some folks have called this "a tragedy that should never have happened". Such platitudes are nice but ignore the fact that we know who MADE it happen and refuse to judge him. One website I saw went so far as to proclaim Mark O'Mara the "Atticus Finch of 2013". This person was not joking. I'm not sure if he was intentionally being ironic or just didn't get it.
Dr. King said that the arc of moral justice is long but bends toward justice. I believe he's right. I believe that in fifty years, we'll look back on this acquittal and say "What were we thinking?" If we're not thinking that in fifty years, I'll feel like this was all for nothing. I suppose it's human nature, to want Trayvon Martin's death to result in some sort of good.
Until then, be careful with all those concealed concrete carriers.
Peace, Mark
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Mi cumpleaños -- Número 36 (¡Muchas Gracias a todos!)
¿Cómo se agradece a 95 personas? Según mi cuenta (conste que mi cuenta pueda estar equivocada; mis habilidades matemáticas son muy básicas), ese es el número de personas que aparecieron ayer, de una forma u otra, en mi vida ayer para brindarme un buen cumpleaños. En el mundo ideal, por supuesto, yo escribiría una nota a cada persona agradeciéndole, explicándole lo que ha significado para mí, etc. etc. Pero este mundo, lamentablemente, no es perfecto, y yo mucho menos. Puedo apenitas escribir una pequeña nota con los pensamientos que se me ocurrieron en este, el cumpleaños número 36. Esta vez he hecho un poco de trampa: mi escrito no se ha hecho hasta el día posterior a mi cumpleaños--siento decirles que nunca sabrán cuando pensé qué, que si es un pensamiento del cumpleaños verdadero o no.
El día empezó mal; me desperté tosiendo debido, supongo, a mis mucho años de haber fumado. Mi Orlandito estuvo igualito, los dos enfermos y Niko el único saludable entre los tres. Me tiré unos ibuprofenes y me eché en el sofá, diciéndoles a los niños (se lo juro por la primera vez, se lo juro) que por esta vez nomás podían ver tanta tele como querían y hasta hacer juegos videos. Cuando más o menos me desperté a las once, mis dos hijos estaban pelados gritando para sus equipos de fútbol Americano en la Playstation. Niko era Minnesota y Orlando Purdue (le dice "los trenes"). Como el superbuen papá que soy, me puse a comer un cambur (venezolano para "banana") y volví a dormir. Era la una cuando mi suegro salió del cuarto dónde dormía y dijo "Pero por qué no están vestidos?" Decidí justo en ese momento, por pura coincidencia, que ya mis hijos debían vestirse y almorzar. Preparé un almuerzo muy sufrido de perro caliente y aguacate y les serví. Orlandito seguía con temperatura, así que lo mandé a la cama y le dije a Niko, como Orlando y yo estuvimos enfermos, que podía ver tele, sólo por esta vez, se lo juro. Luego puse las noticias y me dormí rapidísimo. A las cinco me esposa llegó del trabajo y me preguntó si habían comido los niños. En ese mismito momento decidí que los niños debieron comer, pero no tuve ganas de cocinar como era mi cumpleaños y todo esa vaina, así que salimos a Pizza Ranch. Rompí una promesa que había hecho a mí mismo no comer más en Pizza Ranch, ya que se han vuelto súper conservadores y donan plata a Focus on the Family y esas mierdas de organizaciones, pero coño, ese pollo es SABROSÍSIMO y la pizza no está tan mala tampoco. Además me moría por una Coca-Cola. Sonia quiso invitar a mucha gente y la verdad es que no pude, estaba demasiado mal por mi día tan harto, y como soy muy popular no quise invitar uno sin invitar el otro, así que fuimos los cuatro nomás. Al pobre de Orlandito le dieron escalofríos de nuevo y me regañó por no haber traído ibuprofén. Le pedí disculpas. Llegando a la casa le dije a Sonia que estuve retecansado por mi día tan sufrido y como ella es muy buena esposa se encargó de los niños. Quise leer pero opté por la opción más difícil de ver una película. Vi "Zero Dark Thirty". Estuvo retebuena. Luego Sonia dijo que estaba ya un poco cansada y yo le dije que yo estuve súper cansado. Pero quedaba en espera aún la mejor sorpresa de mi día especial. A las once y media sonó el teléfono y yo muy entusiasmado dije "¿Quién carajo llama a estas horas?" y contesté. No era nadie menos que un polícía, ¡diciendo que habían encontrado nuestro carro robado! Con muchísimo esfuerzo debido a mi situación delicada, fuimos con él y ya tenemos de nuevo a nuestro Malibu. ¡Fue el mejor regalo en la historia del mundo mundial!
Wow. Hasta me cansé nomás describiendo el Día de mi Cumpleaños. Hoy fui a trabajar. Fue mucho más suave, no como la jornada de ayer. Dios trabaja en maneras misteriosas.
Besos, Mark
P.D. En serio, MUCHÍSIMAS GRACIAS a todos que me saludaron ayer. Cada uno de Uds. es querido para mí y les espero lo mismo que me brindaron a mí--salúd, amor, y felicidad. (OJO: noten que no dije dinero. A estas alturas ni sé que es esa cosa que se llama "dinero"). Los amo a todos, todos, con todo mi corazoncito.
El día empezó mal; me desperté tosiendo debido, supongo, a mis mucho años de haber fumado. Mi Orlandito estuvo igualito, los dos enfermos y Niko el único saludable entre los tres. Me tiré unos ibuprofenes y me eché en el sofá, diciéndoles a los niños (se lo juro por la primera vez, se lo juro) que por esta vez nomás podían ver tanta tele como querían y hasta hacer juegos videos. Cuando más o menos me desperté a las once, mis dos hijos estaban pelados gritando para sus equipos de fútbol Americano en la Playstation. Niko era Minnesota y Orlando Purdue (le dice "los trenes"). Como el superbuen papá que soy, me puse a comer un cambur (venezolano para "banana") y volví a dormir. Era la una cuando mi suegro salió del cuarto dónde dormía y dijo "Pero por qué no están vestidos?" Decidí justo en ese momento, por pura coincidencia, que ya mis hijos debían vestirse y almorzar. Preparé un almuerzo muy sufrido de perro caliente y aguacate y les serví. Orlandito seguía con temperatura, así que lo mandé a la cama y le dije a Niko, como Orlando y yo estuvimos enfermos, que podía ver tele, sólo por esta vez, se lo juro. Luego puse las noticias y me dormí rapidísimo. A las cinco me esposa llegó del trabajo y me preguntó si habían comido los niños. En ese mismito momento decidí que los niños debieron comer, pero no tuve ganas de cocinar como era mi cumpleaños y todo esa vaina, así que salimos a Pizza Ranch. Rompí una promesa que había hecho a mí mismo no comer más en Pizza Ranch, ya que se han vuelto súper conservadores y donan plata a Focus on the Family y esas mierdas de organizaciones, pero coño, ese pollo es SABROSÍSIMO y la pizza no está tan mala tampoco. Además me moría por una Coca-Cola. Sonia quiso invitar a mucha gente y la verdad es que no pude, estaba demasiado mal por mi día tan harto, y como soy muy popular no quise invitar uno sin invitar el otro, así que fuimos los cuatro nomás. Al pobre de Orlandito le dieron escalofríos de nuevo y me regañó por no haber traído ibuprofén. Le pedí disculpas. Llegando a la casa le dije a Sonia que estuve retecansado por mi día tan sufrido y como ella es muy buena esposa se encargó de los niños. Quise leer pero opté por la opción más difícil de ver una película. Vi "Zero Dark Thirty". Estuvo retebuena. Luego Sonia dijo que estaba ya un poco cansada y yo le dije que yo estuve súper cansado. Pero quedaba en espera aún la mejor sorpresa de mi día especial. A las once y media sonó el teléfono y yo muy entusiasmado dije "¿Quién carajo llama a estas horas?" y contesté. No era nadie menos que un polícía, ¡diciendo que habían encontrado nuestro carro robado! Con muchísimo esfuerzo debido a mi situación delicada, fuimos con él y ya tenemos de nuevo a nuestro Malibu. ¡Fue el mejor regalo en la historia del mundo mundial!
Wow. Hasta me cansé nomás describiendo el Día de mi Cumpleaños. Hoy fui a trabajar. Fue mucho más suave, no como la jornada de ayer. Dios trabaja en maneras misteriosas.
Besos, Mark
P.D. En serio, MUCHÍSIMAS GRACIAS a todos que me saludaron ayer. Cada uno de Uds. es querido para mí y les espero lo mismo que me brindaron a mí--salúd, amor, y felicidad. (OJO: noten que no dije dinero. A estas alturas ni sé que es esa cosa que se llama "dinero"). Los amo a todos, todos, con todo mi corazoncito.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Back in the Big City (Translation)
Note: All translations are via Google Translate. Google Translate is an amazing but imperfect tool. If at all possible please read the original. I am not liable, nor ethically nor morally nor legally, for the products of Google Translate.
Ojo: Todas las traducciones son por Google Translate. Esta es una herramienta asombrosa pero imperfecta. Si es posible es mejor leer la original. No tengo responsiblidad, ni por ética, ni por moralidad, ni por ley, por los productos de Google Translate.
Today I am in my second home, the beautiful city of West Liberty, Iowa, where the first ten years of my professional life I worked and where now I'll continue after I graduate with a master's degree in Spanish Linguistics. I'll be giving fourth grade for this coming year, in a lounge bililingue, similar to what he did before.
It is always good to see you with people that you haven't seen in a long time. When you enter the Office today I heard the voice of my great friend Leticia Escobedo cantadora and saw other acquaintances who had not seen in a long time, in some cases for two years since I went through the corridors. It is a singular sensation - the coming week will not feel this to see them, but now yes sorry. The concierges have taught me a closet which had kept several things mine, although he had left them in the living room two years ago. I do not know whether it is a signal of respect or nuisance which failed to throw...
Maybe since I've seen the room, seized my computer and deleted all the blessed emails that had accumulated during two years (was activated my account!), I feel a desire to eat and not get a cone. When I went to the beans that I brought, grabbed a spoon and surprise saw that the spoon is my home calendar.
And we all go and say 'Hello, how are you?, how you been gone?' and I respond in the same way. My children play in the Hall to swords with the son of a friend who is also armando salon and the background music is 'Comfortably Numb' Pink Floyd.
And we all go and say ' I'm glad you're here again, but the truth didn't think you were going to return. Why have you gone?' And I don't know to say, but who have returned and point. Maybe I feel a little something different, rare or pleasant or unpleasant, but not so. I simply am and point. I am the spoon that was never to leave.
De vuelta en La Ciudad Grande
Hoy me encuentro en mi segundo hogar, la ciudad bella de West Liberty, Iowa, donde trabajé los primeros diez años de mi vida professional y donde ahora voy a seguirla después de haberme graduado con una maestría en la Lingüística española. Estaré dando el cuarto grado para este año que viene, en un salón bililingüe, parecido a lo que hacía en antes.
Siempre es bueno verte con las personas que no has visto en mucho rato. Al entrar la oficina hoy oí la voz cantadora de mi gran amiga Leticia Escobedo y a pasar por los pasillos veía a otros conocidos que no había visto en mucho tiempo, en algunos casos por dos años desde que me fui. Es una sensación singular--la semana que viene no sentiré esto a verlas, pero ahora sí lo siento. Los concierges me han enseñado a un clóset dónde habían guardado varias cosas mías, aunque las había dejado en el salón hace dos años. No sé si sea señal de respeto o fastidio que no las llegaron a botar....
Pues ya que he visto el salón, agarrado mi computadora y borrado todos los benditos emails que se habían acumulado durante dos años (¡quedó activado mi cuenta!), me siento con unas ganas de comer y no hacer un coño. Cuando fui a calendar los frijoles que me traje, agarré una cucharita y con sorpresa vi que la cucharita es de mi casa.
Y todos pasan y me dicen "Hola, ¿cómo estás?, ¿cómo te ha ido?" y yo respondo de igual manera. Mis hijos juegan en el pasillo a espadas con el hijo de una amiga que también está armando el salón y la música del fondo es "Comfortably Numb" de Pink Floyd.
Y todos pasan y me dicen "Me alegra que estés aqui de nuevo, pero la verdad no pensé que ibas a regresar. ¿Por qué has vuelto?" Y no sé que decirles, sino que he regresado y punto. Tal vez debo de sentir alguito diferente o raro o agradable o desagradable, pero no es así. Simplemente estoy y punto. Soy la cucharita que nunca llegó a irse.
Siempre es bueno verte con las personas que no has visto en mucho rato. Al entrar la oficina hoy oí la voz cantadora de mi gran amiga Leticia Escobedo y a pasar por los pasillos veía a otros conocidos que no había visto en mucho tiempo, en algunos casos por dos años desde que me fui. Es una sensación singular--la semana que viene no sentiré esto a verlas, pero ahora sí lo siento. Los concierges me han enseñado a un clóset dónde habían guardado varias cosas mías, aunque las había dejado en el salón hace dos años. No sé si sea señal de respeto o fastidio que no las llegaron a botar....
Pues ya que he visto el salón, agarrado mi computadora y borrado todos los benditos emails que se habían acumulado durante dos años (¡quedó activado mi cuenta!), me siento con unas ganas de comer y no hacer un coño. Cuando fui a calendar los frijoles que me traje, agarré una cucharita y con sorpresa vi que la cucharita es de mi casa.
Y todos pasan y me dicen "Hola, ¿cómo estás?, ¿cómo te ha ido?" y yo respondo de igual manera. Mis hijos juegan en el pasillo a espadas con el hijo de una amiga que también está armando el salón y la música del fondo es "Comfortably Numb" de Pink Floyd.
Y todos pasan y me dicen "Me alegra que estés aqui de nuevo, pero la verdad no pensé que ibas a regresar. ¿Por qué has vuelto?" Y no sé que decirles, sino que he regresado y punto. Tal vez debo de sentir alguito diferente o raro o agradable o desagradable, pero no es así. Simplemente estoy y punto. Soy la cucharita que nunca llegó a irse.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Shawn Colvin's "Polaroids" and Perpetual Lovebirds
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nezSWF6ymQ
A native of South Dakota (Vermillion, I want to say??) Colvin's music reflects would I'll call a "realistic naïveté" about the world and, in particular, romantic relationships. Though clearly adapted to the world of cosmopolitan New York, her music is unabashedly based in the idealism and less cynical worldview of the Midwest. "Polaroids" is only the prime of example of an artist that seems to understand that there is no such thing is the perfect relationship, yet on some level retains a vision, one she seems to know is at best fleeting and at worst undesirable, of the couple that is perpetually walking off into the sunset. There is a natural tension here, a tension that all of us, whether in a relationship or not, must deal with: the gap between real and fantastic, the very good and the unachievable. Most singer/songwriters deal with this be lamenting the passing of the "walking off into the sunset" phase of the relationship; Colvin instead recognizes the perpetuity of such a state is inherently unsustainable, while simultaneously recognizing its singular beauty. This idea is reflected in the Ice Shack Scene of the movie Beautiful Girls:
WILL: ...so the way I see it, why not have a few more of those amazing beginnings before settling into the Big Fade?
ANDIRA: The Big Fade, that's an awful way to put it.
Colvin would certainly agree with Andira. Trouble is, she'd be hard-pressed to find a better way to put it. That's probably why she wrote "Polaroids".
Besos, Mark
A native of South Dakota (Vermillion, I want to say??) Colvin's music reflects would I'll call a "realistic naïveté" about the world and, in particular, romantic relationships. Though clearly adapted to the world of cosmopolitan New York, her music is unabashedly based in the idealism and less cynical worldview of the Midwest. "Polaroids" is only the prime of example of an artist that seems to understand that there is no such thing is the perfect relationship, yet on some level retains a vision, one she seems to know is at best fleeting and at worst undesirable, of the couple that is perpetually walking off into the sunset. There is a natural tension here, a tension that all of us, whether in a relationship or not, must deal with: the gap between real and fantastic, the very good and the unachievable. Most singer/songwriters deal with this be lamenting the passing of the "walking off into the sunset" phase of the relationship; Colvin instead recognizes the perpetuity of such a state is inherently unsustainable, while simultaneously recognizing its singular beauty. This idea is reflected in the Ice Shack Scene of the movie Beautiful Girls:
WILL: ...so the way I see it, why not have a few more of those amazing beginnings before settling into the Big Fade?
ANDIRA: The Big Fade, that's an awful way to put it.
Colvin would certainly agree with Andira. Trouble is, she'd be hard-pressed to find a better way to put it. That's probably why she wrote "Polaroids".
Besos, Mark
Thursday, July 25, 2013
La vida de un Gochogringo (traducido)
Note: All translations are via Google Translate. Google Translate is an amazing but imperfect tool. If at all possible please read the original. I am not liable, nor ethically nor morally nor legally, for the products of Google Translate.
Ojo: Todas las traducciones son por Google Translate. Esta es una herramienta asombrosa pero imperfecta. Si es posible es mejor leer la original. No tengo responsiblidad, ni por ética, ni por moralidad, ni por ley, por los productos de Google Translate.
Verano ha sido bueno conmigo; después de graduarse en mayo con mi maestría en lingüística española, he decidido jugar el papel de amo de casa. Es cierto, que yo soy un 'mantenido'; mi esposa está haciendo todo el dinero para la familia, Dios la bendiga. Niko, Orlando y yo hemos consolidado sobre viajes a Chicago y mañanas perezosas cuando finjo no les dejaron ver la tele, pero luego que lo hagan para que pueda dormir un rato más tarde. La decisión más importante del día generalmente descansa sobre la conveniencia de permanecer escondido arriba, jugando béisbol Strat-o-matic, o ir al gimnasio. Sorprendentemente, el gimnasio gana más a menudo que no. Hoy es el primer día relativamente fresco en un par de semanas; Me puso delante de un ventilador y su ventana abierta durante una hora y escuché a Niko y Orlando juega coches antes de decidir finalmente empezar a este maldito blog, que espero sea una buena transición hacia el gimnasio...
No es que alguien realmente le importa, pero en las últimas semanas he sido inspirado por un viejo amigo, Nicole Van Velzen y su escritura, y decidió que quería emular le. Esto de por sí, no es tan inusual; A menudo he emulado a Nicole en mi vida. Creo que primero decidí que quizá quiera iniciar un blog de un mes o dos hace y como va la brecha entre pensar en hacer algo y hacerlo realmente, creo que es sobre el par del campo. (En realidad, es mucho mejor; pienso en hacer la mayoría de las cosas se pierde en la gran cantidad de espacio vacío entre mis orejas...). El título de mi blog, como los lectores astutos venezolanos pueden reunir, se refiere al tiempo que pasé viviendo en Mérida, Venezuela, y aunque compuso un pequeño porcentaje de mi vida real, me gusta algo de mí mismo como medio venezolano de todos modos. Voy a dejar para los venezolanos a determinar. De todos modos, creo que más a menudo que no escribo una especie de reflexionarán sobre la dinámica de un gringo convertido latino que permanece muy gringo pero más latino, excepto cuando me siento a más gringo. ¿Entendido? A veces voy a escribir en inglés, a veces en español. A veces voy a hacer lo que los lingüistas gusta llamar 'code-switching' y divagar en ambos idiomas. Porque no se equivoque, si este blog hará lo que sea, a divagar. (Todavía estoy teniendo problemas llamarme un 'blogger'. Suena tan engreído). En su mayoría podrá ocuparse de temas serios aquí, excepto cuando trato con los triviales. Habrá una gran cantidad de comentarios políticos y béisbol (porque Dios sabe que esos son los dos temas que no suficientes palabras digitales son dedicados a). Estoy seguro que la NSA estará viendo, así que ten cuidado si decides leer... va observando también, entonces.
La mejor parte de todo este trabajo?? No más largo, la bobina en Facebook para molestar a la gente con 'notas'. Ahora, si quieres que te moleste, tendrás que enlazar aquí. No diga que no estabas advertido.
Besos, Mark
Ojo: Todas las traducciones son por Google Translate. Esta es una herramienta asombrosa pero imperfecta. Si es posible es mejor leer la original. No tengo responsiblidad, ni por ética, ni por moralidad, ni por ley, por los productos de Google Translate.
Verano ha sido bueno conmigo; después de graduarse en mayo con mi maestría en lingüística española, he decidido jugar el papel de amo de casa. Es cierto, que yo soy un 'mantenido'; mi esposa está haciendo todo el dinero para la familia, Dios la bendiga. Niko, Orlando y yo hemos consolidado sobre viajes a Chicago y mañanas perezosas cuando finjo no les dejaron ver la tele, pero luego que lo hagan para que pueda dormir un rato más tarde. La decisión más importante del día generalmente descansa sobre la conveniencia de permanecer escondido arriba, jugando béisbol Strat-o-matic, o ir al gimnasio. Sorprendentemente, el gimnasio gana más a menudo que no. Hoy es el primer día relativamente fresco en un par de semanas; Me puso delante de un ventilador y su ventana abierta durante una hora y escuché a Niko y Orlando juega coches antes de decidir finalmente empezar a este maldito blog, que espero sea una buena transición hacia el gimnasio...
No es que alguien realmente le importa, pero en las últimas semanas he sido inspirado por un viejo amigo, Nicole Van Velzen y su escritura, y decidió que quería emular le. Esto de por sí, no es tan inusual; A menudo he emulado a Nicole en mi vida. Creo que primero decidí que quizá quiera iniciar un blog de un mes o dos hace y como va la brecha entre pensar en hacer algo y hacerlo realmente, creo que es sobre el par del campo. (En realidad, es mucho mejor; pienso en hacer la mayoría de las cosas se pierde en la gran cantidad de espacio vacío entre mis orejas...). El título de mi blog, como los lectores astutos venezolanos pueden reunir, se refiere al tiempo que pasé viviendo en Mérida, Venezuela, y aunque compuso un pequeño porcentaje de mi vida real, me gusta algo de mí mismo como medio venezolano de todos modos. Voy a dejar para los venezolanos a determinar. De todos modos, creo que más a menudo que no escribo una especie de reflexionarán sobre la dinámica de un gringo convertido latino que permanece muy gringo pero más latino, excepto cuando me siento a más gringo. ¿Entendido? A veces voy a escribir en inglés, a veces en español. A veces voy a hacer lo que los lingüistas gusta llamar 'code-switching' y divagar en ambos idiomas. Porque no se equivoque, si este blog hará lo que sea, a divagar. (Todavía estoy teniendo problemas llamarme un 'blogger'. Suena tan engreído). En su mayoría podrá ocuparse de temas serios aquí, excepto cuando trato con los triviales. Habrá una gran cantidad de comentarios políticos y béisbol (porque Dios sabe que esos son los dos temas que no suficientes palabras digitales son dedicados a). Estoy seguro que la NSA estará viendo, así que ten cuidado si decides leer... va observando también, entonces.
La mejor parte de todo este trabajo?? No más largo, la bobina en Facebook para molestar a la gente con 'notas'. Ahora, si quieres que te moleste, tendrás que enlazar aquí. No diga que no estabas advertido.
Besos, Mark
The Perfect Day (Translated)
Note: All translations are via Google Translate. Google Translate is an amazing but imperfect tool. If at all possible please read the original. I am not liable, nor ethically nor morally nor legally, for the products of Google Translate.
Ojo: Todas las traducciones son por Google Translate. Esta es una herramienta asombrosa pero imperfecta. Si es posible es mejor leer la original. No tengo responsiblidad, ni por ética, ni por moralidad, ni por ley, por los productos de Google Translate.
-Now that you have a blog, you have to esciribir - they told me to go out today. But, do to hell?, if I don't have what to write, I asked them. -No matter - I was told. -You have a blog, and write the blogistas.
Good. That last part is not true. Don't even know if 'blogger' is a real word, I invented it right now, but sounds good, no? If it is not word it should be. If this blog is going to be for something, it will be to invent words in a language not spoken well.
And here comes the problem are, I imagine, all writers (and those who pretend to write, as I): when you have of what to write, you have no time to do so. And when you have time, nothing of what to write don't you think. That is why I started this blog: to make me feel obglidado to write, to make it. But now that my say to write, I feel invaded. A perpetual irony, the fundamental irony of the writer (or those who pretend to be): I want to read what I write, but I don't want to require me to write.
Good. There are worse problems one might have in this life. So I searched and searched and after a long time (about five minutes), I thought of what to write. And it's the summer. And not only the summer, but the perfect summer day, that I experienced today.
I woke up at seven in the morning and went up to weigh me. For those who don't know, I'm a crap diet in which I can not eat one shit, all to to reduce what I won by my Holy masters. Good news! I lost two pounds! That meant that I was able to take bread and coffee for my breakfast. Win number 1. Due to the victory number 1, I didn't sleep, and swimming that I love so much I could do. Number 2. Then I took them to Niko and Orlando to his swimming lessons and we only got five minutes late. Victory number three. Then I took them to Hy-Vee market did and was. We did it. 4 Came Uncle Wiley and went to West Liberty to play a round of Frisbee Golf. Number five. We ate on the Patio, the best Mexican food this side of the Mississippi River. VICTORY NUMBER SIX! Now that we cut off the hair and put us very handsome. 7. Then to the Center to take some beers with friends while the children play in the courtyard. 8.
For auction, came here to house 40 minutes ago and got more cool victory around the world world: Sonia is taking care of them, and I'm here, writing and taking me a beer.
Life is good, dear; sure they are always thirsty.
Kisses, Mark
Ojo: Todas las traducciones son por Google Translate. Esta es una herramienta asombrosa pero imperfecta. Si es posible es mejor leer la original. No tengo responsiblidad, ni por ética, ni por moralidad, ni por ley, por los productos de Google Translate.
-Now that you have a blog, you have to esciribir - they told me to go out today. But, do to hell?, if I don't have what to write, I asked them. -No matter - I was told. -You have a blog, and write the blogistas.
Good. That last part is not true. Don't even know if 'blogger' is a real word, I invented it right now, but sounds good, no? If it is not word it should be. If this blog is going to be for something, it will be to invent words in a language not spoken well.
And here comes the problem are, I imagine, all writers (and those who pretend to write, as I): when you have of what to write, you have no time to do so. And when you have time, nothing of what to write don't you think. That is why I started this blog: to make me feel obglidado to write, to make it. But now that my say to write, I feel invaded. A perpetual irony, the fundamental irony of the writer (or those who pretend to be): I want to read what I write, but I don't want to require me to write.
Good. There are worse problems one might have in this life. So I searched and searched and after a long time (about five minutes), I thought of what to write. And it's the summer. And not only the summer, but the perfect summer day, that I experienced today.
I woke up at seven in the morning and went up to weigh me. For those who don't know, I'm a crap diet in which I can not eat one shit, all to to reduce what I won by my Holy masters. Good news! I lost two pounds! That meant that I was able to take bread and coffee for my breakfast. Win number 1. Due to the victory number 1, I didn't sleep, and swimming that I love so much I could do. Number 2. Then I took them to Niko and Orlando to his swimming lessons and we only got five minutes late. Victory number three. Then I took them to Hy-Vee market did and was. We did it. 4 Came Uncle Wiley and went to West Liberty to play a round of Frisbee Golf. Number five. We ate on the Patio, the best Mexican food this side of the Mississippi River. VICTORY NUMBER SIX! Now that we cut off the hair and put us very handsome. 7. Then to the Center to take some beers with friends while the children play in the courtyard. 8.
For auction, came here to house 40 minutes ago and got more cool victory around the world world: Sonia is taking care of them, and I'm here, writing and taking me a beer.
Life is good, dear; sure they are always thirsty.
Kisses, Mark
El Día Perfecto
--Ahora que tienes un blog, tienes que esciribir--me dijeron al salir hoy. Pero, ¿qué carajo?, si no tengo de qué escribir, les pregunté. --No importa--me dijeron. --Ya tienes un blog, y los blogistas escriben.
Bueno. Esa última parte no es verdad. Ni sé si "blogista" es una palabra verdadera, la inventé ahorita, pero suena bien, ¿no? Si no es palabra debe de ser. Si este blog va a ser para algo, va a ser para inventar palabras en un idioma que ni hablo bien.
Y aquí se viene el problema que encuentran, me imagino, todos los escritores (y los que fingen escribir, como yo): Cuando tienes de qué escribir, no te queda tiempo como para hacerlo. Y cuando tienes tiempo, no se te ocurre nada de qué escribir. Por eso empecé ese blog: para que me sienta obglidado a escribir, para que lo haga. Pero ahora que mi dicen que escriba, me siento invadido. Una ironía perpétua, la ironía fundamental del escritor (o de los que fingen de serlo): Quiero que lean lo que escribo, pero no quiero que me exijan a escribir.
Bueno. Hay peores problemas que uno podría tener en la vida que esto. Así que busqué y busqué y después de MUCHO tiempo (alrededor de cinco minutos), pensé de qué escribir. Y es el verano. Y no sólo el verano, sino el día perfecto de verano, que experimenté hoy.
Me desperté a las siete de la mañana y subí para pesarme. Para los que no lo saben, estoy de una dieta de mierda en lo cual no puedo comer un coño, todo para poder rebajar lo que me gané haciendo mi bendita maestría. ¡Buenas noticias! ¡Rebajé más de dos libras! Eso quiso decir que pude tomar pan y café para mi desayuno. Victoria número 1. Debido a la victoria número 1, no me volví a dormir, y pude hacer la natación que tanto me encanta. Número 2. Luego los llevé a Niko y Orlando a sus clases de natación y sólo llegamos cinco minutos tarde. victoria número tres. Después los llevé a Hy-Vee a que comieramos y hicieramos mercado. Lo hicimos. 4. Vino Tío Wiley y fuimos a West Liberty a jugar una ronda de Frisbee Golf. Número cinco. Comimos en El Patio, la mejor comida mexicana en este lado del Río Mississippi. ¡VICTORIA NÚMERO SEIS! Ahora que nos corten el cabello y que nos pongan muy guapos. 7. Luego al centro para tomar unas cervecitas con los amigos mientras los niños juegan en el patio. 8.
Por remate, llegamos aquí a la casa hace 40 minutos , y logré la victoria más chévere de todo el mundo mundial: Sonia está cuidándolos, y yo estoy aquí, escribiendo y tomándome una cervecita.
La vida es buena, queridos; que se queden siempre con sed.
Besos, Mark
Bueno. Esa última parte no es verdad. Ni sé si "blogista" es una palabra verdadera, la inventé ahorita, pero suena bien, ¿no? Si no es palabra debe de ser. Si este blog va a ser para algo, va a ser para inventar palabras en un idioma que ni hablo bien.
Y aquí se viene el problema que encuentran, me imagino, todos los escritores (y los que fingen escribir, como yo): Cuando tienes de qué escribir, no te queda tiempo como para hacerlo. Y cuando tienes tiempo, no se te ocurre nada de qué escribir. Por eso empecé ese blog: para que me sienta obglidado a escribir, para que lo haga. Pero ahora que mi dicen que escriba, me siento invadido. Una ironía perpétua, la ironía fundamental del escritor (o de los que fingen de serlo): Quiero que lean lo que escribo, pero no quiero que me exijan a escribir.
Bueno. Hay peores problemas que uno podría tener en la vida que esto. Así que busqué y busqué y después de MUCHO tiempo (alrededor de cinco minutos), pensé de qué escribir. Y es el verano. Y no sólo el verano, sino el día perfecto de verano, que experimenté hoy.
Me desperté a las siete de la mañana y subí para pesarme. Para los que no lo saben, estoy de una dieta de mierda en lo cual no puedo comer un coño, todo para poder rebajar lo que me gané haciendo mi bendita maestría. ¡Buenas noticias! ¡Rebajé más de dos libras! Eso quiso decir que pude tomar pan y café para mi desayuno. Victoria número 1. Debido a la victoria número 1, no me volví a dormir, y pude hacer la natación que tanto me encanta. Número 2. Luego los llevé a Niko y Orlando a sus clases de natación y sólo llegamos cinco minutos tarde. victoria número tres. Después los llevé a Hy-Vee a que comieramos y hicieramos mercado. Lo hicimos. 4. Vino Tío Wiley y fuimos a West Liberty a jugar una ronda de Frisbee Golf. Número cinco. Comimos en El Patio, la mejor comida mexicana en este lado del Río Mississippi. ¡VICTORIA NÚMERO SEIS! Ahora que nos corten el cabello y que nos pongan muy guapos. 7. Luego al centro para tomar unas cervecitas con los amigos mientras los niños juegan en el patio. 8.
Por remate, llegamos aquí a la casa hace 40 minutos , y logré la victoria más chévere de todo el mundo mundial: Sonia está cuidándolos, y yo estoy aquí, escribiendo y tomándome una cervecita.
La vida es buena, queridos; que se queden siempre con sed.
Besos, Mark
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Life as a GochoGringo
Summer has been good to me; after graduating in May with my Masters Degree in Spanish Linguistics, I've decided to play the role of house husband. That's right, I'm a "mantenido"; my wife is making all the cash for the family, God bless her. Niko, Orlando and I have bonded over trips to Chicago and lazy mornings when I pretend to not let them watch TV, but then let them do so so I can sleep a while later. The biggest decision of the day usually rests on whether to stay holed up, playing Strat-o-matic Baseball, or to go the gym. Surprisingly, the gym wins more often than not. Today is the first relatively cool day in a couple weeks; I laid in front of a fan and its open window for an hour and listened to Niko and Orlando play cars before deciding to finally start this damn blog, which I'm hoping will be a good transition into moving towards the gym...
Not that anyone really gives a damn, but in recent weeks I've been inspired by an old friend, Nicole Van Velzen, and her writing, and decided I wanted to emulate her. This, in and of itself, is not all that unusual; I've often emulated Nicole in my life. I think I first decided I may want to start a blog a month or two ago and as the gap between thinking about doing something and actually doing it goes, I think this is about par for the course. (Actually, it's much better; most things I think about doing are lost in the large amount of empty space between my ears...). The title of my blog, as astute Venezuelan readers may gather, refers to the time I spent living in Merida, Venezuela, and though it composed a small percentage of my actual life, I like to thing of myself as half-Venezuelan anyway. I'll leave that for the Venezuelans to determine. Anyway, I think that more often than not my writing will sort of reflect on the dynamic of a gringo turned latino who remains very gringo but more latino, except when I feel more gringo. Got that? Sometimes I'll write in English, sometimes in Spanish. Sometimes I'll do what we linguists like to call "code-switching", and ramble in both languages. Because make no mistake about it, if this blog will do anything, it will ramble. (I'm still having trouble calling myself a "blogger". It sounds so self-important). I'll mostly deal with serious subjects on here, except when I deal with trivial ones. There'll be a good deal of political commentary, and baseball (because God knows those are the two subject matters to which not enough digital words are devoted to). I'm pretty sure the NSA will be watching, so be careful if you decide to read...they'll be watching you too, then.
The best part of this whole gig?? No more long, winding "notes" on Facebook to bother people with. Now if you want me to bother you, you'll have to link here. Don't say you weren't warned.
Besos, Mark
Not that anyone really gives a damn, but in recent weeks I've been inspired by an old friend, Nicole Van Velzen, and her writing, and decided I wanted to emulate her. This, in and of itself, is not all that unusual; I've often emulated Nicole in my life. I think I first decided I may want to start a blog a month or two ago and as the gap between thinking about doing something and actually doing it goes, I think this is about par for the course. (Actually, it's much better; most things I think about doing are lost in the large amount of empty space between my ears...). The title of my blog, as astute Venezuelan readers may gather, refers to the time I spent living in Merida, Venezuela, and though it composed a small percentage of my actual life, I like to thing of myself as half-Venezuelan anyway. I'll leave that for the Venezuelans to determine. Anyway, I think that more often than not my writing will sort of reflect on the dynamic of a gringo turned latino who remains very gringo but more latino, except when I feel more gringo. Got that? Sometimes I'll write in English, sometimes in Spanish. Sometimes I'll do what we linguists like to call "code-switching", and ramble in both languages. Because make no mistake about it, if this blog will do anything, it will ramble. (I'm still having trouble calling myself a "blogger". It sounds so self-important). I'll mostly deal with serious subjects on here, except when I deal with trivial ones. There'll be a good deal of political commentary, and baseball (because God knows those are the two subject matters to which not enough digital words are devoted to). I'm pretty sure the NSA will be watching, so be careful if you decide to read...they'll be watching you too, then.
The best part of this whole gig?? No more long, winding "notes" on Facebook to bother people with. Now if you want me to bother you, you'll have to link here. Don't say you weren't warned.
Besos, Mark
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