Friday, April 30, 2010
Vocabulary
Someone called my daughter a "cracker" in school recently. I told her that she should have corrected them and said the proper term is a "spic." If you are going to be a bigot, don't be an idiot and choose the correct ethnic slur!
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Saudade
When I was younger I fancied myself a writer, until one day I decided I no longer wanted to be one. In my mind, the writer's path was full of melancholy and despair, a pervasive sadness I was well acquainted with at the time. I did not want any part of it. I wanted a normal life. So I made the choice to stop writing, hoping the sadness would go away with it.
I oversimplify, of course. My decision to stop writing wasn't so conscious or deliberate. It was the result of a combination of self-doubt and procrastination. It also was influenced by relationship politics. My ex is a writer. He has published two short story books, good ones. Back then, so many years ago, he was still unpublished, ambitious and consumed with passion for his craft. Writing was his signifier, his thing. He would spend hours building the perfect paragraph, crafting the perfect sentence, choosing each word carefully. He told me once that he was glad I was there to ground him, lest he would spend his life with his head in the clouds.
Writing was just a fun, youthful game to me, a whim to indulge every once in a while when a clever idea hit me. It stopped being fun when I started comparing myself to my ex and his rigorous ways. I did not share his level of passion for writing. I did not practice every day. I did not spend hours thinking carefully about words before putting them down; my process was pretty much just spilling my thoughts on paper (or screen) haphazardly, tweaking minor things here and there.
The label of WRITER felt simultaneously self-important and constricting, a title I did not want nor deserve. When two of my stories were published in an anthology with other young writers, I felt both very proud and very guilty. Why was I being published and he wasn't?
Quitting writing did nothing to lift the sadness, of course. It was foolish to think it would, but magical thinking is not logical.
I oversimplify, of course. My decision to stop writing wasn't so conscious or deliberate. It was the result of a combination of self-doubt and procrastination. It also was influenced by relationship politics. My ex is a writer. He has published two short story books, good ones. Back then, so many years ago, he was still unpublished, ambitious and consumed with passion for his craft. Writing was his signifier, his thing. He would spend hours building the perfect paragraph, crafting the perfect sentence, choosing each word carefully. He told me once that he was glad I was there to ground him, lest he would spend his life with his head in the clouds.
Writing was just a fun, youthful game to me, a whim to indulge every once in a while when a clever idea hit me. It stopped being fun when I started comparing myself to my ex and his rigorous ways. I did not share his level of passion for writing. I did not practice every day. I did not spend hours thinking carefully about words before putting them down; my process was pretty much just spilling my thoughts on paper (or screen) haphazardly, tweaking minor things here and there.
The label of WRITER felt simultaneously self-important and constricting, a title I did not want nor deserve. When two of my stories were published in an anthology with other young writers, I felt both very proud and very guilty. Why was I being published and he wasn't?
Quitting writing did nothing to lift the sadness, of course. It was foolish to think it would, but magical thinking is not logical.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Huelga en la Universidad
While I live my life in this little suburban bubble, back home there is turmoil at my alma mater, the University of Puerto Rico.
I sympathize with the students and their demands, and I hope their voice is heard and nobody gets seriously hurt.
I sympathize with the students and their demands, and I hope their voice is heard and nobody gets seriously hurt.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Stress is a killer
Last night I was stressed out and had a horrible temper. I was mean, mean, so very mean. This morning my fasting blood reading was high (126).
Monday, April 19, 2010
Monday: Random Thoughts
I got a new phone this weekend. It's an HTC Hero and it is my first smartphone. Up until now, I was a total Luddite when it came to phones. We had a very basic unit that one served for making phone calls. I am enjoying it so far, and although I have a lot to learn about it yet, I was able to download some apps and set up email accounts on the phone.
The phone has a twitter client and a Facebook app. I now have ways to be constantly connected, yet I am not sure that will lead to more posts from me. Twitter has always struck me an extremely solipsistic, and most of what I do on Facebook is comment on my friends' status updates.
I am running late. It is 8:10 and I have not gotten my kid ready for school. She is sitting in bed, watching cartoons. My oldest misplaced her keys and for some reason she is cranky with me over that. I don't want to go to work today. I wish I could stay home and sleep a little bit more. Oh, well.
The phone has a twitter client and a Facebook app. I now have ways to be constantly connected, yet I am not sure that will lead to more posts from me. Twitter has always struck me an extremely solipsistic, and most of what I do on Facebook is comment on my friends' status updates.
I am running late. It is 8:10 and I have not gotten my kid ready for school. She is sitting in bed, watching cartoons. My oldest misplaced her keys and for some reason she is cranky with me over that. I don't want to go to work today. I wish I could stay home and sleep a little bit more. Oh, well.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Expat
On March 31st I hit a milestone. I have now lived in Houston for 10 years. Roughly a fourth of my time on this earth has been spent in good ol' Texas. It blows my mind.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
Saturday, April 03, 2010
Heathen
Every year on Holy week I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs: I WANT TO BELIEVE.
Sometimes I do, I really do want to believe. I wish I had the comfort of religious faith. I wish I had been brought up in an environment where magical thinking came naturally, where I could accept mythology as truth and believe the random horror of this world responds to a higher being's plan, one that I should not dare question because I am after all, a lesser being. But I wasn't brought up that way. I was brought up to believe this life is all we have, and that it is up to me to be the best person I can be, to make the most of my life and to try to live with integrity. I don't always succeed, but I try hard. And for the most part I am grateful that I grew up without spiritual crutches, except on days when I wish someone could lighten the weight of the world on my shoulders.
Sometimes I do, I really do want to believe. I wish I had the comfort of religious faith. I wish I had been brought up in an environment where magical thinking came naturally, where I could accept mythology as truth and believe the random horror of this world responds to a higher being's plan, one that I should not dare question because I am after all, a lesser being. But I wasn't brought up that way. I was brought up to believe this life is all we have, and that it is up to me to be the best person I can be, to make the most of my life and to try to live with integrity. I don't always succeed, but I try hard. And for the most part I am grateful that I grew up without spiritual crutches, except on days when I wish someone could lighten the weight of the world on my shoulders.
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