I had just made it up the elevator and was approaching our team's block of offices when I first heard of the events of September 11, 2001. A co-worker was listening to the news in her portable radio; the second plane hit the South Tower right around that time and it was evident this was not a freak accident, but some kind of a terrorist attack. People were terrified about our city being the next target.
Years later, people have questioned why I did not rush out of the office right away to pick up my child and go home, like other people did. I really do not know why. I guess I just did not think it was necessary. I did not feel in any immediate danger. It all felt so far away, almost unreal. Rather than fearing for my life, I obsessed about the doomed passengers of the hijacked planes, or the people who jumped from the towers. I wondered what I would have done had I been in their shoes, powerless in the face of an inevitable demise.
Not much work got done as we spent hours listening to the radio and checking the Internet for news about the attacks. Sometime that afternoon, an Argentinian colleague expressed his annoyance at our American coworkers "making such a big deal" out of what had happened. I was at a loss for words. I have an appreciation for the fact that there are countries ravaged by political instability and terrorist attacks on a regular basis. When the threat of violence is part of everyday life, you definitely develop a tough skin. But it was insensitive of my colleague to not realize that life in this country was forever changed that day. For the first time an outside enemy had successfully executed a large-scale attack on Continental US soil; worse yet, it was done from the inside, turning our own transportation systems against us. If people were scared and freaking out, it was totally understandable.
Showing posts with label History. Show all posts
Showing posts with label History. Show all posts
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
President Barack Obama's Inaugural Address
A transcript of the Obama inaugural address via ABC News.
ABC News: FULL TRANSCRIPT: President Barack Obama's Inaugural Address
Video clip of the inaugural address via CNN.
ABC News: FULL TRANSCRIPT: President Barack Obama's Inaugural Address
Video clip of the inaugural address via CNN.
Renewal Tuesday
I decided to air out the house this morning. All windows are open and the breeze runs from one end of the house to the other. It feels a little chilly, but good. It's a beautiful, crisp sunny day. I sit at my desk as I sip some Chai tea, reveling in its spiciness. Today is a day of rebirth, a clean-slate day. This morning I am feeling inspired, optimistic. Today I want to believe.
Though dark days are still upon us, today I choose to hold hope for the future.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Then the fireworks
It's been a busy day. We put together a piece of furniture. We took the girls out to It'z for pizza and games. Then we bought some fireworks. We had some fun with them earlier tonight. Now Isa and Gabe are watching Wall-E. Paula is doing an end-of-year ritual (writing all the bad things that happened to her in a piece of paper and burning it), and I came here for my last post of 2008.
I wish everybody a happy new year. The year 2009 will be a challenging one in many respects. Let us hope it will be a rewarding one as well. See you on the other side.
I wish everybody a happy new year. The year 2009 will be a challenging one in many respects. Let us hope it will be a rewarding one as well. See you on the other side.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Remembrance
The first time I traveled to Houston was in January 2000. I came here for an interview, looking for a promotion, for opportunities not available to me through the local branch of my employer.
I remember seeing Houston from the air, and being surprised at the lack of color. Everything seemed gray, flat, and so very big. It was winter in Texas, the sky was overcast and I was freezing my ass off.
Where were the mountains? Where was the beach? How did people find their way? What were all those rectangular ponds I would see every so often? And how many people lived in this place? Would I be able to make it here?
I learned the answers soon. To see mountains I needed to go to the hill country, a few hours' drive, certainly not a day trip. The beach was about an hour from here, but I was warned that coming from the Caribbean, Galveston would seem disappointing. People looked up directions on the Internet all the time, and drove North, South, East and West. Sometimes they would use landmarks (downtown Houston, the Williams Tower in the Galleria area, etc.).
I would also learn that, at 3.4M (per the 2000 census), the population of Harris County was close in sze to that of Puerto Rico (3.8M per the 2000 census). In some parts it can be as densely pack as the Metro area in Puerto Rico is. In others, there is a lot of room to expand.
There's no moral to this rambling. With time, what was once large and intimidating has become home. So far, I have been able to make it. We'll see what the future brings.
I remember seeing Houston from the air, and being surprised at the lack of color. Everything seemed gray, flat, and so very big. It was winter in Texas, the sky was overcast and I was freezing my ass off.
Where were the mountains? Where was the beach? How did people find their way? What were all those rectangular ponds I would see every so often? And how many people lived in this place? Would I be able to make it here?
I learned the answers soon. To see mountains I needed to go to the hill country, a few hours' drive, certainly not a day trip. The beach was about an hour from here, but I was warned that coming from the Caribbean, Galveston would seem disappointing. People looked up directions on the Internet all the time, and drove North, South, East and West. Sometimes they would use landmarks (downtown Houston, the Williams Tower in the Galleria area, etc.).
I would also learn that, at 3.4M (per the 2000 census), the population of Harris County was close in sze to that of Puerto Rico (3.8M per the 2000 census). In some parts it can be as densely pack as the Metro area in Puerto Rico is. In others, there is a lot of room to expand.
There's no moral to this rambling. With time, what was once large and intimidating has become home. So far, I have been able to make it. We'll see what the future brings.
Monday, November 19, 2007
My first boyfriend
I just discovered Soap Opera Sunday though Patois' blog, and I want to play too, so I don't care that it's not Sunday.
When I was in seventh grade my parents enrolled me in a new school. This school was bigger than my old, tiny school where there were maybe 20-25 kids in my whole class. There were probably 20 to 25 kids in each of the 5 groups that comprised our seventh grade class. I did not know anybody. I rode the bus, and there was this boy who sat in front of me and whom I found pretentious and annoying, but kinda liked at the same time, in that "I'm bored and have nothing better to do" kind of way.
One day he asked me, through someone else, if I wanted to be his girlfriend. I remember the tingle I felt inside. He likes me! I was thrilled and sent back reply that yes, I wanted to be his girlfriend.
We spent one lunch break together as boyfriend and girlfriend. We went around the school grounds, chatted with some of our schoolmates, briefly held hands. I felt all self-conscious and awkward. I was a tall girl, taller than him and than many of my schoolmates. I had never before had a boyfriend, and I really hardly knew these kids. He had the advantage over me on that; he had been at the school longer. I desperately wanted to fit in.
The next day, he sent word with the same envoy that our relationship was over. He was sorry, but we could not be together. It never occurred to me to question why he did not communicate these things to me directly if we sat so close together in the bus. I was so naïve, so ignorant of the evil that boys do. I don't think I talked to him about it either.
I forget how I found out it was all a ruse. Someone must have told me, surely to revel in my humiliation. It turned out that he had made a money bet with some other boys that he could make me his girlfriend. After parading me through school to make sure his buddies saw, he dropped me like a hot potato, and did not even bother to do the deed himself. Shortly after that he started dating a girl. They lasted for months.
I do not know why this still bothers me so profoundly. The guy was a second-tier weasel, and I did not even like him that much. But I made the mistake of opening up to him, and he trampled on me. Never again did I give someone at school that kind of power over me.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Non-fiction Friday- Non-sentimental ending
Here’s this week’s challenge:
Use this quote as the spark for anything you want.
“I’m not one for sentimental endings. Not this time.”
I have written before about a non-sentimental ending in my life. When it comes to the end of romantic relationships, there is always going to be some emotion involved, obviously. But being sad about an ending and being sentimental about it are not the same thing. You may not agree, but to me being sentimental is giving up power. When people are sentimental they usually idealize the other person and give their ghost (or their memory, if you'd like) a power over them that they do not deserve to have.
In the particular case I wrote about before, you could say I had been addicted to this person over the summer we dated. I was all by myself that summer because my daughter was in Puerto Rico, so my days all revolved around him. But that candle burned so fast that in the end there was nothing left and I had no desire to delude myself. Once I was done crying, instead of waxing sentimental about our summer of unbridled love, I decided to look at the unadorned truth. And I did not like what I saw. I saw an older man who wanted a younger woman at his beck and call; sexist, racist, an alcoholic. And I saw myself as he had seen me, a hot tamale who had become less fun and carefree once her daughter came back into the picture.
Because I was tired of the whole crying breakup thing, I decided to get incontrovertible proof that the guy was a scoundrel and in no way sad and mourning the demise of our ill-timed relationship, as he had tried to make it seem on one of his e-mails. When I posted my fake Yahoo Personals ad, I knew exactly what to say. My character was Latina, single, no kids, mid-thirties, looking for a good time and no ties. There was one other detail that I knew would catch his attention. The woman did not like intellectuals or people who put on airs. Hook, line and sinker, hello!
You might say that was devious and that laying a trap was not fair. Phooey, I say. If he was really so despondent, what the hell was he doing perusing the personals just days after our split? Why would he be propositioning Latina Hottie the same day her ad came out, asking for a face-to-face meeting and inquiring if she would be willing to drop everything at a moment's notice if he wanted to take a last-minute trip?
The response I got to my fake ad wasn't a boost to my ego, but it proved what I knew all along. I was interchangeable to him. Three days after our breakup he was already looking for his substitute exotic chick, only without the inconveniences of a child and a strong temper. It made me wonder who came before me, whom did I substitute?
Sometimes the truth is hard to digest. But I wanted it that way.
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Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Snow
Growing up in the Caribbean, the concept of snow was totally alien to me, something you only saw on movies or Christmas cards. By the time I was born, in the late sixties, Doña Fela's stunt of bringing in a plane full of snow and dumping it on the Parque Muñoz Rivera for the kids was a distant memory. I sometimes wished I had been around for that.
In 1993, I moved to Madison, Wisconsin, and experienced first hand the White Christmas that I had been hearing about throughout my childhood. Nobody had ever mentioned to me that snow melts and refreezes, that it gets dirty, that it is so freaking cold.
I hated it with a passion.
In 1993, I moved to Madison, Wisconsin, and experienced first hand the White Christmas that I had been hearing about throughout my childhood. Nobody had ever mentioned to me that snow melts and refreezes, that it gets dirty, that it is so freaking cold.
I hated it with a passion.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Non-fiction Friday- Chequi Morena
This week's challenge was: use the first line of a nursery rhyme (your choice) to start your own story.
My entry this week is non-fiction.
El juez le dijo al cura ¡curita!
El cura le dijo al juez ¿qué, juez?
¿Que a donde está ese rimo, caramba
del merecumbé?
Chequi morena, chequi
Chequi morena, ué
¿Que a donde está ese rimo, caramba
del merecumbé?
Un pasito a'lante
y otro para atrás
Y dando la vuelta
y dando la vuelta
¿Quién se quedará, ué?
When I was little I loved to sing and play chequi morena. At school during recess we got together and made a circle. One girl stood in the middle of the circle and danced while the others sang and clapped. Then she would close her eyes and twirl with the finger pointing forward. Once she stopped, whoever she was pointing at would take her place in the circle. In my school we were not that many kids, so boys and girls played together. It was funny whenever a boy was it.
Being chosen to be in the center was always a source of excitement and embarrassment to me. I absolutely loved standing in the center and shaking it, but I also dreaded being perceived as a goofy dork. In the end the excitement always won over the self-consciousness. Among playground song games, chequi morena was my favorite.
At the time I wasn't entirely sure what the words I was singing meant or what exactly did they have to do with the game. Now I know that chequi morena was Caribbean Spanish for shake it, morena (morena being a dark-skinned woman), and that I was pronouncing rimo in error, the correct word being ritmo, or rythym. What rythym was that? The merecumbé, which is a combination of merengue (Dominican Republic) and cumbia (Colombia). At the time I did not know that either. I thought the Merecumbé was some faraway country.
To me the rimo del Merecumbé alluded to in the song was some kind of mythical, cattle-like creature that was lost. The priest and judge of the song sure seemed to be keen on finding the rimo, so it must have been quite an important animal, I thought.
http://www.solycanto.com/lyrics.htm#chequi
http://www.padresaldia.com/tradicion/juegos_content.html
Sunday, September 30, 2007
I am a b*tch
Some of my favorite blogs are kept by women who are codependent, or as one of them says, codies. They are in relationships with addicts in recovery and they document their ups and downs in their pages, sharing with readers the work they are doing on themselves, recognizing patterns and the reasons why they may have gravitated to their addict. Some of them have their own addictions they are fighting as well.
The one thing that I marvel at, and admire the most, is their fierce love and their commitment to their mates, to walking the path of recovery with them. In a nutshell, these women are fucking strong. Their men are very, very lucky, and I hope they realize it and treat these women like the queens they are.
Compared to them, I am a royal bitch, because there is no way I would do the same if I was in their shoes. No siree. I have enough on my hands just being a mother and a productive member of society while managing highly fluctuating moods. I don't have the patience, the dedication and the energy it takes to support somebody else's journey of healing. To put it plainly, I can't put up with people's shit anymore. I do not want to.
You could say I used to put up with people's crap before. After all, I grew up in an alcoholic household. And yes, you would be right. I did put up with crap from my parents. But it was something I had to do because basically I was stuck with them. Even then, as a college student I remember telling my mom that enough was enough and she should just divorce my dad. They even separated for a few weeks, although my mom ended up taking him back, because my dad was so miserable. And maybe it was for the best, as he died a year or so later.
I love my husband. He's got demons in his past that sometimes affect his mood. He's got struggles in his present incarnation as a self-employed professional. I support him completely. I am grateful he does not have an addiction problem, though. I don't think I could deal with the uncertainty, the potential for lies and the risk of being drained financially. You see, more than anything, I crave security and stability, two things that an addict can't provide.
I have two kids, who freely unleash their inner drama queen every day. Both are intelligent and quite challenging. My nine year-old questions everything I say and often calls my bluff when my words do not match my actions. Gabe says they take after me. And it seems to be true, as I sometimes act that way too around my family. But I wasn't like that as a child at all. My mom says I was very well-behaved, never one to give her any trouble, save for some talking back during my teenage years. Married to Gabe, I am sometimes childish and throw fits that rival my daughters', as if compensating for all those years when I had to be the dependable, balanced one. Awareness that I am being an ass usually makes me snap out of these tantrums rather quickly. Other times, the moods are murkier and spill out in episodes of rage whose origins I am at a loss to ascertain. Gabriel puts up with it, surprisingly. Maybe because I am always contrite after these moments; after all most of the time I try to be understanding and accommodating. Maybe because I put up with his moods too, although not as good-naturedly as he does.
Being a single mother was hard for me, but honestly it was no harder than being married. I am well aware that I can say that because I have a good job, with benefits. A stay-at-home mom, or a mom in a minimum-wage job may have a different view. In any case, I was able on my own to make a stable life for my daughter and I. Four years after my divorce, when I decided to date again, my approach was pragmatic. I was not looking for my soulmate, I was definitely not looking for a husband, much less a provider. I had a house of my own, I had a job and I already had a child, all I wanted was companionship. But not at any cost.
The first guy I seriously dated turned out to be an alcoholic prick. We were together for three months. When the novelty ran out, he broke up with me via e-mail, very Sex and the City tacky of him. I cried and was a wreck for two days. Then I realized I had been let off the hook and I should actually be glad, not sad. On the third day I sent him a farewell e-mail in which I told him he was an angry drunk and should own it and get help. I ignored his replies where he professed he still loved me and it was just a matter of bad timing. And when he wanted to come to my house to give me back my stuff, I made sure to leave his shit outside my door and not answer if he rang. To further quell any lingering doubts I had as to his character, I fabricated a fictitious "carefree, fun-loving hot Latina" profile on Yahoo personals and waited. A day after I posted my profile, among the dozens of hits I found a message from him requesting to meet Latina Hottie in person. Just as I expected, good riddance indeed.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Interview with paisley
The great paisley had an excellent post this week where she answered five interview questions sent to her by a fellow blogger. In turn, she offered to interview other bloggers who would be interested. I was game. Below are the five questions she sent me and my answers.
1. growing up in puerto rico,, i am wondering what you thought about the possibility of leaving all of that behind,, your family,, your culture,, life as you had come to know it,, and coming to the states?? was it a childhood dream?? or was it more or less a "career move"???
When I was growing up the thought of leaving the island for good never crossed my mind. I lived with my head buried in books about far away places: Agatha Christie novels, picture books about Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel frescoes, books about Pompeii or the discovery of the ruins of Troy, places I would love to visit one day. My dad had done graduate work at Stanford in Palo Alto. My mom had spent a year in Berlin on a a Fulbright scholarship. I envisioned a future where I would travel and maybe live in another country for a short time, but there was never a question in my mind as to the fact that I was going to live my life on the island. Where else would I be?
It's not like people did not leave the island. They did, in droves. But the largest migration waves in Puerto Rican history had been made up mostly of the poor and rurally displaced, coming to the US to get jobs in factories and in farms, being treated like dirt, like second-class citizens. My mom's brother lived in New York (he still does), and his life was full of struggles. A couple of aunts on my dad's side had worked abroad, but had managed to come back home. It just wasn't what I wanted for myself. The massive Diaspora of professionals of which I am a part had not yet taken place.
As a grownup I saw things differently. After a year living in Madison, Wisconsin while my ex went to grad school, I had a taste for something different and I liked it. Years later, I had just gone through a divorce and the island felt small and confining, my life there stagnant. I saw rising crime rates, overpopulation, nightmarish traffic, a public school system that left a lot to be desired. I saw salaries in Puerto Rico were too low compared to those in the US for comparable positions, that a degree in Liberal Arts did not really open many doors on the island, and those that it opened were not very wide. I was weary of the insular mentality that afflicted island Puerto Ricans, myself included.
I was working as an administrative assistant (in title, in reality I was doing much more than that), when I was presented with a wonderful opportunity: a relocation offer to come to Houston in a new position within the company. All moving expenses were paid and I would receive a $20K salary increase yearly. How could I refuse? I needed a change, a place that felt safer to raise my daughter, a place where I would earn a salary that would allow me to live decently. I did not think twice and took the offer. Some people have said I was very brave in doing this, leaving everything behind and coming here with no safety net, no network of family and friends. I never felt it was that great of a challenge. It was hard adjusting at first, but also very exciting. I don't regret it one bit. I have made a new life here and have had a second chance at building a family.
And yet, I still harbor the dream of one day going back home. As much as I like Texas, nothing compares to the dream of my homeland. No matter what, I will always feel like a stranger here. I conveniently forget that even at home I felt like a foreigner, and find myself longing for Puerto Rico in the same idealized way that all immigrants do. But the Puerto Rico I miss is not the present-day island. My Puerto Rico is forever frozen in time, back in the year 2000, when I left it to move to Texas. The island of my dreams may date from even earlier times, from my childhood in the 1970's and 1980's.
2. being involved in the corporate world as you are,, and thus realizing the importance of a having firm grasp on the english language,, i am wondering if your daughters are being taught english or spanish as their first language?? and regardless of your answer,, i am wondering why you made that decision...
When we moved here it was just Paula and me, and she was two years old and learning to speak Spanish. She picked up English quite quickly, and insisted in speaking to me in English because she knew I spoke the language. Paula is definitely bilingual, but her Spanish is more rudimentary than I would like. I need to get her some Spanish lessons so that she learns to read and write well. She wants to learn more. We have spoken about her maybe going to college in my old alma mater, the University of Puerto Rico. It is an excellent school and it is extremely affordable compared to schools in the US, but classes are in Spanish so she would need to be quite fluent. I want to help her learn Spanish well, so that when the time comes to choose a school, she has that option available. With rising college costs in the US, it's something to consider.
I will have a harder time teaching Spanish to Isabel, since she was born here and her daddy and grandparents do not speak Spanish. But I am hopeful. She understands certain expressions, lots of her baby terms are in Puerto Rican slang (she refers to her pacifier as a "bobo", for example) and whenever I can I make her watch TV in Spanish. Also, living in Texas there is more people speaking the language around her, in daycare for example. Now, if only I could get Gabe to learn Spanish I will be set.
Spanish is my native language. I am fluent in English. I studied French and Italian in college. I know some rudiments of Brazilian Portuguese. Being exposed to all these languages has enriched my life not just professionally, but on a deep personal level as well. I hope I can give my daughters the same opportunities I have had.
3. i want to know more about your affinity with dead poets.. i too have always been especially taken with the works borne of despair, tragedy, rage,, but i think that is also reflected in my demeanor and my work... you however seem to have a much more socially acceptable,, if i may use the phrase,, approach to life,, where does all the pain and anguish register with you??? how do you feel it effects your own writing??
I have struggled so much with this question in particular, paisley. It has made me reflect a lot about my life. I will attempt to answer it to the best of my ability.
As someone who grew up in an alcoholic household and has also struggled with Major Depression for years, I know how deep the abyss can get. Sadness is second nature to me, never far away, even when I am content, as I am now. Hence my affinity for people who are honest about their pain, who make something beautiful out of something so painful. Reading works by those poets, and by the memoirists I am partial to, not only affords me a glimpse into their souls, it helps me connect with my own.
When I was at my lowest, I simply lost my writing voice. No matter what, I could not write. This lasted for more than a decade. I lived inside my head for most of that period, trapped in concentric circles of anguished, obsessive thoughts. Sometimes I wonder what would have come out if I had been able to write through that. It would have been definitely darker and more tortuous than what you read from me now. I am glad I am over that.
I credit my family life with keeping me grounded. I had a large extended family when I was a child, something that unfortunately my girls do not get to experience. I went to elementary school at a very small school where everybody knew each other and where I was the straight-A teacher's pet. When I was a teenager, my brother took me under his wing. He was four years older than me and quite popular. I was the little sister who tagged along with him and his friends. So even my youthful experiments with drinking, smoking et al where done under controlled conditions. At home I was the golden child, the baby of the family. I grew up with the sense that I was someone special. This was good and bad, especially when you have an older sister with learning disabilities.
I loved my immediate family, my dad, mom and siblings. Granted we had our faults and dysfunctions (which were never talked about or even acknowledged for years), but my family meant everything to me. I grew up with an "us against the world" mentality. My dad may have been an alcoholic, but he tried to be the best dad he could be, and always provided well for us. Whenever we needed help, he would be there. Sometimes he would get drunk on whiskey at night and the undercurrent of violence that could flow at any moment scared me. Thankfully, he did not physically abuse us; he had enough restraint and no doubt remembered the abuse he suffered at the hands of his dad. No matter how drunk he got, or how bad things got at home, the next day, he would get up, shower and go to work. From him I learned to be responsible with my commitments regardless of my emotions, and that nobody would care about me and come to my aid like my family could. I also learned that even good people are extremely flawed.
My parents, especially my mother, had extremely high expectations of me. I did not want to disappoint them. I am very close to my mother. For years I was her rock, her emotional and psychological support. Her talk about committing suicide always scared me. But, like my dad, she was also a responsible, dependable person, always going to work, never doing anything crazy, regardless of the pain inside. We had times when things got a little rocky between us, especially after my dad died. She became even more dependent on me and I finally rebelled and tried to get a life of my own. But we have always been quite close. She has helped me a lot when I have needed help as an adult. She loves my kids. We talk every week. I am so glad she never followed through with her suicide fantasies.
All of this formed my character. Early in life I had to learn to rein in my own emotional turmoil, because there was no way I was going to act up and cause trouble. My parents had enough on their plate. I have a very strong sense of duty and a keen awareness that whatever I choose to do in life will have consequences on my loved ones. The upside is that I am the kind of person who keeps going no matter what, which makes me what my therapist called a highly-functioning depressed person. The downside is that I am too dependent on people's feedback, too eager to please. I always want to give people the benefit of the doubt and strive to understand the motivations for their actions, to put myself in their shoes. The problem with that is that sometimes I am not fully aware of the nature of my feelings and I bury them deep down, where they fester until they explode into episodes of misplaced rage or extreme sorrow, which mostly Gabe and girls have to put up with. I am open and friendly with people, and I like to be honest and true. But I also can be very guarded, and I really don't have many close friends.
4. as the mother of two young daughters,, what are the building blocks you hope to instill in them,, while they are young,, the things that you will know,, no matter what course they choose for themselves,, you have given them as a foundation on which to build their lives???
I want them to know that I will always love them and will be there for them, no matter what they do with their lives. Paula and I talk about this frequently. She feels compelled to test this by asking me questions to gage how far my allegiance would go. The other day she asked me if I would still love her if she kills someone. And I told her that I would be there to visit her in jail every week. Then she said not to worry, that she had no plans to kill anyone.
I want them to grow up with the same sense I had of being someone important and special. I want them to love themselves. They both have my genes, which carry the potential for suffering from depression. Isabel has it on her dad's side as well. I want them to feel good about who they are and have a healthy concept of self-worth, so that if the darkness ever shows up, they take it for what it is, just a chemical thing and not a character flaw.
I want my daughters to be tolerant, kind and compassionate people. I want them to be accepting of others. I want them to be open-minded and to know that no religion in this world has the answer to all the questions. Nobody has a monopoly on truth.
I want them to feel they can do anything they want if they work hard for it. There should be no glass ceiling above their heads. There should be no concerns about their ethnic roots. Other people will still be hung up on that, but I don't want them to even worry about it. While I don't want them to be naive, they should not handicap themselves with those kinds of thoughts. I also want them to know I don't expect them to be perfect or win a Nobel Prize. I just want them to make a good life for themselves. Last, I want them to always be close to their family, no matter what, because we are the ones who will see them at their best and at their worst and love them just the way they are.
5. what legacy do you hope to leave behind????
Healthy, well-adjusted children will be my main legacy. I really hope I get to accomplish that. Other than that, I think I will ephemeral. Somewhere in a library bookshelf there is a book that includes two short stories written by me. Maybe someone will read them for a class years after I die. Maybe not. I am OK with that. If I manage to ever write and publish something else, I will be happy. But for now, the blog is good enough for me.
If you are interested in doing an interview, here's how it works:
Instructions
1. Leave me a comment saying "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with a post containing your answers to the questions and a link to my profile or blog as your interviewer.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
1. growing up in puerto rico,, i am wondering what you thought about the possibility of leaving all of that behind,, your family,, your culture,, life as you had come to know it,, and coming to the states?? was it a childhood dream?? or was it more or less a "career move"???
When I was growing up the thought of leaving the island for good never crossed my mind. I lived with my head buried in books about far away places: Agatha Christie novels, picture books about Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel frescoes, books about Pompeii or the discovery of the ruins of Troy, places I would love to visit one day. My dad had done graduate work at Stanford in Palo Alto. My mom had spent a year in Berlin on a a Fulbright scholarship. I envisioned a future where I would travel and maybe live in another country for a short time, but there was never a question in my mind as to the fact that I was going to live my life on the island. Where else would I be?
It's not like people did not leave the island. They did, in droves. But the largest migration waves in Puerto Rican history had been made up mostly of the poor and rurally displaced, coming to the US to get jobs in factories and in farms, being treated like dirt, like second-class citizens. My mom's brother lived in New York (he still does), and his life was full of struggles. A couple of aunts on my dad's side had worked abroad, but had managed to come back home. It just wasn't what I wanted for myself. The massive Diaspora of professionals of which I am a part had not yet taken place.
As a grownup I saw things differently. After a year living in Madison, Wisconsin while my ex went to grad school, I had a taste for something different and I liked it. Years later, I had just gone through a divorce and the island felt small and confining, my life there stagnant. I saw rising crime rates, overpopulation, nightmarish traffic, a public school system that left a lot to be desired. I saw salaries in Puerto Rico were too low compared to those in the US for comparable positions, that a degree in Liberal Arts did not really open many doors on the island, and those that it opened were not very wide. I was weary of the insular mentality that afflicted island Puerto Ricans, myself included.
I was working as an administrative assistant (in title, in reality I was doing much more than that), when I was presented with a wonderful opportunity: a relocation offer to come to Houston in a new position within the company. All moving expenses were paid and I would receive a $20K salary increase yearly. How could I refuse? I needed a change, a place that felt safer to raise my daughter, a place where I would earn a salary that would allow me to live decently. I did not think twice and took the offer. Some people have said I was very brave in doing this, leaving everything behind and coming here with no safety net, no network of family and friends. I never felt it was that great of a challenge. It was hard adjusting at first, but also very exciting. I don't regret it one bit. I have made a new life here and have had a second chance at building a family.
And yet, I still harbor the dream of one day going back home. As much as I like Texas, nothing compares to the dream of my homeland. No matter what, I will always feel like a stranger here. I conveniently forget that even at home I felt like a foreigner, and find myself longing for Puerto Rico in the same idealized way that all immigrants do. But the Puerto Rico I miss is not the present-day island. My Puerto Rico is forever frozen in time, back in the year 2000, when I left it to move to Texas. The island of my dreams may date from even earlier times, from my childhood in the 1970's and 1980's.
2. being involved in the corporate world as you are,, and thus realizing the importance of a having firm grasp on the english language,, i am wondering if your daughters are being taught english or spanish as their first language?? and regardless of your answer,, i am wondering why you made that decision...
When we moved here it was just Paula and me, and she was two years old and learning to speak Spanish. She picked up English quite quickly, and insisted in speaking to me in English because she knew I spoke the language. Paula is definitely bilingual, but her Spanish is more rudimentary than I would like. I need to get her some Spanish lessons so that she learns to read and write well. She wants to learn more. We have spoken about her maybe going to college in my old alma mater, the University of Puerto Rico. It is an excellent school and it is extremely affordable compared to schools in the US, but classes are in Spanish so she would need to be quite fluent. I want to help her learn Spanish well, so that when the time comes to choose a school, she has that option available. With rising college costs in the US, it's something to consider.
I will have a harder time teaching Spanish to Isabel, since she was born here and her daddy and grandparents do not speak Spanish. But I am hopeful. She understands certain expressions, lots of her baby terms are in Puerto Rican slang (she refers to her pacifier as a "bobo", for example) and whenever I can I make her watch TV in Spanish. Also, living in Texas there is more people speaking the language around her, in daycare for example. Now, if only I could get Gabe to learn Spanish I will be set.
Spanish is my native language. I am fluent in English. I studied French and Italian in college. I know some rudiments of Brazilian Portuguese. Being exposed to all these languages has enriched my life not just professionally, but on a deep personal level as well. I hope I can give my daughters the same opportunities I have had.
3. i want to know more about your affinity with dead poets.. i too have always been especially taken with the works borne of despair, tragedy, rage,, but i think that is also reflected in my demeanor and my work... you however seem to have a much more socially acceptable,, if i may use the phrase,, approach to life,, where does all the pain and anguish register with you??? how do you feel it effects your own writing??
I have struggled so much with this question in particular, paisley. It has made me reflect a lot about my life. I will attempt to answer it to the best of my ability.
As someone who grew up in an alcoholic household and has also struggled with Major Depression for years, I know how deep the abyss can get. Sadness is second nature to me, never far away, even when I am content, as I am now. Hence my affinity for people who are honest about their pain, who make something beautiful out of something so painful. Reading works by those poets, and by the memoirists I am partial to, not only affords me a glimpse into their souls, it helps me connect with my own.
When I was at my lowest, I simply lost my writing voice. No matter what, I could not write. This lasted for more than a decade. I lived inside my head for most of that period, trapped in concentric circles of anguished, obsessive thoughts. Sometimes I wonder what would have come out if I had been able to write through that. It would have been definitely darker and more tortuous than what you read from me now. I am glad I am over that.
I credit my family life with keeping me grounded. I had a large extended family when I was a child, something that unfortunately my girls do not get to experience. I went to elementary school at a very small school where everybody knew each other and where I was the straight-A teacher's pet. When I was a teenager, my brother took me under his wing. He was four years older than me and quite popular. I was the little sister who tagged along with him and his friends. So even my youthful experiments with drinking, smoking et al where done under controlled conditions. At home I was the golden child, the baby of the family. I grew up with the sense that I was someone special. This was good and bad, especially when you have an older sister with learning disabilities.
I loved my immediate family, my dad, mom and siblings. Granted we had our faults and dysfunctions (which were never talked about or even acknowledged for years), but my family meant everything to me. I grew up with an "us against the world" mentality. My dad may have been an alcoholic, but he tried to be the best dad he could be, and always provided well for us. Whenever we needed help, he would be there. Sometimes he would get drunk on whiskey at night and the undercurrent of violence that could flow at any moment scared me. Thankfully, he did not physically abuse us; he had enough restraint and no doubt remembered the abuse he suffered at the hands of his dad. No matter how drunk he got, or how bad things got at home, the next day, he would get up, shower and go to work. From him I learned to be responsible with my commitments regardless of my emotions, and that nobody would care about me and come to my aid like my family could. I also learned that even good people are extremely flawed.
My parents, especially my mother, had extremely high expectations of me. I did not want to disappoint them. I am very close to my mother. For years I was her rock, her emotional and psychological support. Her talk about committing suicide always scared me. But, like my dad, she was also a responsible, dependable person, always going to work, never doing anything crazy, regardless of the pain inside. We had times when things got a little rocky between us, especially after my dad died. She became even more dependent on me and I finally rebelled and tried to get a life of my own. But we have always been quite close. She has helped me a lot when I have needed help as an adult. She loves my kids. We talk every week. I am so glad she never followed through with her suicide fantasies.
All of this formed my character. Early in life I had to learn to rein in my own emotional turmoil, because there was no way I was going to act up and cause trouble. My parents had enough on their plate. I have a very strong sense of duty and a keen awareness that whatever I choose to do in life will have consequences on my loved ones. The upside is that I am the kind of person who keeps going no matter what, which makes me what my therapist called a highly-functioning depressed person. The downside is that I am too dependent on people's feedback, too eager to please. I always want to give people the benefit of the doubt and strive to understand the motivations for their actions, to put myself in their shoes. The problem with that is that sometimes I am not fully aware of the nature of my feelings and I bury them deep down, where they fester until they explode into episodes of misplaced rage or extreme sorrow, which mostly Gabe and girls have to put up with. I am open and friendly with people, and I like to be honest and true. But I also can be very guarded, and I really don't have many close friends.
4. as the mother of two young daughters,, what are the building blocks you hope to instill in them,, while they are young,, the things that you will know,, no matter what course they choose for themselves,, you have given them as a foundation on which to build their lives???
I want them to know that I will always love them and will be there for them, no matter what they do with their lives. Paula and I talk about this frequently. She feels compelled to test this by asking me questions to gage how far my allegiance would go. The other day she asked me if I would still love her if she kills someone. And I told her that I would be there to visit her in jail every week. Then she said not to worry, that she had no plans to kill anyone.
I want them to grow up with the same sense I had of being someone important and special. I want them to love themselves. They both have my genes, which carry the potential for suffering from depression. Isabel has it on her dad's side as well. I want them to feel good about who they are and have a healthy concept of self-worth, so that if the darkness ever shows up, they take it for what it is, just a chemical thing and not a character flaw.
I want my daughters to be tolerant, kind and compassionate people. I want them to be accepting of others. I want them to be open-minded and to know that no religion in this world has the answer to all the questions. Nobody has a monopoly on truth.
I want them to feel they can do anything they want if they work hard for it. There should be no glass ceiling above their heads. There should be no concerns about their ethnic roots. Other people will still be hung up on that, but I don't want them to even worry about it. While I don't want them to be naive, they should not handicap themselves with those kinds of thoughts. I also want them to know I don't expect them to be perfect or win a Nobel Prize. I just want them to make a good life for themselves. Last, I want them to always be close to their family, no matter what, because we are the ones who will see them at their best and at their worst and love them just the way they are.
5. what legacy do you hope to leave behind????
Healthy, well-adjusted children will be my main legacy. I really hope I get to accomplish that. Other than that, I think I will ephemeral. Somewhere in a library bookshelf there is a book that includes two short stories written by me. Maybe someone will read them for a class years after I die. Maybe not. I am OK with that. If I manage to ever write and publish something else, I will be happy. But for now, the blog is good enough for me.
If you are interested in doing an interview, here's how it works:
Instructions
1. Leave me a comment saying "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with a post containing your answers to the questions and a link to my profile or blog as your interviewer.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
My tender youth, when old drunk guys dug me
Evidently yesterday's post about my stalker unleashed some more memories, because this morning I spent my drive to the office reminiscing about two drunk creeps that had the hots for me on separate ocassions when I was 17 and 18 years old. I guess in their drunken stupor they must have found me quite fetching.
The first old drunk guy hit on me the night of my senior prom, which took place at the old Dupont Plaza Hotel in Condado, Puerto Rico. Speaking of the Dupont Plaza, if the name rings no bells, click on the link and learn about a dark chapter in Puerto Rican history, which took place months after my senior prom, and which claimed the life of the father of one of our childhood friends, among others.
But I digress. If you visit my blog, you have already had the wonderful opportunity to glance at my senior prom pic. So you know what I looked like that night. If you haven't seen it or have wiped it from your memory (and who wouldn't?) allow me to share with you again my big-nosed, raccoon-eyed, gigantic-earring, curtain-of-hair splendor. I mean, look at that! How could the poor middle-aged drunken Cuban guy who hit on me could resist?
The first old drunk guy hit on me the night of my senior prom, which took place at the old Dupont Plaza Hotel in Condado, Puerto Rico. Speaking of the Dupont Plaza, if the name rings no bells, click on the link and learn about a dark chapter in Puerto Rican history, which took place months after my senior prom, and which claimed the life of the father of one of our childhood friends, among others.
But I digress. If you visit my blog, you have already had the wonderful opportunity to glance at my senior prom pic. So you know what I looked like that night. If you haven't seen it or have wiped it from your memory (and who wouldn't?) allow me to share with you again my big-nosed, raccoon-eyed, gigantic-earring, curtain-of-hair splendor. I mean, look at that! How could the poor middle-aged drunken Cuban guy who hit on me could resist?
The night of my senior prom we had booked a hotel room so we did not have to drive home. I did not have a date (well, my mom was my date, can you say loser?) and I hated most people in my graduating class, so I drifted in and out of the ballroom and just wandered around the hotel. I think my mom retired to bed early and I decided to ditch the prom and hang out with my brother and sister-in-law so I could drink and smoke. The legal drinking age in Puerto Rico is 18, by the way (although I was off by one year). There was a bar & night club up in the last floor of the hotel and a group called Las Mariposas was doing a show there. It was two guys doing funny songs and imitations.
I was sitting at the bar with my brother and sister-in-law, having a drink, smoking a cigarrette and feeling all grown up when this forty-something guy stumbled up to me and said in a very thick Cuban accent: "oye, ¿tú eres de verdad o de mentira?" (which loosely translates as are you real, or just an illusion?). Great. The guy asked my name and wanted me to sit and have a drink with him. No fucking way. And he would not give up. At some point he looked at me and he said "Ingrid, estás destinada a ser real." (you are destined to be real.) Give me a break, how corny can you get? I don't know how I did it, but I managed to escape.
The second drunken creepy guy who was charmed by my greek goddess looks followed me in his car from Bounty Steakhouse in Santurce all the way to the campus of the University of Puerto Rico in Río Piedras. I had lunch there with my sister in law, and after I dropped her off I realized I had left my umbrella at the restaurant, so I drove back to get it. The old drunk was sitting at the bar and he brightened as soon as he saw me. He tried to pick me up and kept on saying "mi amor", but I was in a hurry and brushed him off quite brusquely. I guess he liked women who played hard to get, because the asshole jumped in his car as soon as I left and must have spent about 20 minutes chasing my car, doing his utmost not to veer into incoming traffic.
I made it to the UPR and was about to park next to the museum when the drunken fool blocked the parking spot with his car while yelling "Mi amor, te vengo siguiendo desde Bounty." (my love, I've been following you from Bounty-the restaurant). While the Cuban guy at the Dupont Plaza annoyed me, this guy was a bona fide stalker. Who knows what his intentions were. As you can imagine, he scared me to death, so I drove off in search of the first campus cop I could find. Luckily, I did not have to look far, and the guy disappeared.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Stalker
I had a stalker once, years ago when I was barely a teenager. He was the brother of a classmate of my older brother. His name was Eric and he was much older than us. I want to say he was maybe 25 at the time. He did not work. He lived with his parents. Something was wrong with him. It was very hush-hush, but I think it was schizophrenia. Behind his back, everybody called him Eric el Loco. He would come and hang out at my family’s little shop when I was working there, always looking at me with those too-intense eyes.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
9-11
Six years ago. Wow.
I had been living in Texas for a year when it happened. I made it to the office and a coworker had the radio on. I was stunned. Everybody was upset and details were so sketchy at first. Most of us who were parents felt the impulse to pick up our kids from school. I did not do it, because I wasnt sure what was going on. Maybe she was safer there than where I was. I did not see any images until much later, and that made the whole thing feel quite surreal.
So much has happened since 9/11. While I don't agree or support many of the decisions of this country's government, and the direction they have taken us, none of that matters today.
Today is a day to honor the memory of the victims of this tragedy.
I had been living in Texas for a year when it happened. I made it to the office and a coworker had the radio on. I was stunned. Everybody was upset and details were so sketchy at first. Most of us who were parents felt the impulse to pick up our kids from school. I did not do it, because I wasnt sure what was going on. Maybe she was safer there than where I was. I did not see any images until much later, and that made the whole thing feel quite surreal.
So much has happened since 9/11. While I don't agree or support many of the decisions of this country's government, and the direction they have taken us, none of that matters today.
Today is a day to honor the memory of the victims of this tragedy.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Confessions
I like to think of myself as a good person. I pride myself on following the most basic rules of society, on acting with the conscious goal of not hurting others. Yet I know I am not as good, as nice as I would like to be. With that in mind, I started making a list of my transgressions, with the intention of sharing them on this post. I was halfway through number one when I pictured my lawyer husband warning me about the sheer idiocy of what I was doing. Do I really want to have a written record of my peccadilloes for posterity?
I also remembered the stories about companies regularly checking the blogs and MySpace pages of employees and potential recruits, and of people being fired or passed over for jobs because of the contents of their blogs (can you say dooce?). My blog is public, my face is plastered all over it, I sign it in my name. It truly is a risk. So I stopped myself, and now I am left with nothing but disappointment at the fact that I self-censored my blog. I have always had this wonderful, idealized notion that my blog was going to be the one space for true self-expression, so I hate it when grown-up reality intrudes.
And yet, even though I will not share most of my less-than-stellar experiences, I can share the one memory that got me thinking about this subject. It is one of my worst moments, and I am ashamed of it. I have never before shared it with anybody.
When I was growing up, I had a best friend. We went to a small school together, from kindergarten through sixth grade, except for one year when my mom moved me to public school. I loved my friend very much, but once we went to different middle schools, we sort of drifted apart, although I still learned about her life from mutual friends who I ocassionally heard from. And once in a blue moon we would see each other at the mall. We went to different universities, on opposite sides of the island. She became an engineer, as her family wanted to, then put her title aside, got married and worked as an event planner. Or at least that is what I heard.
My shameful memory comes from the time Paula was an infant. Details are sketchy, so I can't remember exactly how old Paula was when I found myself sitting accross the room from my old friend at a pediatrician's packed waiting room. I know she was still in her baby bucket carrier, so she was pretty young. I remember noticing my friend and then deliberately pretending I had not recognized her. She did not make any kind of acknowledgment that she had recognized me either. I wonder what went through her mind.
At the time I was so embarrassed about my life that I dreaded saying hi. What was I going to say, that I was unhappily married, miserable at work and most likely depressed? That I could not even breastfeed my baby full time? That I, the smartest kid in our class, now worked as a receptionist because I did not have the guts to stay in law school? She looked great, and I looked so fat and ugly, I could not face her. Trying to avoid humiliation, I did one of the things that I most despise, acted like a jerk and ignored someone I once cared deeply about.
I never saw my childhood friend again, and now I live in Texas, so there is little chance of running into her again. In hindsight, I wish I could apologize to her for my stupidity.
I also remembered the stories about companies regularly checking the blogs and MySpace pages of employees and potential recruits, and of people being fired or passed over for jobs because of the contents of their blogs (can you say dooce?). My blog is public, my face is plastered all over it, I sign it in my name. It truly is a risk. So I stopped myself, and now I am left with nothing but disappointment at the fact that I self-censored my blog. I have always had this wonderful, idealized notion that my blog was going to be the one space for true self-expression, so I hate it when grown-up reality intrudes.
And yet, even though I will not share most of my less-than-stellar experiences, I can share the one memory that got me thinking about this subject. It is one of my worst moments, and I am ashamed of it. I have never before shared it with anybody.
When I was growing up, I had a best friend. We went to a small school together, from kindergarten through sixth grade, except for one year when my mom moved me to public school. I loved my friend very much, but once we went to different middle schools, we sort of drifted apart, although I still learned about her life from mutual friends who I ocassionally heard from. And once in a blue moon we would see each other at the mall. We went to different universities, on opposite sides of the island. She became an engineer, as her family wanted to, then put her title aside, got married and worked as an event planner. Or at least that is what I heard.
My shameful memory comes from the time Paula was an infant. Details are sketchy, so I can't remember exactly how old Paula was when I found myself sitting accross the room from my old friend at a pediatrician's packed waiting room. I know she was still in her baby bucket carrier, so she was pretty young. I remember noticing my friend and then deliberately pretending I had not recognized her. She did not make any kind of acknowledgment that she had recognized me either. I wonder what went through her mind.
At the time I was so embarrassed about my life that I dreaded saying hi. What was I going to say, that I was unhappily married, miserable at work and most likely depressed? That I could not even breastfeed my baby full time? That I, the smartest kid in our class, now worked as a receptionist because I did not have the guts to stay in law school? She looked great, and I looked so fat and ugly, I could not face her. Trying to avoid humiliation, I did one of the things that I most despise, acted like a jerk and ignored someone I once cared deeply about.
I never saw my childhood friend again, and now I live in Texas, so there is little chance of running into her again. In hindsight, I wish I could apologize to her for my stupidity.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Just get the big L tattooed to my forehead
When I was young, my mother praised my intelligence so much. She built me up so high, told me I was so intelligent that it was a duty to use my brain to do something big and of importance with my life.
I was fascinated by science books and loved animals, so I was going to be a scientist when I grew up and discover the cure of cancer or something else equally big and important. This was said in all seriousness. My family had very cultured people, and some trailblazers in its ranks, after all. My grandpa's brother, who was my favorite uncle growing up, was a famous painter. My maternal grandmother had been one of the first group to graduate from the Normal School at the University of Puerto Rico. She was a math teacher and eventually became a school director.
Both my mother and father graduated from college and did some graduate work, my father in Stanford and my mother in Berlin on a Fullbright scholarship. So my mother's expectations of me were pretty high. And I am sorry to say I have been a huge disappointment. First of all, I switched majors on my second semester, changing from Biology to History. Then I graduated college with no clue of what to do with my life. I dropped law school after one semester. I remember the day I told my mom I was not going to be a lawyer and that what I really liked to do was write short stories. She looked at me and said "Then you'd better damn be the best writer there is." I think that comment jinxed me. For years I suffered from writer's block. I lost the spark. Eventually I just gave up on that part of my life altogether and focused on making a living.
I started working from the ground up. I did not have any friends in high places to give me a hand, and I had majored in History but had no inclination at all to be a teacher. So my first jobs were clerical in nature (receptionist at a San Juan newspaper, salesclerk at the UW University Bookstore in Madison, WI, office clerk at a clothing manufacturer back in San Juan).
I have been working 10 years for my current employer, and I have moved up the ranks from Administrative Assistant to Business Planning Manager. Fancy title, eh? It's actually pretty generic, it really doesn't convey well what I do. I like my job very much. I truly have a career by accident. I knew nothing about this business when I started. I have learned all I know on the go. Sometimes I think about it, this accumulation of experience and industry knowledge I have. It's hard to gauge it accurately. I fear I know less than I should. I suspect I may not realize how much I actually know. Does that make sense?
I love my daughters, and I want them to be the best they can possibly be. But I do not want to make the mistake my mom made. Her expectations of me were so high that they crushed me.
I was fascinated by science books and loved animals, so I was going to be a scientist when I grew up and discover the cure of cancer or something else equally big and important. This was said in all seriousness. My family had very cultured people, and some trailblazers in its ranks, after all. My grandpa's brother, who was my favorite uncle growing up, was a famous painter. My maternal grandmother had been one of the first group to graduate from the Normal School at the University of Puerto Rico. She was a math teacher and eventually became a school director.
Both my mother and father graduated from college and did some graduate work, my father in Stanford and my mother in Berlin on a Fullbright scholarship. So my mother's expectations of me were pretty high. And I am sorry to say I have been a huge disappointment. First of all, I switched majors on my second semester, changing from Biology to History. Then I graduated college with no clue of what to do with my life. I dropped law school after one semester. I remember the day I told my mom I was not going to be a lawyer and that what I really liked to do was write short stories. She looked at me and said "Then you'd better damn be the best writer there is." I think that comment jinxed me. For years I suffered from writer's block. I lost the spark. Eventually I just gave up on that part of my life altogether and focused on making a living.
I started working from the ground up. I did not have any friends in high places to give me a hand, and I had majored in History but had no inclination at all to be a teacher. So my first jobs were clerical in nature (receptionist at a San Juan newspaper, salesclerk at the UW University Bookstore in Madison, WI, office clerk at a clothing manufacturer back in San Juan).
I have been working 10 years for my current employer, and I have moved up the ranks from Administrative Assistant to Business Planning Manager. Fancy title, eh? It's actually pretty generic, it really doesn't convey well what I do. I like my job very much. I truly have a career by accident. I knew nothing about this business when I started. I have learned all I know on the go. Sometimes I think about it, this accumulation of experience and industry knowledge I have. It's hard to gauge it accurately. I fear I know less than I should. I suspect I may not realize how much I actually know. Does that make sense?
I love my daughters, and I want them to be the best they can possibly be. But I do not want to make the mistake my mom made. Her expectations of me were so high that they crushed me.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
An exercise in futility
I have said before that sometimes we learn more about ourselves from our mistakes than from our triumphs. Nothing original, I know, but it is something I firmly believe. Setbacks have helped me grow as a person and move forward in my life.
Today's post is about one of those mistakes. Once upon a time, over six years ago, I was duped/pressured into getting into a timeshare.
I should have known better, but I was naive and back then I had a hard time saying no. Plus, these people are very effective in their hard sell techniques. Because I could not afford much, I ended up with a blue-period timeshare that I can only use on even years. The blue period is the worst ever, with a very short window to use, and in the middle of winter. Bum deal, right?
Every month for the last six years I have been paying about 91 dollars for the financing of said hellish timeshare, and about 30 dollars for their dues ("owners" need to pay dues and taxes). I can't wait to get out of it, but I don't know how to unload it. The timeshare company will do nothing to help me sell it. There are companies that are dedicated to sell timeshares, but usually they charge owners a fee in advance in order to list for one year, with no guarantee that they will sell it. So I have been biding my time and waiting for the moment when it's all paid for, so I can figure out my next move.
In the meantime, sucky Silverleaf Resorts calls me all the time. Every year they call me and invite me to come over for a free weekend stay, provided I sit down to an update meeting which is really an attempt to get me to upgrade to a more expensive timeshare. I have been to a few of these yearly meetings. One year my parents stayed with me and Paula at a cabin and one morning we saw a body lying underneath the stairs of our building. Needless to say that scared the crap out of me. Was it someone passed out drunk or was it someone dead? I called security and never knew what became of that. No one had the decency to tell us. I skipped several yearly meetings after that.
Last year when they called I decided to take the free weekend. I had Gabriel this time around for support, and I also wanted him, my in-laws and the girls to enjoy the property. It's in a wooded area by Lake Conroe, so it can charming. Overall it was a good weekend, except for two things. One, we took a horse-drawn wagon ride on the property and it was obvious to us that the wagon was too large and heavy for one of the horses to pull. This horse looked tired and skinny, and had an abcess in its leg. At one point there was a steep incline and the horses struggled. I honestly thought the skinny one was going to collapse. Gabe got out of the wagon to lighten the load. I had Isa and did not dare jump out, but I would have if I had been alone. No one else cared, and there was like 8 more people on the wagon. I was furious and when the time for my meeting came, I spent the first ten minutes complaining to the Piney Shores person about the treatment to their horse. I also told them in a very clear way, that there was no way in hell I was upgrading to a more expensive timeshare, that in fact I could not wait to unload it. They were not pleased by that. In fact, the stupid and cynical sales manager told me "good luck selling that". What an asshole. And he expected me to upgrade after such comments? Animal-abusing scumbags is what they are.
After we got home I reported them to the SPCA. It was the least I could do.
Months later, someone from Silverleaf called asking me to refer friends and family so they could contact them. I told them I cared about my family and friends and would definitely not send them over to be screwed by them. That did not go down well.
Last week they called offering me a free weekend so I could go to the yearly update meeting. After talking to Gabe, I accepted. I already know I will not upgrade, and there is nothing they can say to convince me otherwise. Once the meeting is out of the way, I will have time to enjoy the facilities and the cabin. I also want to go check up on the horse, if it's still there.
Today's post is about one of those mistakes. Once upon a time, over six years ago, I was duped/pressured into getting into a timeshare.
I should have known better, but I was naive and back then I had a hard time saying no. Plus, these people are very effective in their hard sell techniques. Because I could not afford much, I ended up with a blue-period timeshare that I can only use on even years. The blue period is the worst ever, with a very short window to use, and in the middle of winter. Bum deal, right?
Every month for the last six years I have been paying about 91 dollars for the financing of said hellish timeshare, and about 30 dollars for their dues ("owners" need to pay dues and taxes). I can't wait to get out of it, but I don't know how to unload it. The timeshare company will do nothing to help me sell it. There are companies that are dedicated to sell timeshares, but usually they charge owners a fee in advance in order to list for one year, with no guarantee that they will sell it. So I have been biding my time and waiting for the moment when it's all paid for, so I can figure out my next move.
In the meantime, sucky Silverleaf Resorts calls me all the time. Every year they call me and invite me to come over for a free weekend stay, provided I sit down to an update meeting which is really an attempt to get me to upgrade to a more expensive timeshare. I have been to a few of these yearly meetings. One year my parents stayed with me and Paula at a cabin and one morning we saw a body lying underneath the stairs of our building. Needless to say that scared the crap out of me. Was it someone passed out drunk or was it someone dead? I called security and never knew what became of that. No one had the decency to tell us. I skipped several yearly meetings after that.
Last year when they called I decided to take the free weekend. I had Gabriel this time around for support, and I also wanted him, my in-laws and the girls to enjoy the property. It's in a wooded area by Lake Conroe, so it can charming. Overall it was a good weekend, except for two things. One, we took a horse-drawn wagon ride on the property and it was obvious to us that the wagon was too large and heavy for one of the horses to pull. This horse looked tired and skinny, and had an abcess in its leg. At one point there was a steep incline and the horses struggled. I honestly thought the skinny one was going to collapse. Gabe got out of the wagon to lighten the load. I had Isa and did not dare jump out, but I would have if I had been alone. No one else cared, and there was like 8 more people on the wagon. I was furious and when the time for my meeting came, I spent the first ten minutes complaining to the Piney Shores person about the treatment to their horse. I also told them in a very clear way, that there was no way in hell I was upgrading to a more expensive timeshare, that in fact I could not wait to unload it. They were not pleased by that. In fact, the stupid and cynical sales manager told me "good luck selling that". What an asshole. And he expected me to upgrade after such comments? Animal-abusing scumbags is what they are.
After we got home I reported them to the SPCA. It was the least I could do.
Months later, someone from Silverleaf called asking me to refer friends and family so they could contact them. I told them I cared about my family and friends and would definitely not send them over to be screwed by them. That did not go down well.
Last week they called offering me a free weekend so I could go to the yearly update meeting. After talking to Gabe, I accepted. I already know I will not upgrade, and there is nothing they can say to convince me otherwise. Once the meeting is out of the way, I will have time to enjoy the facilities and the cabin. I also want to go check up on the horse, if it's still there.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Oh to be a work of art
I spent a couple of hours tonight looking for song lyrics online, and listening to songs on my iTunes so I could pick which ones to use in my story project. And then a song starts playing, a song I got as an iTunes free download of the week, one that was maybe played once and totally forgotten.
And suddenly I was sitting at my computer, writing with tears in my eyes. Isabel came to me and started wiping them with her hand, giving me hugs and telling me to stop crying. My sweet angel. I obliged, and took her to bed.
Satisfied that she is sound asleep, I return to my blank screen. I play the song again. I put the song on my blog as well.
What exactly makes me cry? It's so hard to explain all the emotions this song and its lyrics evoke in me. The short version would be to say it took me back to the worst years of my life, and gave word, like no other song before, to a story of unfulfilled promise, inner turmoil and loss.
Perhaps I should stop the music, right? But I can't.
My father died in January of 1990. A major anchor of my life disappeared. I was on my last semester of college, and had been dreading the next stage, not really sure what I wanted to do with my life after graduation, not quite ready to grow up yet. All I wanted to do was write short stories and hang out with my friends from the Honors Program, attending their poetry readings and acting in scenes for a friend's theater direction class. I had applied to law school because I did not know what else to do, and it seemed like the logical thing to do at the time. One of the last things my dad said to me was how proud he was I had been accepted to the UPR Law School. That comment came back to haunt me many times when I dropped from law school after only one semester.
After my dad's death, my mother fell apart and I had to step in and take care of her. She did not even know how to drive, so I had to take her everywhere. She tried to get me to take charge of her finances, to balance her checkbook. She was just as lost as I was.
It feels so far away now, yet there's a part of me that will forever be frozen in that time.
I got my first boyfriend the summer after my dad's death. The timing is suspect, and I have never understood why I had not allowed anyone to get really close to me until then. We wrote each other letters all the time. He was a writer like me. Still is.
I remember vividly the moment I told my mom I had a boyfriend. She sat down on a rocking chair and started crying. Now that I had a boyfriend, she said, I was going to abandon her and she had no more reason for living.
I started law school that fall. I had a really hard time focusing on my courses. I was just there, drifting with no definite plan. My boyfriend, two years younger than me, was still in college. I was always hanging out at my old faculty, instead of at the law school library.
I lost myself in that relationship. Or rather, I clung to that relationship like it was a lifeline. But there was trouble in paradise. I got pregnant by accident in October of 1990. I had an abortion. I was so ashamed I kept it hidden from my mother and siblings, from most of my friends too.
One of my best friends died a few months later, of an embolism just like my dad.
I dropped out of law school and decided to pursue a Masters in Comp. Lit. I had taken only a couple of elective courses on literature, so I needed to do some prerequisites. I was so green, so naive. My first class was on Caribbean Literature. My professor was a rabid postmodernist, who took pleasure on demolishing people's assumptions of what constituted literary analysis. I remember the first time I tried to discuss a novel. She asked me what did I think I was doing talking about the characters as if they were my neighbors. She had no interest in historical context or what the author meant. Who cares? The figure of the author is dead, no one cares what he meant! Text is to be analyzed in accordance to an analytical framework of our choosing. That was the first time ever I was exposed to the concepts of postmodernism and deconstruction. Nothing was real, everything was a construct, a fiction. To be emotionally engaged when reading a text was not something that was accepted. Everything had to have the life drained out of it and stretched to absurd shapes. We really were not studying literary works, we were studying literary theory.
It was a bit more than I could handle. My personal life was in utter chaos, and unlike other people, I did not have a faith to fall back upon. The only things I could rely on had been taken away from me. Now I could not even enjoy a book without feeling like a simpleton. Everything I had been taught all my life up to then was considered crap. Nothing could be assumed. I lost my sense of security, my sense of the absolute. And what should have an intellectual eye opener was instead a push into the ocean with nothing to hold on to.
There's honestly big chunks of my twenties that are missing from my memory banks. I know I went through the motions. I stopped writing and I dropped out of grad school. I had disappointed everybody. I was so unimportant, so inconsequential. I moved in with my boyfriend. I got a job, we got married, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. All those years there was a constant in my life, a very dark and pervasive depression. It wasn't until the year 2000, after I moved to Texas for work and started over as a single mother, that I began to wake up from the slumber.
All that is what this song brought back to me tonight.
Philosophia, by the Guggenheim Grotto
When we’re young we set our hearts upon some beautiful idea
Maybe something from a holy book or French philosophia
Upon the thoughts of better men than us we swear by and decree a
Perfect way to end the war of ways the only way to be a…
Work of art, oh to be a work of art
But in time a thought comes tugging on the sleeve edge of our minds
Perhaps no perfect way exists at all, just many different kinds
Oh but if it’s just a thing of taste then everything unwinds
For without an absolute how can the absolute define…
A work of art, oh to be a work of art.
And suddenly I was sitting at my computer, writing with tears in my eyes. Isabel came to me and started wiping them with her hand, giving me hugs and telling me to stop crying. My sweet angel. I obliged, and took her to bed.
Satisfied that she is sound asleep, I return to my blank screen. I play the song again. I put the song on my blog as well.
What exactly makes me cry? It's so hard to explain all the emotions this song and its lyrics evoke in me. The short version would be to say it took me back to the worst years of my life, and gave word, like no other song before, to a story of unfulfilled promise, inner turmoil and loss.
Perhaps I should stop the music, right? But I can't.
My father died in January of 1990. A major anchor of my life disappeared. I was on my last semester of college, and had been dreading the next stage, not really sure what I wanted to do with my life after graduation, not quite ready to grow up yet. All I wanted to do was write short stories and hang out with my friends from the Honors Program, attending their poetry readings and acting in scenes for a friend's theater direction class. I had applied to law school because I did not know what else to do, and it seemed like the logical thing to do at the time. One of the last things my dad said to me was how proud he was I had been accepted to the UPR Law School. That comment came back to haunt me many times when I dropped from law school after only one semester.
After my dad's death, my mother fell apart and I had to step in and take care of her. She did not even know how to drive, so I had to take her everywhere. She tried to get me to take charge of her finances, to balance her checkbook. She was just as lost as I was.
It feels so far away now, yet there's a part of me that will forever be frozen in that time.
I got my first boyfriend the summer after my dad's death. The timing is suspect, and I have never understood why I had not allowed anyone to get really close to me until then. We wrote each other letters all the time. He was a writer like me. Still is.
I remember vividly the moment I told my mom I had a boyfriend. She sat down on a rocking chair and started crying. Now that I had a boyfriend, she said, I was going to abandon her and she had no more reason for living.
I started law school that fall. I had a really hard time focusing on my courses. I was just there, drifting with no definite plan. My boyfriend, two years younger than me, was still in college. I was always hanging out at my old faculty, instead of at the law school library.
I lost myself in that relationship. Or rather, I clung to that relationship like it was a lifeline. But there was trouble in paradise. I got pregnant by accident in October of 1990. I had an abortion. I was so ashamed I kept it hidden from my mother and siblings, from most of my friends too.
One of my best friends died a few months later, of an embolism just like my dad.
I dropped out of law school and decided to pursue a Masters in Comp. Lit. I had taken only a couple of elective courses on literature, so I needed to do some prerequisites. I was so green, so naive. My first class was on Caribbean Literature. My professor was a rabid postmodernist, who took pleasure on demolishing people's assumptions of what constituted literary analysis. I remember the first time I tried to discuss a novel. She asked me what did I think I was doing talking about the characters as if they were my neighbors. She had no interest in historical context or what the author meant. Who cares? The figure of the author is dead, no one cares what he meant! Text is to be analyzed in accordance to an analytical framework of our choosing. That was the first time ever I was exposed to the concepts of postmodernism and deconstruction. Nothing was real, everything was a construct, a fiction. To be emotionally engaged when reading a text was not something that was accepted. Everything had to have the life drained out of it and stretched to absurd shapes. We really were not studying literary works, we were studying literary theory.
It was a bit more than I could handle. My personal life was in utter chaos, and unlike other people, I did not have a faith to fall back upon. The only things I could rely on had been taken away from me. Now I could not even enjoy a book without feeling like a simpleton. Everything I had been taught all my life up to then was considered crap. Nothing could be assumed. I lost my sense of security, my sense of the absolute. And what should have an intellectual eye opener was instead a push into the ocean with nothing to hold on to.
There's honestly big chunks of my twenties that are missing from my memory banks. I know I went through the motions. I stopped writing and I dropped out of grad school. I had disappointed everybody. I was so unimportant, so inconsequential. I moved in with my boyfriend. I got a job, we got married, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. All those years there was a constant in my life, a very dark and pervasive depression. It wasn't until the year 2000, after I moved to Texas for work and started over as a single mother, that I began to wake up from the slumber.
All that is what this song brought back to me tonight.
Philosophia, by the Guggenheim Grotto
When we’re young we set our hearts upon some beautiful idea
Maybe something from a holy book or French philosophia
Upon the thoughts of better men than us we swear by and decree a
Perfect way to end the war of ways the only way to be a…
Work of art, oh to be a work of art
But in time a thought comes tugging on the sleeve edge of our minds
Perhaps no perfect way exists at all, just many different kinds
Oh but if it’s just a thing of taste then everything unwinds
For without an absolute how can the absolute define…
A work of art, oh to be a work of art.
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