This Country is in Serious Need of a Hug

This morning I woke up with a heavy feeling in my heart. My body dragged with each movement and my mind felt clouded. Nothing new since the passing of my mom, and although most days I am able to brave my way through it, today felt off. Was it last night's too-short haircut? Or was it that email turning me down for the job I had poorly interviewed for? Whatever the case, I knew I had a day full of business so I got going.

I took the girls to school, came back home, took a long hot shower in hopes of jump starting my sluggish humanity, and headed back to the school to volunteer for an hour while Jo stayed at our friends' house.
Spent 60 minutes reading with six children in second grade. Checked on Tori to make sure that this morning's tummy ache was gone, kissed her goodbye, talked to her teacher for a minute, and left. This elementary school may not be the best in the country, but that place is a nice, happy place.

I got in the car and double-checked with my friend about her offer to keep Jo longer this time so I could finish my Christmas shopping. I turned on the radio and heard the news of the shooting in an elementary school in Connecticut. I froze. 20 children between the ages of 5 and 10, dead.

I had just spent an hour at our elementary school, and left my girls there not ever thinking that something could go so severely wrong.

Tears come rushing and roll freely down my face while my brain tries to wrap itself around what it's hearing. Sheer shock and sorrow. The reality of death has rudely shaken me again. But little children??!!! I found a parking spot and wept for several minutes.

Anger starts creeping in along with the sadness. I can't help but curse all the ideologies against gun control.

How many times does this have to happen? How many innocent people, how many children, will this country have to lose in acts of violence? How much damage is enough before it's enough? We condemn the violence that children face in Syria or Palestine. We gasp at the suffering of little girls whose genitals are mutilated. We shake our finger at history and it's proof of the abuse endured by slave children.
And what about the children right here?  What are the citizens of this world-leading country doing to protect their most vulnerable?

A fever is not an illness. The flu is. An infection is. Chicken pox is an illness. The fever that comes with it is merely a symptom that is not even always a good indicator of the severity of the illness itself.
A person is not sick because of the fever, but when the temperature is high enough, say 105°F or higher, it is a concern and doctors will try to bring it down and keep it controlled in order to avoid any other serious complications.

Some people say guns are not the problem: "guns don't kill people, people kill people". Well, guns are becoming a 180°F fever. And people who are ill are using them in sick ways and it is bringing devastating consequences. Fighting guns with guns is not a viable solution, so what is there to do?

There has got to be tighter gun control in order to protect ourselves while somehow we take care of the problem at the root of all this hurt. Let's control guns, heal our hearts and minds, and then see what other safer options lay in the future.

I cannot even pretend that I could somehow identify and explain the cause of all this violence, but at the same time I believe that the answer doesn't lie far from us.
There are people who have suffered tremendous losses. I am with them whole heartedly. My heart also aches for those who are so lost, so hopeless, so erratic, that they think unspeakable violence is an answer.

One of my chilean friends shared a post on facebook about today's news. It said: "Today I will hug my children tighter than ever, and I will be happy to live in an under-developed country, but at least less sick". He's right.

This country is a good country, but some things are going terribly wrong. This country is in serious need of a healing hug. Something that will make everyone feel that everything will be ok, so long as we keep our priorities straight and our hearts open. A hug far-reaching enough, that will let anyone who's unravelled so, to know that there is a better way out. A hug far-reaching enough that will let anyone who's suffering know that there is hope.

Chronicle of Lunchtime with a Toddler (at least my toddler)

This is the narrative of a real-life event. As in a real event in my real life. It's not a unique event, in fact, it happens often, but today it had me telling myself that I had to put it down in writing for some kind of proof and/or validation. So here it goes:

Date: Tuesday, November 27th
Location: At home.

12:40pm
Joanna has been back from preschool for a while and she is happily watching a newly discovered old cartoon show, so I delay lunch for a little bit.

1:00pm
I have delayed  long enough and feel like I should start moving on it before reaching the point of parental neglect.
I realize she has to pee so I ask her to please go to the bathroom before lunch. As usual, she denies any relation between her jittery movements and the need to evacuate her bladder; and as usual, I let her go on because if there is something I like to avoid, it is the screaming fights this girl can put on. I figure eventually she will have to give up the no-need-to-pee charade.

1:05pm
We approach the counter and as she sits on a stool I nuke some of last night's leftover spaghetti (aren't I a devoted mother?). To distract her from the fact that I am about to feed her old food, I give her  some of the brownies Sofia baked last night, which she starts eating before I get the spaghetti to her.

1:10pm
We halt the brownie eating and now there she is, swinging her legs as she sprinkles parmesan cheese on her noodles and takes a tiny bite.

1:15pm
I ask her to no avail to please keep eating. By now I have started working on my own lunch. She asks for a drink of water "in the penguin cup, please".

1:20pm
She notices a clementine orange on the counter and grabs it declaring at the same time that she does not want to eat it, just play with it for a long time. I sigh.

1:25pm
Jo remembers the little hang nail on her finger, so she asks for a bandage. I know she doesn't need it, it  really is a tiny thing and I am well aware of the fact that no matter how bad a wound is, a bandage does not stay on for longer than 3 minutes. Three minutes at the absolute most. But, like I said before, I have learned to avoid fights as much as possible, so I get her one; a big one that is, because she says that a small bandage won't do. I hand it to her still in the wrapping because I know from past experience that opening anything for her will send her into screeching mode. She opens it, peels the little paper thingies off, and as she tries to put it on, it folds in half and sticks to itself. It happens EVERY SINGLE TIME, so no surprise there. I watch her struggle with the sticky mess as I finish my salad and wait for her to whine for help.
She gives up, I fix it, and put it on her, although by now it has been handled so much it doesn't stick so well anymore. I try to ignore that and hope that she won't notice the loose end of the bandage. But it only took her two seconds to point it out. I get some scotch tape and wrap it around. It sticks, but it seems a little stiff.  "Never mind that, could you please eat your food" I tell her.

1:35pm
Joanna twirls the spaghetti with her fork and by now I am convinced that lunch is overrated.

1:36pm
She informs me that she is now removing the bandage. Of course.

1:40pm
Jo gets off the stool and hides under the dining table. I start my usual begging and negotiating: "Jo, please come back and eat your lunch, just three bites, that's all you need". To which she responds with a contradicting "but I don't want to eat three bites, I want to eat it aaaallllll" and starts belly-sliding on the floor, thus picking up every single particle of dirt with her dress.

1:50pm
Her bladder speaks to her, letting her know that holding it in is no longer a possibility. So off she goes in a hurry, asking for help. I walk with her to the bathroom and turn the light on. That's all the help she wants and let's me know that now she needs privacy. Good grief.

2:00pm
In the meantime I decide to start going through a document translation I have been asked to revise and Joanna comes find me. I drag her back into the bathroom so she can flush and wash her hands.  She asks for chocolate milk so I tell her to start eating as I make her some. I watch her walk back into the kitchen and then detour into the living room, taking notice of a small Christmas tree on the side table. "Mommy, is this a Christmas tree?", "Yes", I tell her, "Just like the big one". "So THIS is a Christmas tree, and THAT is a Christmas tree?", "Yes m'am, they both are. Aren't they pretty?". "Yes, but how come this one has these decorations?". That's it. I know when I am being played. I remind her of the chocolate milk and she drops the tree conversation and heads to the kitchen. I sigh. Again.

2:15pm
We are back in business. She reminds me that she still wants to eat it all. I don't believe her, but whatever.

2:25pm
Joanna has eaten as much as she will at this point and I declare lunch to be officially over. Stick me with a fork, I'm done.

An hour and a half, that's how long it took. This is the kind of lunch that makes me wonder whether I am an incredibly patient mother, or a complete push over. At least there was no yelling, screaming, or slamming of any door (oh yeah, she does that). Sigh. Don't know much, except that I love that girl. I truly, truly do, otherwise no one would have walked out of today's lunch in one piece . I am just glad it's over. We shall do this again tomorrow. No wait, we shall do it again tonight at dinner.

Cheers!

Literally

A pit in your stomach.
A hole in your chest.
A lump in the throat.
A burning sensation in the heart.

I have read/heard these phrases several times. People describing their sadness as if their bodies, not just their hearts, were broken.

Now, after three months and three days of my mother passing away, I go through my days, picking up life where I had left it off and going about my somewhat normal existence:  taking the girls to school, feeding the little one lunch, grocery shopping, finally getting back to the gym, volunteering at the school,  putting together celebrations such as birthdays, halloween, and the upcoming thanksgiving weekend.

I go through all of it not without a good amount of effort, ignoring my body's constant, gnawing call  to please go to bed and cover my head with the blankets. I have figured that if I stay busy enough, there is less time for melancholy or tears and at night I feel tired enough to avoid that scary gap between awake and asleep. Because if that gap catches me remembering things, there's no end to the night.

It all works until suddenly a single thought makes me feel that pit in my stomach. That hole in the chest. That burning lump in my throat. My heart being consumed. Quite literally. Real feelings that remind me that although life is back to normal, something is still seriously wrong.

I never knew those feelings to be so literal.

"Give it time" I tell myself as I take in a deep breath. "Give it time".

Good Grief

Monday,December 26th 2011 was the day my mom shared with us the news of her diagnosis. That was the day my grieving began.

Tuesday, June 4th 2012 found me in a tiny restaurant in downtown Santiago, having a chat with my ever-wise friend Paula who had met with me to talk about my experience with my mother's illness. I talked to her about my doubts, fears and how selfish I felt about some of my feelings. I felt like everything should be about my mom and nothing about me, but Paula helped me realize that although I wasn't at the epicenter of it all, it was MY mother who was dying. It was MY loss and each person lives through something like that in their own very personal (not selfish) way.

She also opened my eyes to the reality that of all the things in life, the most certain and universal is death, yet it is the one thing that our society is the least prepared for. I knew that was true for me, death did feel so foreign.

Saturday, August 11th my mother passed away, and now that I am grieving her loss I realize how unprepared we are to deal with the emotions and practicalities of death.

Here are a few of my newly acquired insights that I would like to share in case you ever wonder what to do when a friend or relative loses a loved one.. aren't you excited to read on...

#1. If someone you know/appreciate/love is diagnosed with an illness, listen first even if you are knowledgable in the topic, then offer to be of guidance if needed, stay close, and patiently wait to be asked for help.

#2. Consider the following before making a phone call to the family: you will be talking to somebody who is distraught and lacking sleep. Don't call expecting them to emotionally take care of you when it is they who need to be emotionally taken care of. Only call when you are able to offer support and uplift those who are already downtrodden.

#3. When approaching the family during the viewing or the funeral, it is more than safe to assume that they are sad at the very least, so don't ask how they are doing unless you are ready for a long conversation. Don't feel like you have to cheer them up, just tell them that you are sorry for their loss and that you are there to support. The most valued words for me to hear have been simply "I love you".

#4. When you see someone after they have lost a dear one, do address the issue, even if just briefly. Do not pretend nothing happened. If you are a close friend, be willing to listen for a while; talking things through really helps.

#5. Do not be afraid of your friend's crying. It is not your job to make it better, but to be there to hand the tissues. 

#6. Don't wait until things are better before talking to a grieving friend/relative. It makes as much sense as waiting for someone to pick him/herself up from a fall before attempting to help. Be there even if you feel like you don't have the right words. You are needed.

#7. Although my experience is still very fresh, I feel it is important that people remember that grieving has no definitive timeline. Don't rush it. Sadness and tears are normal even after things seem to be ok again. 

So here I am now, Monday September 4th, reflecting upon my experience with grief so far. It is not pretty, but I can say that at least in my case it is not hopeless either. 

The sting is there every time I see a picture of her, remember her smell, think to call her on the phone, or when I hear my 3 year old daughter still praying for her grandma to get better. I feel as if I were lost in space. The sting is there and will be forever, but with the help of family and thoughtful friends I have been able to face each day, one at a time, feeling that I am endowed with the strength to deal with my loss, no matter how messy it gets.

I know I will have a chance to see my mother again, to embrace her and tell her how much I have missed her. Until then, I just have to keep going on with life and make of it the best I can, finding a reason to smile every day. Because that is what she would like me to do.

As a final note, let me share with you one of my favorite cards I have received. It came from a friend whom I really enjoy. Not everything needs to be somber, a little humor when appropriate can go a long way, especially when paired with caring words. It makes me smile every time I look at it. Thanks friend! (notice how I left your name out ;-) )

About Those Who Care

These past weeks of my life have been incredibly difficult and I have experienced life at it's most raw state. But all things difficult come hand in hand with at least a little bit of good.

A friend  posted this on facebook several days ago and it made me think of all the people who had been so helpful to me/us lately.

 

Here's a list of some of them:

1. The manager in the bank who not only helped us with my mom's account, but took the time to talk to me about her and encouraged me to be brave and loving. 

2. The lady who does the cleaning in my parents' house and went above and beyond, making my mom feel loved and cared for and helping me feel at ease in a home that is my home, but not really.

3. My amazing friend Isabel who came to visit my mom while in the hospital and kept me company then and when she passed away. 

4. All the people who have helped take care of my girls back home. Also those who have provided meals for them.

5. Damon's cousin who has helped us get here and back with his airline passes.

6. Friends who send me encouraging messages that make me feel like I can actually face this music and live through it.

7. The ladies from church who provided us with meals and comfort food during those tough first days.

8. My cousin Paola who came from far away to rescue me.

9. My cousin Pedro who has taken me under his wing.

10. My aunts. Oh, my aunts. My mothers.

11. The CNA who was so tender with my mom when everything was still scary and confusing.

12. The pain management doctor. He truly cared for her well- being and each one of his words and suggestions showed it.

13. My friend Paula, who has managed to contact me right at the critical moments when I have needed her help ever since my mom was diagnosed.

The list is longer, but you get the idea.

I will forever remember these days for the hard trial that they have been, but also for the way in which God has manifested himself through these and many other people who have been a blessing, who have been a friend, who have been encouraging and have taken the time to care. People whose words have always been uplifting and full of healing.

I feel like there is a strength that is not mine, that has taken me by the hand and guided me through these days. There is a strength that is beyond me that has lifted me up, carried me and dried my tears.

Each one of us, every day, is given the chance to be a blessing to others. It is our choice to take the chance and use it up. I have been the recipient of such blessings brought on by others and hope to have learned to do the same to those who stand in need.

About Hard Times

If I ever thought I had gone through something hard, I was wrong. I had never gone through this before.
Watching my mom struggle during her last days has been heartbreaking. Her mind seems to be slipping and I don't always recognize her and she doesn't respond to bonding moments the way she used to.

I feel like she has already left me and a strange feeling of betrayal creeps in. But I left her first and I wonder if she belt betrayed by me when I did.

I dislike regret because it shows what could/should have been different when there is little or nothing left to be done about it. So in vain I try not to regret having built my life so far away from her. I know I missed out, I know my girls missed out, I know she missed out. I know now, but I didn't see it then. Damn regret.

I have been learning more about my mother than ever before, with her friends and sisters (what would I do without them right now) as my teachers. I doubt I will ever measure up to her, but I can learn from her courage when faced with a tough challenge and charity towards everyone. Oh, and that feistiness.

I have been living each minute of my days here certain that I will remember them forever. These days will mark the rest of my life with places, sounds, faces, voices, words and feelings that will carry a sting and the memory of these last days with my mother.
Things are hard right now and harder times are coming. Somehow I will celebrate the good and be brave for whatever may come, regrets and all.


I suppose this is a  great big Maña del Día post, so I shall end it with a Joy of the Day:
Music.
Listening to music is what has carried my mother through these days. It's what has carried me through these past months. Thank goodness for it.

Brotherly Love, Sisterly Love

I have two older brothers who are 10 and 8 years older than me. Yes, I was a surprise. A pleasant surprise, I like to suppose. We were brought up in different "batches" so my brothers and I were not so close growing up. Of course they still  found plenty of opportunitues to pester me and torture me like every good older brother should, but in general, I was more of an occassional afterthought in their busy teenage lives.

Our personalities are so very different from each other: there's the laidback one, the uptight one, and then me, the happy, practically-perfect-in-every-way sibling, who is a nice balance of both extremes ;-)

Most of my life I have been "the baby", but I found out that once you grow up and become an adult, you are automatically accepted into the "adult club" (why does that sound naughty?), where longevity makes very little difference. It's like once you have tasted the complexity of adult life and once you have been let in on the secret that most of the fun is over, you are allowed to be equal friends with all those people who just a few months ago still made you feel like a toddler in diapers. Now they may even care about your opinion.

I think that's what happened with my brothers and me, and although sometimes I still feel like an outsider because I'm the only girl, we are all pretty much in the same boat right now, so we can share the ride and talk about the experience. The problem is that with me in the States, one brother in the UK and the other one in Chile, sharing and talking doesn't always come easy and the link between us tends to fade a little.

But right now circumstances are different. The woman that brought us into this world and made us siblings in the first place is getting ready to leave now. Yes. Mom is sick. Mom is so sick.
Once she leaves, the world as I knew it will change forever, coming home will never be the same again, and I know I will feel adrift and lonely. So now more than ever I feel such a profound love for my brothers. Mushy? Yes, I surprise myself constantly. But that is the truth, I feel a strong pull towards them as I sense that they are the ones who will save me from getting too lost or too sad, who will remind me of my roots, of all the good things our mom taught us, and how lucky we have been to have her.
I admire them too. They are great dads, hard workers, fun loving, good-to-the-bone men that I know I could count on at the drop of a hat.
The images that my mind holds of them right now are of one gently caressing mom's hair as he tells her to think beautiful thoughts so she can fall asleep.The other one singing Beatles songs to me as he drives me to the airport, because he knows my heart breaks when I have to leave. 
They really are quite wonderful, and I have really been quite lucky.




My mom is the youngest in her family and has 4 sisters and 1 brother. The oldest sister and the brother passed away a long time ago, so for many years it has been about the 4 younger sisters, who have loved each other inmensely and  have stuck together through thick and thin.
These days that I have been able to spend at my mom's side I have witnessed the love between my mom and my aunts. I have witnessed sibling love in all it's glory and have learned that it is a marvelous thing when going through a rough spot.
When my mom is not feeling well, all it takes is for one of the sisters to comfort her and cheer her up with but a small gesture for her to light up. The way my aunts express themselves around her and about her exhudes rich, bountiful, everlasting love, care and longing for each other. They really are quite wonderful, they really are quite lucky.

It is a great consolation to think that I will be able to claim these 3 beautiful ladies as my surrogate mothers, guides and protectors.

Brotherly love, sisterly love.

I am raising 4 girls and it is my great hope that they will always feel that love for each other, especially once I am gone. I hope their minds will be filled with images of each other that comfort and inspire them. I hope that they will be able to save each other when they are adrift, or lonely, or fearful. I hope they will long for each other always and keep the link between them strong.

Feelings towards siblings are not always warm and cozy, I know. But I do believe that brothers and sisters are a gift to be treasured at least at some point in our lives. I am treasuring my gifts as I know my mom is treasuring hers. 

Brotherly love, sisterly love. How do you treasure yours?

Some Of My Favorite "Secret Stack of Books"

I know, I know, to call a book a "Secret Stack of Book" is grammatically incorrect, but it feels much righter ;-) than saying a "Secret Stack of Books Book". With my comfort in our incorrectness now established, I would like to share some of my most favorite children's authors and books I have had the pleasure to get to know through this nightly ritual.

First and foremost, the one and only ROSEMARY WELLS. Every book she has written has warmed my heart. She makes me feel like a happy, loved little girl. You might know her characters Max and Ruby, but I am especially fond of her characters Yoko and Timothy, who make a stellar appearance in a few of her books.

 And I will forever admire Hazel's amazing mother. She truly is amazing, and knows exactly what to do to protect her daughter and help her feel safe.

Next, Mr. MO WILLEMS. He is awesome! And I am not talking about the Pigeon who wants to drive that blasted bus. My favorite book of his is called "Naked Mole Rat Gets Dressed". It is a genius way to tell children that it's ok to do away with limitations rudely imposed by those around us, and that it is more than ok to be yourself and have your own big ideas.

Also, his easy readers "Elephant and Piggie" are a much needed boost to the category of learning-to-read books. They are funny, they have a story that actually makes sense, and the illustrations (as all of his book art) are simple and eye-catching.

Third, KEVIN HENKES. Have you met Chester? or Lilly? They are a force to be reckoned with and I highly recommend being their friend. You will be a little nervous around them for what they might do next, and at the same time you will be forever in love with them. Kind of like me with my 3 year old Joanna :-)

I also love Lilly's Plastic Purple Purse, Lilly's Big Day and Owen. Too bad I don't have those handy right now.


Lastly (but not leastly) for now, I must mention the Buehners. CARALYN and MARK BUEHNER are a local team (Salt Lake City) and have come up with some fun stories. Fanny's Dream is about a farm girl who dreams of meeting the mayor's son and becoming her own kind of Cinderella.

Snowmen at Night makes us wonder about the whereabouts of snowmen while we are not watching. Have you ever wondered why they don't last very long? Other than the physics of matter changing from solid to liquid?

Excuse my blurry pictures. If you are intrigued by any of these picture books, check them out from the library or buy them, and give them a good read. The picture quality is much better in person and the stories are guaranteed to make you happy.

A Redemption From Poor Parenting

Do you ever have the kind of day/month/year when you are certain you have turned out to be a complete failure as a parent? You are so sure you are messing things up, you are mentally preparing yourself for the day when your grownup children will come to you with a mile-long list of complaints and accusations? I can hear it right now in my head: "How could you, mother?!"

That kind of day/month/year comes around my turf often.  I love being a mother, I have great girls, but in those times when I am in the mindset of failure as a parent, their greatness is more a result of... I don't really know...

Anywho, in my preparation for that day of doom when my daughters realize that all along they could have had it better, I am making a list of comebacks. Here's what I have so far:

1. GrownUp Child: Mother, I can't believe you would take me out in public with that hair! Didn't you     know that that's what hairbrushes are for?!
   Me: At least I brought you back home. I could have left you somewhere, you know...

2.  GUC: Why would you wait until 8:30pm to start thinking about what you would make for dinner?! we could have starved to death!
    Me: You didn't.

3. GUC: Do you realize you took me late to school 80% of the time?
    Me: It could have been 81%

4.  GUC: If I a had been you, I would have...
    Me: Don't even go there.

As you can see, my list so far is short and weak. But I have one thing. THE one thing that I know we have done right. I am counting on this one to be a good "so there you go".
Notice I say "we have done right". If I am going to rip myself apart as a parent, I might as well throw my accomplice into the mix. I mean, let's be fair.
I also say "we" because the one thing I am sure we have done right happened to be his idea. It figures.

A few years ago, the hubster decided he wanted to arm himself with a pile of picture books that none of the girls had read before. A SECRET STACK OF BOOKS. Oooh, sounds sneaky, doesn't it?
Since the library has a 3-week loan period, we check out around 20 books at a time so we have a healthy stock of stories to choose from. We pick books that look interesting, bring them home, hide them in our closet and after dinner we pull one out to read together.

We pick them randomly, and without sifting through them too much. The illustrations of the story are the main parameter we use to judge whether the book will be any good or not, we don't really read them ahead, trusting picture books to be appropriate for children.  So the secret stack of books really is secret, because not even we really know the book we will be reading at any given night (unless we've chosen an old favorite).

So picture this: Dinner is over (very late), we pick up (sort of), either Damon or I go get a book from the closet and return to the living room announcing that "It's time for..." at which the girls reply in unison and in a sing-song kind of way:"SECRET STACK OF BOOOOOOKS!"with the pitch going painfully high on the word "boooooks!". Then we all seat on our stain ridden couch for a brief session of togetherness, sponsored by the book of the night. Even our 13 year old still seats and listens along, because there are a few things more intriguing than an unheard story about to be told. Oh, the joy. Something has gone right for a change.

To add to this modest success, after we are done reading and talking about the story, we read two pages of The Book of Mormon as a family with virtually no whining. The advantages of that are countless.

∗Disclaimer: I should make clear before continuing with my account, that although this is meant to be done every night, there are many nights when it just simply doesn't happen. Sometimes it takes us several days to replenish the secret stack once we've read it all.∗ 

So there it is. The truth has come out. I am not perfect. Shocking, I know, but I am counting on a couple of things that I/we have done right to redeem me from the endless torment of poor parenting. The Secret Stack of Books has been heaven sent and I am holding on to it like there is no tomorrow.

When you find yourself in one of those pitiful days/months/years, look for the things you have done right and make sure you keep some sort of record of them, 'cause if you are anything like me, you'll need them later.

How do you keep up with the return dates, you ask? Let me just say that our family has been single handedly financing our little library on late fees alone. But it's worth it, we need this item on the comeback list. And if the children complain about that too, then my comeback would be "you owe me cazillions in late fees, start emptying those pockets".

Maña del Día/Pet Peeve of the Day: Categories Gone Bad

I have a good friend who sometimes highlights his pet peeve of the day (or "maña del día" in Chilean)  on Facebook, and lately I have found myself doing the same thing in my mind. I am going through my day, minding my own business, and when I am confronted with something rather irksome (or "rawther" as Eloise would say), I think to myself "oh, that is sooo going to be my pet peeve of the day". Do you ever do that?

While these observations can be helpful in processing why something bothers you and what you can do about it, it might be a good idea to couple them with observations of what makes you happy. Pet peeve of the day/joy of the day, pet peeve of the day/joy of the day. You get my point. Because focus on the positive we must, although it is not as easily accomplished.

Any who, today I shall share with you (whoever might actually read this post) a big "maña" of mine. A pet peeve of a lifetime that has been irking me for a while, and hopefully by the time I am finished writing I will be able to come up with a "joy" to counteract it. Pay attention, because I have the feeling that this post will bring on life-changing insights. Seriously. I am deep that way. Here we go:

Henry Cho is a Korean-American stand up comedian who was born and raised in Tennessee. He says of himself: "I am an Asian with a southern accent, to a lot of people, that right there is funny".
I searched hi and lo for a video clip of one of his routines that addresses Asian stereotypes but couldn't find it, so a brief description will have to do. In the scene he depicts, he is chatting with a neighbor who says "hey, I know some Japanese people, you should come see them". Cho's response is "well, in that case, I know some fat people, you should come see them". Or something to that effect. Now if you don't see the humor in such exchange of words, let me enlighten you.

One of the ways in which the human mind works is by categorizing objects, events, feelings, foods, experiences, people, etc. Everything must fit in a category somewhere. This makes the process of making sense of things (cognition) faster and more simple. It is a great strategy of the brain, because really, who has time to analyze every single thing, every time. The problem comes when we oversimplify an item for it to fit in one of our ready-made categories. Did you notice that Henry Cho is from Korean descent? Did you notice that the neighbor told him he should meet his friends because they are Japanese?

I had a Japanese college roommate once. She figured that the fact that I was Chilean and not Uruguayan, or Ecuadorian was of very little importance, since "we are all the same". When I tried to explain to her the err of her thinking, she quickly pointed out to me that surely that's how I thought of her as a Japanese girl. Sadly, she was right. I didn't know enough about her Japanese culture in contrast to other Asian cultures, so my whole life I had thrown her and all Asians into the same category. Her closed mindedness about me opened my eyes to my own closed mindedness.

Why did Henry Cho answer with an invitation to meet his fat friends? well, it could have been anything really. Blonde, skinny, short, tall. The fact that somebody fits in one of your categories doesn't override everything else about that person. I mean, if you are blonde then you must be alike all other blonde people. If you are skinny you must love being around just skinny people, because you are all alike. "Oh look at you, you are tall, you should meet my neighbor two houses down the road, I bet you will get along famously!".  Aaarggghhh!

Taking it to a more personal level, I struggle with this on a constant basis. I happen to live in a very white community where many if not most people have never had meaningful interaction with other cultures and their awareness about diversity is limited. Please now, don't take me for a jerk. I am only talking about this particular issue, I do not intend in any means to put myself above anybody or belittle anyone. I am simply bringing something to the attention of those who mind.

Here are some of the assumptions I have to constantly deal with.  Because I am Chilean, no, even better, because I am from a Spanish speaking country surely I:
-grew up in a small town in the middle of the jungle
-love spicy food
-walked barefoot and picked my meals off of trees
-don't know as much as most everybody else
and my biggest pet peeve of all:
-you must get along with all other people who come from those Spanish speaking countries.

I was talking to an acquaintance once about a Peruvian lady we both sort of knew. I was telling her about the chance I had had to talk to her and get to know her and her story a little better, and about how I thought she was a delightful, amazing person. I truly really like her. But this person I was talking to oversimplified me and the lady from Peru, and brought us both to the ground, just by saying "surely you both got along, since you are both from... you know.... uuhmmmm.... Southamerica". I felt like asking her if she got along with every single gringo she had met. Surely she did, I mean, they are both from ... you know... uhmmmm the United States?

She didn't mean to belittle me or her, she didn't mean to be mean, she didn't mean to make me feel like nothing but a southamerican. She just assumed. And although I don't hold it against her, the thought of people thinking of me or anyone else as the result of belonging to a category makes me so mad, I feel like spitting. Or washing something. Or punching that kickboxing bag.

Couldn't it be possible that I like or feel identified with somebody for more important reasons?
When people are far from what is familiar to them, they tend to flock towards those who are similar to them. So yes, it is nice to find someone I can speak to in Spanish, or who has had experiences similar to mine, but that is not all it takes for me to like someone. If that were all, I would be a simpleton of a person, and that I am not. I am as complicated as it comes, with all it's pros and cons.

I mostly flock towards people who:
- hold principles that I treasure as well.
-have a similar education level (although not always)
-are not judgmental
-are kind
-appreciate what I appreciate
-keep me engaged in conversation
-are funny
-use their brains
-have a heart
-etc, etc, etc

And all of that cannot be constricted to one oversimplified category. There are people of all different walks of life that I know and love. There are more that I would love to get to know, because of who they really are. Because of who I really am.

And here is the worst catch of them all, oversimplifying somebody in order to make him/her fit in a category happens all the time, in all sorts of circumstances, even with the ones we love (as my friend Ann and I discovered):
- Betty is a neat, attentive student? that must be because she is a girl
- James is a rough, loud, rambunctious kid? that's because he is a boy
- David likes the current president of this country? he must be a communist
- Your life is not going well? you must be doing something wrong
- Katie doesn't believe in the same things I do? she must be a heathen

Background, culture, language, beliefs, family, customs, are all factors in the formation of any person. But they don't necessarily describe a person in particular. That needs to be done by the person itself, and we need to be willing to observe and listen. Otherwise, how could you truly like, love or even hate somebody?

I raise my voice to this issue because I believe that everyone is special (except for that guy that cut me off on the freeway, he must be a drunk ;-) ). Everyone deserves a chance to be heard and be recognized for who they really are.




PS: As far as the joy to counteract this peeve, I must say that living here has made me comfortable with being different. I LOVE being different (most of the time), tearing down preconceived notions can be fun sometimes. I am who I am and I will happily "describe" myself to anyone who truly is interested in listening. I also appreciate the fact that my daughters can grow up with the guts to be different too. That, gives me joy.

Life after the Winter

My stomach has been tied in knots for weeks now. But I can't help but be comforted whenever I see these flowers.

Read this post to understand the story behind them.

Now that my mother is battling cancer, life, it's purpose, and what comes after it have been the topic of choice for my wondering soul.

Aren't the flowers beautiful?

Who Do I Think I Am?

*be warned. the only purpose of this post is of a cathartic spewing of feelings, thoughts and moods. no need for pity. really. life is good.*

Me on that life-changing day as I left for the airport, back in 1996

Life has a way of taking you places and weaving itself in ways you don't notice until you take the time to look back and retrace your steps. But looking back brings a certain self-awareness that evokes an array of emotions.

You might realize that you have been in a slump for years without noticing, or maybe you will see that you have truly outdone yourself and done a bang up job with your time and talents, or you might have a great feeling of gratitude for all the blessings that are now evident. Maybe you'll find out that there are certain areas in your life that could use improvement, or perhaps you will realize that in the middle of your extenuating efforts to do your best, you might have lost yourself. Even if just a little. And I find it safe to say that in such moment, most of us would have a mixture of all of the above, and maybe more.

I had such a "looking-back" moment a couple of weeks ago.

I went to Chile to visit my mother who is battling cancer, and to reunite our family after many years. Having left my home country at the age of 19, the story of my life and its weavings are spread throughout, and are divided into two main stages: the before (leaving) and after.

Every time I go back home I am engulfed in memories brought on by sounds, smells, places, tastes, voices, people. All the memories of the experiences that made me part of who I am today come back to remind me that I am still their girl, and they ask me what I have done with her.

These questions haunted me even more this time, during a visit that was encompassed around the impending loss of someone who had most to do with my formation.

I realized that I had left too much behind, and forsaken things that used to be intrinsically me, and I found myself gasping for my identity, flapping my arms trying to hold on to everything within reach that could remind me of who I was before: family memories (the good ones), the love for my brothers (despite them), history, friends... oh, my dear friends.

There is something so precious about good old friends. Those to whom I need not explain how things were for me growing up. No need to explain, because they were there with me, they know me, and remember things about me that even I no longer do. You see, now in the "after" stage I spend a lot of time explaining myself to people: where I grew up, the foods I ate/eat, the kind of education I had, my family, my Spanish, my English, my skin color, my accent, my lack of accent, my height, the music "people down there" like, the weather, healthcare in a South American country, my customs, my thoughts (many times it's assumed that I think as a Chilean and not as an individual) and on and on and on.

I cherish my old friends more than I have shown. They allow me to rest, they get it. But when the time comes (if it comes) to talk to them about life nowadays and what my daily life at home is like, I find myself explaining again, and then all of a sudden, I don't belong anymore. Once more.

My grownup self has taken up residence somewhere strange and foreign.

So if I end up having to explain myself in both places, where do I belong? Who am I? What do I do when I long to come back home, but am left unsure whether it is still home?

I am bothered by the fact that my history is not a continuum. It is one part here, and the other there. I am also bothered by the fact that I have seemed unable, at least until now, to meld both together, so they are not two lives living within me without really knowing each other. Almost like strangers.

It was Friday night and I was sitting in the airplane that would take me away. We hadn't taken off yet when the pinnacle of my look-back moment began, coming in waves of tears that eventually became uncontrollable sobs. I am sure I was quite the spectacle, but I couldn't help it. It was long overdue and it had to be done. Too bad for the guy sitting next to me. At least he was nice enough to pretend to be asleep.

Sadness overcame me. I was so sad to leave "home", leave my mom, leave me. Then the sadness became anger. Why had my life taken me in such direction? how had I let this happen? what would my life be like if I had stayed? what was the use of wanting to be in one place, when I knew I had to be in another?

how had I become such a ridiculous dichotomy of beings? and why do I think it's a dichotomy? why can't I just be one whole? Why did I leave in the first place?

And then the guilt, of course. How could I ever overlook, even for one second, the marvelous wonder that has been my life "after leaving".

The experiences I have had in this second stage have only added on to the "before" and made me into someone I am mostly pleased with. I have found love, I have my own family that is my most precious treasure, and I have accomplished things here that I don't believe I could have anywhere else. I also have found new friends that enrich me and buoy me. My current life that I love, happens to be here, for now.

I have been tremendously blessed with the way my life has been woven. I believe that everything that has taken place has been for my benefit and has given me a great vantage point. I have learned however, that as a co-weaver (in partnership with God), I need to put greater effort towards the pattern that results from all this living so that I can recognize myself as a whole person and let go of the feeling of being torn in two. I want to be able to say, without hesitation, that I am the result of the interaction of many kinds of threads that have come together to make me unique and to make me a happy person.

So, who do I think I am?