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Eulogy for my abuelita

Sep13

For mama Chelia

My Mama Chelia was my kind of woman, She was my very own Sophia Petrillo, a tough broad with no fur on her tongue, strong fists and backbone, not a crybaby at all.  She was a woman unafraid to punch a man, unafraid to guffaw from her belly, unafraid to tell you exactly what she thought. She could slaughter a hog, plow a field, herd sheep, and cook for a houseful of relatives.  Until her eyesight began to fail, she would read her Bible and several newspapers daily.  As happens with many immigrants’ children, I was only able to visit Mama Chelia every several years.  Thousands of miles separated us. She didn’t get to raise me, cook for me, care for me,watch me grow from newborn to adult.  I wish that I had one of my grandparents in my life to coddle me, spoil me, shield me from the pain.  I grieve that loss of love,culture, wisdom.  I grieve her death but I also grieve her absence.  I always loved her and I always missed her.. 

My favorite memories  of Mama Chelia were made during our family trip to Churin.  None of us had ever visited.  We wanted to experience the hot springs; we hoped they might do my mother’s back some good.  After a grueling bus trip over unpaved roads, we arrived at the bottom of a dusty gray hill.  This can’t be it, I thought, as locals swarmed the bus with waving arms and shouted offers of lodging.  Men and women offered rooms or beds in their homes. They offered meals and warm blankets.  They shouted out prices in soles and American dollars.  I pulled my bag out of the luggage compartment while my parents discussed next steps.  I looked uphill .  Wooden signs along the path indicated that the town plaza was up past where I could see.

“We’re not staying with strangers. I’ll find a hotel,”  I told my mom in Spanish.  I started walking up the hill and half dragged my wheeled suitcase over rocks, gravel, and dirt.  My mom panicked and asked my dad to intervene but I was on a mission. I looked for the best looking hotel in the town square and chatted up the front desk clerk as my family entered the building. 

“A su madre, que elegante,” Chelia said.She kept making similar exclamations as she admired the hallway and her room. She was impressed and consistently made comments on how nice everything was.  

When we visited the hot springs, we decided to enter the community bath.  Mama Chelia took to the hot water. She laughed and chatted.  When another family entered with their grandfather, Mama Chelia got quiet.  The old man seemed nervous and uncomfortable. He entered the water reluctantly. Mama Chelia responded by suddenly splashing the old man several times.

 “Mira este chibolito”  The old man cowered but everyone else laughed and laughed. 

The man ‘s daughter said “Ay, que graciosa la abuelita.”  

On the bus trip back to Huacho, my mom’s back pain got the best of her. She began to weep silently as she struggled to find a comfortable sitting position.  Mama Chelia watched her, at first with curiosity and then with exasperation.  She told my mom she was going to slap her upside the head for being a crybaby.  When that failed to get a different reaction, Mama Chelia held my mom close and rubbed her back, shoulders, and head. I have to admit  it made me tear up.  My mom didn’t grow up with Mama Chelia. She moved in with her maternal grandparents as a toddler. But I know that hug meant so much.  

One of my last memories of Mama Chelia are from the summer of 2014 when I celebrated my birthday by taking my immediate family to Peru.  How wonderful to watch Mama Chelia interact with M.  I loved seeing Mama Chelia  smile at my daughter, how she told her to take a cuy home.  She told her how to feed it alfalfa and how it could have lots of babies and my daughter could raise a whole brood. My little brown daughter smiled shyly at my little brown granny.  These beautiful brown women who are the bookends to my life.  My roots and my blossom, the origin and the continuation of a long tradition of strength and sass.  

How lucky I was to experience these memories with Mama Chelia.  She was a light, a fire, a beacon home.  Her eyes told you she was no fool. Her smile told you she was not cruel.  Rest well, Mama Chelia.  Put up your knife and broom. Put away your dishrag and pan. Here there are no husbands, no warring children.   Sit. Have some cancha, some sopa, un te.  Rest now.  Te lo mereces. 

Gate of heaven

Jul11

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For Donte

Because the shelter in place has been indefinitely extended, I didn’t know what to expect for my 48th birthday. I had hoped to spend time with my immediate family and close friends but over a week of flu symptoms had changed my plans.  I didn’t know that my birthday would be a day of sadness.  

My former student Donte lost his battle with Covid-19 on my birthday.   He was 28 and I can’t help but wonder what he would have done if he had lived to be 48.  I met him when he was a freshman.  9th graders are little.  I know most teenagers don’t appreciate being perceived as children.  They are children; my 18, 19, or 20 year old seniors are kids. Donte was especially little as a 9th grader with signature brightness, innocence, openness and mercy.  I remember him crying big tears across for me in my office because he was being teased by peers.  Understandably he lashed out with choice words. We likely discussed how hard it was to be insulted and how I understood where he was coming from having endured teasing as almost all of us do. I am confident I praised his strength,  intelligence, kindness, and sense of humor.  I hope I reminded him about the importance of taking a deep breath and standing up for ourselves in a way that do not hurt us or others.  It was the kind of conversation I’ve had with so many young people over the years.  I wanted to build him up. I wanted to remind him of his value. I wanted him to leave our conversation knowing he had my support. As the years went on, Donte grew in popularity but he never changed from that loving person he had always been.  That says a lot about Donte. High school can bring out the worst in people; adolescence is a challenging time.  The need to belong can prompt anyone to be her/his worst self.  Thankfully Donte had many mentors.  There was not a staff member on that campus that did not love and look out for Donte.  He was blessed. 

 I learned of Donte’s illness on July 1st.  On July 4th my good friend alerted me to the fact that Donte had been placed on life support.  I made a phone call to Donte.  In my voicemail message, I shared  how much I had loved him then and still loved him now. I told him I wished him healing and peace. I reiterated how strong he was and how proud I was of him and how I hoped he would recover so that we could reconnect. I’m glad that I was able to tell him how much he impacted my life. 

 It’s always difficult to lose good people. I often ponder why good people suffer from illnesses. I think of my dear friend Brett and so many ancestors: Don, Charlene, Danny, David, Father Bob, Mama Luz. I think of the people who have caused suffering in many lives and how they don’t even seem to catch a cold. I often pray about this line of thinking. I know it is not merciful, forgiving or loving to feel this way. Anger is a part of grief, a part of humanity.  I’m angry we lost Donte. I’m angry that we haven’t done enough to stop this disease from taking away so many beautiful people from us. The anger fades and I am filled with sadness and love.  

Donte used to dream of running his own restaurant.  It would serve international cuisine and would be called Donte’s Inferno. The front entrance would bear a sign quoting Dante Aligheri, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”  We laughed about that many times.  I am sure Donte is at the front of the house. Those who enter will be filled with hope, the way Donte was and is. 

My running club

Sep13
Presente! 
I have been running for nine years and in that time, I have had plenty of reasons to run, think time while I run, training calendars to follow, and miles to cover.  A few years ago, my friend and fellow runner Alejandro posted an online challenge.  He challenged us to offer the names of our departed family and friends who lost the battle with cancer. He would wear their names on ribbons on a flag he would wear during the race. He would also think of these people during his training.  While I did share a few names, this challenge changed the way I ran. My running club was born.
Inspired by my friend, I began to devote my training runs to those I have lost.  I honor those I lost to cancer. I honor those I lost to AIDS and suicide.  I honor those I lost to accidents and old age.  Every single mile is spent with one person.  I remember them and revisit the memories we shared.  Sometimes I do talk to them. I ask what they might do in a situation I am currently living. If I feel tired or unmotivated, their memory pushes me forward.  So many of my antepasados fought to their last day. Their courage inspires me.

Since my running club began, a few traditions have been established.  I always run with my grandfathers and my uncles who have died. I always run with my baptismal godfather. The first mile, so often the most challenging, is usually offered to someone who passed recently. In recent months, I have lost my Tio Mario, our host when we visited Peru last summer, and one of my mom’s best friends, Rosario Otarola. The last two miles are offered to two special people. The second to last mile is offered to Luz Nieves, my best friend’s mother. Mama Luz was a vibrant, beautiful woman and devoted mother. She cheered for my best friend and me during a few of our races; it was my best friend who first inspired me to run.  The last mile and therefore every crossing of the half-marathon finish line is devoted to Brett Haagenson, one of my dearest friends. Brett was a coach and teacher and he still plays those roles in my life.  Currently, I am dealing with workplace challenges so they are on my mind while I run. Thinking of Brett helps me smile and shake that negative energy away. 
I am truly grateful for the amazing people in my life. My running club has allowed me to stay close to those who have passed. 
I remember and honor these people and ask that you lift them and their families up in prayer.
Tio Mario
Rosario Otarola
Rafael Medrano
Abuelito Marcelo Calderon
Abuelito Rodrigo Urbizagastegui
Tio Delio Calderon
Tio Armando Villa
My nino Malaquias Mercado
Godfather Alex Loza
Charlene Brown
Keith Rodgers
Marco Ortiz
Father Bob Mathews
Remy Watson
David Villalpando
Danny Pastor
Donnell “Don” Grant
Luz Nieves
Brett Haagenson

Dearest Brett

May9
Eight years ago, I was thirty-four.  I was depressed, overwhelmed, and doing little to get better.  I also lost one of my dearest friends to cancer.
Today is the anniversary of Brett’s death.  I honor the day annually. I also still celebrate his birthday.  While he lived, we began a tradition of gag gifts for his birthday including a bulk pack of Irish Spring soap to commemorate the time an aging barfly walked up, took a deep sniff, and wondered aloud why he smelled so good and a box of Lucky Charms because of the goofy leprechaun voice he would use on the phone at work.  It didn’t matter what we gave him. He loved it and made a big show of his appreciation. He was a man of great joy and gratitude.
Some people may wonder why I continue to honor Brett in the way I do. Brett had been my confidant and the voice of reason during a time when I wasn’t the best version of myself. A coach by vocation, he would encourage me as he might have one of his players: he was direct, results-driven, and often tough.  So he continues to be my coach.  For every training run and half-marathon I complete, it is Brett to whom I dedicate the final mile. Every time I face a challenge, I remember Brett during his final months.  While these thoughts may be saddening, they are also empowering.  My friend transitioned in strength, power, and joy.
This is a letter I never completed last May:
Dearest Brett,
When I was in the hospital nearly two weeks ago, I realized I was on your floor.  I don’t know which room you were in but I remember the elevator ride w T. I don’t remember the walk down the hall but I remember how you held my hand as I struggled not to cry. You told me not to worry.  That moment illustrated the man and friend you were. 

What you taught me was to persevere. And so I have. At work.  On training runs and at half-marathons.  Through illness. When I fight, I do so in the knowledge that you are in my corner.