Medicine morning

Dec20

“It could only be the record of what had had to be done, and what assuredly would have to be done again in the never ending fight against terror and its relentless onslaughts…”

“…there are more things in men to admire than to despise.”  

Albert Camus, excerpts from The Plague 

When I was younger and a teacher, I was drawn to Albert Camus because I thought his writing captured the futility of life. I had gone through my own existential crisis and thought The Stranger captured the dry coolness of those thought patterns in a spare and well-crafted way.  Later, as I read more of his work and as my life experience changed my perspective, I grew to respect Camus’ ability to see and portray hope in a time of plague. I learned he had been a member of the Resistance. He was not Meursault, the young man who fell prey to ennui and narcissism. Camus, through his writing, was a healer.  

I always think of Camus after dark episodes in our history. I turn to books after tragedies or trials.  Books have been a source of solace from the time I first learned to read to my current middle age.  As we waited anxiously for the results of the 2020 election, I went back through The Plague, from cautionary passages to words that filled me with hope.  Our world, our lives, are filled with lessons yet also celebrations.  

While I pray daily, my prayers between November 3rd and the morning of the 7th were difficult. They didn’t calm my nerves.  They filled me with anxiety.  I prayed for the strength to be a good parent, a good principal, a good human. I prayed to be COVID free. I prayed that we get a new president so my partner would stop dreaming of a life in another country.  I prayed for hope and empathy to win over power and wealth. I prayed with desperation. These were not the warrior prayers of the blood moon or the prayers for the dead when my abuelita or Donte died.  These prayers felt heavy.  

A friend of mine had asked on social media early in the week what we would do if we thought election  results were favorable.  I kept my answer simple. I said I would dance a samba.  Samba, in its most authentic form, is a dance of resistance.  It is a dance created by oppressed people and  rooted in not so feathery history.  I danced to a longtime favorite, Chico Buarque’s “Vai Passar.”  This song commemorates the violent history of racial injustice in Brazil.  However, it also highlights the gift of Carnaval, an opportunity to celebrate in the streets that were once filled with rage and sorrow, how we can create something joyful from tragedy. It’s a song of resistance and resilience. It was the right song to bring light to my heart and soul that morning.  

Saturday, November 7, 2020, was a great day in the United States for many people.  People around the world joined our celebration.  But we have had terrible days and we will face terrible days again. Civilization, particularly our national brand of it,  has yet to overcome its violence,  its divisiveness, its penchant for terror and terrorism. It’s why we can’t have nice things for too long.  Behind many buildings and historical landmarks, there is the specter of the plantation and all its horrors, the ghosts of indigenous peoples robbed of their homelands and forced to relocate in barren wastelands.  For every military parade, there is the memory of bayonets going through peoples fighting for their native lands and for their lives, the curse of permanent mental scars on the people who go into combat for us and the secondary effects on their loved ones.  For every advance in science, there is the price paid by people and animals sacrificed to trials, experiments, and failures to act quickly.  

I move on, in dance, in prayer, in knowledge.  Every morning of every day, I have an opportunity to realize how much power I hold to turn the tide of terror, to combat hatred without hands or arms.  I can continue to learn and practice.  I can be the protagonist of my darkest novel or the most hopeful one.  No matter what may happen in the world, I can be a healer for myself and for others.  

The Horror Reboot We Don’t Need

Oct11

Classics don’t need a remake, not even if the world is in literal flames.  Hollywood is in a bind as far making money or staying relevant during multiple pandemics(viral, environmental, societal.)  There are several horror reboots and sequels headed our way in 2021; the only one I’m excited about is Candyman because it will be a fresh look at an underrated horror movie.  I don’t want to see the 17th Child’s Play.  Having been haunted and later inspired by The Exorcist, I definitely don’t want to see a new version.  There is no need to reboot a definitive horror movie, one so impactful that many still consider it the most frightening thing ever put on film.  Good horror films offer fresh frights.  We may need familiar stories to recover from 2020; we don’t need tired ones.   

Our world has much in it to scare us.  We are living in a world that is plagued by a pandemic, climate change, political and civil unrest as many of express frustration at what is perceived as  inept, disconnected, and/or corrupt government leadership.  These are all frightening realities; filmmakers and screenwriters have opportunities to  dive deeper into social reflection and understanding.  Have we lost our ability to be reflective through our popular culture and art?  The Exorcist was released in 1973,  on the heels of Watergate, after the Woodstock era, as the hell of  the Vietnam war came to a close. While The Exorcist does not make deep social commentary, it premiered during a time of darkness, secrecy, mystery which provided a social context for evil.  As a nation, there is plenty of evil to analyze, ponder, and fear. A retread of cliched evil is weak in every sense of the word.  There’s no creativity or courage in rehashing what has already been done rather than tackle the darkness and evil we face.  

The  Exorcist set the stage for dozens of demonic possession movies; it also set up the cliches of that subgenre. No amount of CGI is going to make these new again: levitation, body contortions, projectile vomit, and the deep dark voice.  These might jump scare us but they will not make us face the unknown. Part of the appeal of The Exorcist is its examination of faith.  The three main characters, Father Karras, Father Merrin, and Chris, Regan’s mother, all grapple with their understanding of the universe at large, with their own spiritual journey, and with their faith that evil can be conquered.  These are disconcerting questions and ideas.  Special effects may add fireworks but they cannot generate reflection.  

We are underestimating our current movie audiences. My twelve year old and her friends are discussing white supremacy and young activists via TikTok. They are intelligent and deserve a film that will set the bar for horror for their generation.  Even if a horror film doesn’t want to examine the real evils of our IRL world, it can provide an opportunity not only for escape but for deep thought.  A great horror film sparks fear while inspiring conversation and contemplation.  

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. 

Confessions from Level 8

Jul6

 

FB_IMG_1593886415249The rona had me in her sights.  Like many, I haven’t always made the most conservative decisions for my health lately. I attended church services twice in the past three weeks. I got my hair cut and colored. The loved ones in my social bubble haven’t all been social distancing; one regularly attends family gatherings.  I’m not as cautious as I was a few months ago and have gotten lax with sanitizing surfaces and not singing entire song verses when washing my hands. After my experience this past week, I know I need to do better.    

I first began experiencing symptoms a week ago. Beginning last Sunday, I noticed joint and muscle stiffness, a mild sore throat and low energy. This past Wednesday, my sore throat had intensified and I developed a headache. My temperature hovered around 99.6 most of the day. In adults, that temperature is not considered a fever; it became normal by bedtime.The following day the muscle aches and sore throat had worsened and my digestive system took a turn for the worst. I wasn’t able to keep down any food.  Friday morning I felt better so I did work out at home. My breathing wasn’t labored so I felt encouraged that I was recovering.  Saturday I had wanted to go for a run because I haven’t done so in a few weeks but my joints and muscles were still sore and stiff.  I took my usual Zumba class.  My breathing was fine though my energy was low. That night after our daily walk I felt exhausted and I felt that my chest congestion had worsened. Sunday morning I woke up congested and feeling chest pressure so I called the advice nurse. I was set up for a video call. After we discussed my symptoms, the doctor recommended I get tested for Covid-19. He said my healthcare provider has experienced a shortage of tests and that many were having to wait until the end of the week to be tested.  However because I was experiencing symptoms for several days, he felt that my need to test was urgent. He said he would speak to the supervising doctor about expediting my test. I was called within 20 minutes and given an appointment for 11:40 in the morning. After prayer, meditation and some tears, I headed to my test site.  

I drove into the parking garage where I was directed to park my car until it was my turn for testing. I was then directed to pull into a parking slot where I was finally allowed to lower my window. The nurse described the test process.  It would be both a nasal and oral test with a swab.  Both tonsils and both nostrils would be swabbed. I was told that it would be uncomfortable but that it would be brief.  I was then asked to remove my mask for the oral exam. I was asked to sing ahhh for ten very long seconds. I gagged but it was more uncomfortable than painful. Then we moved on to swabbing the right tonsil. I was directed to place my mask back on while the next test was prepared. I was directed to only lower my mask so my nose was visible. I remembered what a friend had told me about keeping absolutely still during the nasal swab so I tried to not move. As with the oral swab the nurse counted out 10 seconds while swabbing each nostril. I tried not to visualize where the swab was going. I thought of calming images though I wanted to flinch. Then it was over. I was asked to adjust my mask. The nurse told me that negative results would be sent via email and positive results would be communicated through a phone call. She told me to take care of myself. I thanked her and drove out of the parking structure. 

At home I moved into self-isolation. Because I have been taking a class which was due to end Tuesday, I decided to move into our home office. I brought in a sleeping bag and pillow and blanket and sufficient water. I spent the majority of the day completing my class and watching YouTube videos featuring my favorite Pose actors. Earlier that morning I had asked the doctor about exercise. He had said he had no objection so long as I was mindful about not being contagious to others.  I went on my evening walk by myself and wore a mask as usual. As I’ve been doing for many days, I applied Vicks Vapor Rub before going to bed. 

Today I woke up and felt that my chest congestion had dramatically improved. I also saw that I had received an email from my healthcare provider. I knew the news was good.  I am negative for Covid-19. The doctor sent a follow-up email recommending that I continue to self isolate until my symptoms improve and to monitor my health. 

This experience terrified me. While most of my symptoms have subsided, I am still experiencing joint and muscle pain. I’m grateful I don’t have Covid-19 but I am still susceptible to catching a virus. We all are. This is not a hoax. My brother lost a good friend. I have friends who have lost relatives and friends. One of my former students is on life support. We can’t lose sight of what’s most important.  Without our health, we can’t make beautiful memories with those we love. That’s what I most feared, being separated from my daughter and my husband. My eyebrows can wait.  I can attend Mass from the comfort of my desktop.  I can only hope that more of us realize how important it is that we protect ourselves and one another. 

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The plague of flies

Jun14

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“To be a leader, don’t get led on or led in the wrong direction” Rakim

“I will send swarms of flies on you, your officials, and your people, and into your houses…” Exodus 8 

Speaking truth to power is an important quality and sign of leadership. We view people who are willing to criticize the status quo or the powers that be as brave, frank, and possibly heroic. Are we as open to honest critics within our institutions, organizations, and groups?   Do we accept constructive criticism or negative feedback ? Do we allow people to speak their truth without permanently shutting the door on them? I would argue that the outspoken are great as ideal heroes but often ostracized as real people.  

During a weekly principals’ meeting, I learned that one of my colleagues, also a new mentor, had made the decision to take a job elsewhere. This person was given an opportunity to address the group.  What the person offered was not a simple farewell.  Though some of the opinions and observations shared were not new to me, they had not been shared in a formal setting with our supervisors.  This person has been openly critical of decisions and actions in the past. However, for the first and last time, this individual  owned the feelings and experiences of having been that voice which led to having not been heard. That broke this person’s resolve and commitment.  It was shocking, saddening, maddening, frustrating and demoralizing.  Though our line of work calls for leadership skills and tendencies, my colleague’s experience became that of being ignored and dismissed.

No one wants to listen or hear that voice in the wilderness.  We want it in theory.  We want it on the grand scale on global issues.  Because this individual chose to be a leader by being vocal about inconsistencies observed,  that experience ultimately ended a sense of belonging.  If one of the toughest people I know gave up, where does that leave me? Do I want to belong to an organization that is not willing to make difficult growth?  How long will I remain silent  and shrug off those things that don’t sit well with me?  Isn’t being a leader about giving voice to effect change? 

 After I received this news I found it very difficult to focus on work.  It was too close to me. I have sought  leadership opportunities outside of work specifically parent-teacher groups and dance organizations.  I know what it’s like to be critical and have that ruin the rest of my experience because I chose to be honest about my concerns. Mission statements, codes of conduct and growth mindset are great concepts that have little meaning if disagreement or controversy lead to dissension.  To make matters worse, speaking out can affect how others perceive you; I have been labeled difficult or disloyal even if my intention was to seek improvement.    

I am generally a passive person.  I don’t like conflict or confrontation.  At work, I usually lead through facilitation or building consensus.  I generally go with the flow.   I don’t go out of my way to seek to stir up controversy or to upset people. I take pride in being a calm, quiet leader.  I do admit that one area of development for me is to be more courageous in my conversations.  However, when I get shut down or even shunned because I did speak to my frustrations, questions or doubts,  then I no longer feel empowered or engaged.  I disconnect.  I dismiss. I turn into stone, a stone sinking still waters where the bitterness of loss runs deep.   I understand my colleague’s decision.  I’ve made it myself.  In the meantime,  I think of that old wisdom saying, en boca cerrada, no entran las moscas.   Shoo, fly, don’t bother me.  

The rest of the day

Apr9

One early October morning, I came home from the Game of Thrones symphony concert.  I had enjoyed a good time with my good friend and with my daughter. We came home very late past midnight to a family medical emergency.  I had to leave the house again and make a second long trip across the bay to the hospital.  I sat in the waiting room feeling upset and anxious. Thankfully my loved one was safe and eventually released. We got home close to my workday alarm going off at 4:50 in the morning. I called my boss and apologized profusely about the need to take a personal day. I was getting ready for bed when I received another call.  A staff member let me know that one of my students had been killed.  

Anthony hadn’t been at our school for very long. However, I knew his family, having worked with one of his siblings in previous years. We didn’t have very many interactions outside of his initial intake meeting. We did meet on the morning of the day he died.  He met with me after a teacher expressed concern about attendance. Out of all the students I met with regarding this concern, he was the most respectful. He had an inquisitive look in his eyes and once he relaxed, he was open to our conversation.Not all students relax when talking to school administrators so it struck me. I listened to his account of what happened. He appeared sober and had actually made it to class on time.  When our conversation ended, he thanked me and he said “ I hope you have a good rest of your day”. He said it in a sincere tone which felt sweet and young. So many of my students have experienced so much in their lives and may be wise beyond their years; others seem tired from all they have endured and are sometimes unable to enjoy their youth. Anthony struck me as young, despite his life experiences. He had retained a youthful energy.  To hear that his young life had ended was shocking.  

I called my boss again.  I told her what happened and asked what we could do.  She told me, “Take care of your family and yourself. I will be there in your place.”  I am grateful for how she stepped in for me that day. I will never forget that morning. It was the first time I lost a student as a principal.  

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We honored Anthony through our Dia De Los Muertos altar. My leadership students hosted an intimate memorial service with his family. It was a moving gathering as my students had the opportunity to share their thoughts. 

Since then, I stopped writing. I had things to say but I needed time to reflect. I continually pondered not only at work but in my life : What is the purpose of the work I do?  What is my mission and vision? There were many times this school year I was ready to give up. I know I will continue to have those moments. What keeps me moving forward are those moments when young people reach deep within themselves and reconnect with trust in themselves, in adults, in the world. It is beautiful when that happens and when they are willing to share those moments. After two decades, I am committed to working with adolescents. I can handle their challenges. This, however, was something different, heartrending, something that rendered me speechless.  

 I needed to sit with this loss, sitting shiva, guardando luto. I always remember the image of Job sitting in the desert, with his friends beside him, sitting in silence.  I needed to sit in the desert of this loss. Thankfully I had friends and loved ones on the journey of silence with me. I know that silence can be fruitful. I am grateful for my gifts of writing and reflection and for the gift of loss.  

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Job and his friends, Ilya Repin.

All my crosses

Aug25

Approximately five months ago, during Lent, I had a negative reaction to a photo a friend had taken of me during that time.  I had been dreading seeing it. Once I did, it struck me in a terrible way, a mixture of anger, disappointment, and indignation.   I often say physical appearance shouldn’t matter but it does. How we look reveals a lot about lifestyle and health. Seeing myself made me feel I had really let others and myself down.  It is a struggle to take better care of myself. It always is and when times are stressful, it is one of the first priorities to shift downwards.  

That night after seeing that photo, I took a mile walk with my dog. I haven’t always felt my age but I do feel older.  It can be disheartening to experience these feelings. That night, I prayed on it. The walk helped me feel better. It was an opportunity to focus on breathing and moving. 

That struggle with my fitness was in keeping with my Lenten journey and in keeping with my personal life journey.  Lent isn’t the only time I assess and reflect on where I am in my life. Reflection isn’t always positive. I don’t always feel that I am growing and evolving. I also ponder why I’m not evolving the way I did two, five or ten years ago. I am my own worst critic and the person with whom I am constantly competing.  My main point of comparison is the person that I once was. I achieved a certain goal in my fitness and I was so proud. Then that level of fitness fell away as I failed to maintain that achievement. I allowed work to wear me down. I was derailed by feelings of inadequacy, fear and failure. But I had enough of the excuses. I knew how to help myself. I had to push through that doubt and fear. The morning after my night time walk, I went to boot camp for the first time in several weeks.  I felt supported by my coaches. It was good to be back in community and encouraging other people who were struggling. It was a powerful return to routines that nurture me.  

 I always have the capacity to change. I don’t always have the will.  It becomes a vicious cycle because then I want to hide and not push myself; this wasn’t the first time I’ve fallen away from being healthy. For example, my prayer life continues to be an area of growth.  I used to waste mornings on social media though I knew it kept me from daily prayer. This choice to bypass discipline frustrates me. I have to consciously work on my willingness to be transformed. 

Discipline is the answer. Since that time, I have consistently worked out 5 to 6 days a week by lifting weights in our home gym, taking samba, hip hop, and kickboxing classes, and working out at my training gym.  I have been praying the Liturgy of the Hours and the rosary daily. There are days when I’m not feeling motivated or forgiving or close to God or even close to myself. But I keep pushing. I am taking up my cross. It is not easy nor will it ever be. At times, it can be painful and inspire tears or anger. But I committed to taking up all my crosses during Lent. All these months later, I’m still moving forward through and past those struggles. When I look at myself in photos, I’m trying to be more compassionate and loving to that ever evolving mujer.  

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Thank you LIzzo for inspiring this costume!

Pilgrim ponderings

Feb6

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view from a boat on the Sea of Galilee

It has been over a month since I returned from my first pilgrimage. Though I’m back into the hectic pace at work and gearing up for another Carnaval season, I like to reflect on my experience often.  Our trip was like none I have ever experienced.

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St. Michael letting it be known. 

I knew I was going to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land for some time. However, I kept news of it under wraps because I had personal and spiritual reasons for making the trip.  As I have chronicled in recent years, I have had to deal with certain situations and individuals who brought toxic negativity into my life.While the context was professional, it greatly affected me personally.  Dealing with those people, and one person in particular, made me confront destructive negative behavior daily. It challenged me mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Fear and anxiety can paralyze.  I often felt physically unable to speak or to defend myself in the face of this type of energy. I got through these years of challenge through faith, love, commitment to putting my students first. During this time, I made a commitment to show my gratitude by making a pilgrimage. I had the opportunity to spend this past Christmas in Israel and the West Bank.

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Wade in the water…

The places we visited were familiar to me through my faith life. I have sung about them in the mornings during the Liturgy of the Hours.  I have read about them as a lector and taught about them as a catechist. To have them made real and tangible still leaves me speechless. There were so many moments during the trip when I became tearful and quietly cried. I thought tears would come in certain moments but they did not. Tears came when they came.

It was hard to come home. Being on pilgrimage helped make me more mindful.  I realized how compartmentalized, hectic and scheduled my life is. In so many ways, my life here at home is  limited day to day. While on pilgrimage, I had many opportunities to relish every sight, sound, and taste. I was reminded that every experience is a true gift. It was liberating, reassuring, empowering, and inspiring.

20181230_165224.jpgMy pilgrimage was magical, surreal, and beautiful.  I saw the Mediterranean sea, walked by the Jordan River, sailed on the sea of Galilee, and saw all of Jerusalem from Mount Zion.  It put things into perspective to set aside time to get back in touch with what is valuable. It gave me strength. It changed me. It won’t be a trip I will soon forget. I can always call it to mind whenever needed. For that I am grateful.

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Tee reads Living My Life Like It’s Golden. Yes! 

Voice

Oct6

How do I explain to my daughter how and why perpetrators of sexual assault and  harassment are put forward as leaders? How do I explain the continued objectification and abuse of women? I don’t have simple answers.  But I can write and reflect. I began this piece over a year ago. Given what’s happening in our country right now, it’s fitting to revisit.

I began writing personal essays while in college. My column, Mujer Hollering, became my way of expressing my views on various issues on campus and in my life through a personal lens. I wrote about issues of gender, ethnicity and culture. I was committed to being a woman with a voice and reflecting on how we are treated and perceived. It was challenging at first.  When you are conditioned by family, culture and society to be a woman in a specific way, having a voice of challenge and opposition is controversial and misunderstood. But I didn’t let that stop me.

Last summer, Luvvie Ajayi shared the following story on Facebook.  A dancer with a social media presence was approached online by one of her followers. He sent her pictures of himself and asked her about his physical attractiveness. When she didn’t respond because she was traveling, he became angry. He tried to video chat with her multiple times. When she still did not reply, he began to send her messages.  Lots of messages. He took back his initial compliments of her beauty. He called her fat, ugly, and boring. He questioned her credibility as a dancer since she allegedly had a “bulging belly.” This was a one-sided conversation; the woman was not on her phone or her computer when this transpired. When the dancer finally saw the exchange, she posted it to social media. The man was horrified. He told her he was humiliated because he was being questioned by family and friends.  He claimed strangers were harassing him. He told her he feared the story going viral. As one of the thousands who shared this post, we ensured it did. Like they sang in Chicago, he had it coming. Don’t start none, won’t be none.eb8306a4be1a7c593bb5696676c1a9b4112e85c7.gif

I haven’t forgotten this story because the familiar narrative struck a nerve. I could relate to the dancer’s sense of bewilderment when she discovered this garbage on her social media page. This is the sort of nonsense we can be subjected to when we reject unwanted advances. God forbid we’re not compliant in the harassment. Harassment is not romance. There is nothing romantic about being commanded to tell someone how good-looking he is. If a woman is not meek, then she is a b****. I’ve known many women who have been physically threatened or even physically attacked because they said no.  Women have the human right to safety, to our own space, and to enjoy ourselves without anyone imposing on us. Let us be! Yet the reaction is often anger. I don’t want my daughter subjected to this rage. I’m going to continue to teach her to be a strong woman who can confront these situations and people. Parents of sons, raise them to honor women.

Mujer Hollering is still here. I’m going to continue to raise my voice for my sisters and for our daughters. So speak out however you can, in intimate social circles, on social media, or at the polls.  Women will not be silenced.