Tag Archive | grief

My dear feathery friend

Jan24

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all – 

Emily Dickinson 

Starting in October 2019, my staff mourned the untimely deaths of three young people.  We lost two young men to gunfire.  We lost a young woman to violence; her family has not wanted to mourn this loss publicly as the investigation has been pending.  It was terribly hurtful to see a mother give a eulogy for her child who will never reach 18. It has been awful to speak to mothers as they sob for their children who have been robbed of time.  I am fortunate to still have the ability to make memories and change traditions.  I still have time, that luxury that my friends who have lost parents and grandparents desire.  

Losing my Mama Chelia was sad but it also deepened my gratitude. She lived 102 years and she inspired her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren with her tenacity, willfulness, brassy sense of humor, candor, and strength. Mama Chelia left us with many memories and gratitude at leaving us after a long full life.  

In December, we lost my Tia Nery to cancer.  She was the quintessential bon vivant. At family gatherings, she was always the first to dance and never one to shy away from taking shots, whether they were of tequila or pisco.   She never resorted to the bad habits of other aunties who body shame and pry as if they are owed these uncomfortable moments. I was always “mamita” to her. I always received hugs, kisses, and compliments.  My auntie stood out.  She dressed in animal prints and glittery tops and held parties with live bands in the middle of chemo and a pandemic. She was unapologetically going to keep living so long as she could.  Losing her means losing the spark of many a family gathering.  However what an example she set of being a woman who loved and lived to the fullest.  

Even in my grief and that of my friends, I can’t negate the blessings of 2020.  2020 revealed my priorities and my loyal support network.  I decided who was worth seeing, what was worth doing, why I and we are worth protecting and building up.  While getting through the challenging months was an accomplishment in and of itself, there were small yet immense moments of success and joy.  Friends welcomed beautiful and healthy new babies. I watched a beautiful Zoom wedding of a young couple as they began their life together.  I have so many friends who   reached deep down and started running, continued graduate school, moved home, or left toxic relationships.  It took these losses, this isolation, the frustration of building the damn plane as it careens out of control at times, to push me to embrace my vocation as a writer again.  Wrist tendinitis be damned, I am writing this book.  I’m dreaming my dream again, that my words might reach other eyes, minds, hearts.  

2020 was full of loss.  I can’t write that year, or any year, off as a complete waste.   When I was young, I had a nervous breakdown.  At that time, I thought it was the worst year of my life. I had to build myself back up.  I built a new mindset and ultimately, a new life free of misery.  I will experience grief and pain but I learned how to be mindful, grateful, and whole. I learned to never surrender to despair.   Our world has broken down but it will rebuild itself.  When it does, there will be greater joys.  All is blessing.  There is nothing we can experience that does not make us better.

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. 

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.