Sunday Morning

I heard the squeaking just as I was rounding the corner. A big brown wooden rocking chair going back and forth at 8:35am on a Sunday morning. "Buuuueenasss!" He said to me from behind little glasses that perched on the tip of his nose. His shirt was off, as always, and he was rocking, belly out, heart open, in the sun.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek, a smile from my own inner belly, and pulled open the screen door to his left.

The room was full of faces of different shades and shapes, but all with the same eyes. Great Grandma was in the kitchen making tortillas. One of her daughters was by the sink washing dishes and the rest of the boys were scattered around the room. Grandpa came in slowly behind me, cane in hand, as he found his was to the sofa. He plopped down and pressed on the tele. The sound of that home-video show where animals do funny things played in the background of the brothers' conversations.

I "helped" Grams make some tortillas, and by "helped" I mean delayed the eating experience quite a bit longer. Anyways, the brothers found it amusing.

They are all grown men, 35 years and above. One by one they took turns kissing their mother and here and there she came over and placed her hands on their shoulders as they told me stories about washing clothes in the river and gathering limes from the forest.

I ate with my hands, just as I like it and I did my best not to feel nostalgic for El Salvador, even though I couldn't help it. It is something I carry with me everywhere.

I asked questions and they responded. They talked over each other and spilled rice and beans. They licked fingers and laughed with their mouths full. I did, too.
We couldn't help it.

They asked me questions and I told too many details. Four grown men, a big sister, great grandma and grandpa, a grandchild for a few minutes, a neighbor or two, and me, eating tortillas and reminiscing about a life that we relive through stories and comida.

"That is how you keep it alive. My children didn't know their ancestor but I tell them stories over dinner over and over. And now I hear them telling the stories, as if they knew my grandparents. That is how you keep your family alive." One of the brothers told me and I smiled whole-heartedly.

The door squeaked open and shut. And little by little the room got quieter. Until all you could hear was the sound of Grandpa's tele and Grandma washing the dishes. And I got up and I hugged her, and her back felt like my Grandma's back and I didn't want to cry so I didn't tell her how much this morning meant to me. And I walked over and I kissed him on the cheek and he giggled and I walked out the screen door and passed the empty brown wooden rocking chair. And I headed home.

For the rest of my life, everywhere I go, I will find the tortilla-makers. The rocking chair rockers.
I will seek out the Sunday family breakfast eaters. The big children story tellers.
The time forgetters.
The door-openers.
The givers: wise with love, humble with humanity.

Based on Not a True Story

Based on Not a True Story

I was sitting at my computer when I realized
that I think too much. and too fast.
that I have ideas that the world doesn't want.
That I simultaneously wanna research the fundamental causes of hunger
while painting landscapes, blasting old school rap and standing on my hands.
So I sat there staring at the screen that color-blinded my eyes and crumpled my hands
and I realized that my brain was broken.
Yes.
Bipolar: having or relating to two poles or extremities.
"a sharply bipolar division of affluent and underclass"
Yes. It is I who is bipolar. I am two!
I do not fit into this One Society.
All equal
All free
All One. We hear about it everywhere! I am reading it on my computer screen. Can't you see it? The Oneness?!
It is so apparent in our laws and policies
how we distribute our food and treat our citizens
It is my brain that is broken!
So, I quickly went to the doctor. And he confirmed what I already knew to be true: I am bipolar. I have intellect on one side. And emotions on the other. And I relate strongly to both.
Bipolar.
Good news. The pills helped. Instantly. They shut down the right side of my brain.
No more emotions.
No more art. music. or hand standing.
No more challenges.
For me
Nor for the Society that says we are all Equal. and Free!
So now, I fit right in!
And I can follow along. Being just as they want me to be.
Quiet. and obedient. and free.
And hey, it's easier for me, now, too. No more challenges. No more hardships. No more exploring both the power of the mind and the heart of my emotions. No more experiencing the highs of bathing naked in a waterfall and the lows of watching your neighbor starve while you have a full belly. Just, One-polar. Knowing one side and not the other. Because it is too difficult for humans to understand both.
we are meant to be numb to this
it makes it easier for all of us
that's why I went to the doctor to fix my brain so that I didn't have to experience it anymore
so I didn't have to fight it
so I didn't have to know a broken heart.
I just follow along a path
I dont have to worry about where I am going.
this is our reality
based on not a true story.
Footnote: This is also literally not a true story.

I Think She Was a Human

I think she was a human. Just like me.

She covered her arms in dark stains and painted her hair a different color every week. She put piercings in weird places and dressed so that you stopped to look at her. She was surrounded by eyes and ears. She sung beautiful songs from the depths of her soul. And often her arms were exposed and her bones looked fragile and she looked cold. Still, she sang a song so powerful you could feel her truth. And if you denied it, deep down you knew it was only because you have been denying yourself for so long.

I think she was a human, just like me.

She used drugs and alcohol. She stayed up all night and slept through the days. It didn't matter if it was Tuesday or Thursday or what it would be tomorrow. She smoked and sipped the days away. Still, she sang.

I think she was a human, just like me.

She wanted to share things, so she sang. She wanted to feel, so she sang. She wanted to be awake, so she sang.

And the world, as she knew it, was afraid of her aliveness, because it had gotten so used to numbness. So they judged her for her stains; for her outward way of being. They mocked her for her clothing. They questioned her about her songs.
Her songs.

All day they all watched. In conformity. Complacency. In chaos. In cubicles. In tight cubbies that children learn to place their paper bag lunch boxes. Orderly. They watched.

She. She was not orderly. She was wild and unruly. She put her ugliness on her arms, while we put ours in our bellies and then wish them away and they stay.
She put her ugliness in her songs. So that she could feel it and see it. In a world that taught her to hide it.

She wanted freedom.
She thought.

She didn't know.

Doesn't everybody in this world?

Not allowed to be dirty. Not allowed to be down.
Not allowed to step outside the box.
of freedom.

She drank more and used more and sang less.
Her song stayed trapped in her soul and when it tried to come out she smothered her ugliness in thick, grey smoke. She smothered her ugliness until she couldn't sense it anymore.

And then, she wasn't anymore
ugly
or here.

I think she was a human
just like me.

New York Encounters

There is a group of 4 men wearing construction uniforms up ahead. They are gathered together on the side of the road talking loudly. I keep walking with my head lifted and I look at them in the eyes as I am about to pass by. "Hi! How are you?" One of them says to me joyfully and I smile and answer back. "Happy New Year to you," he says and I continue smiling until I make it to 6th Avenue, laughing at myself a bit. You judgemental b*tch. Not everything is what we think it is going to be.

It is freezing outside and I come up with a list of productive things that I can do without having to leave the comfort of my four walls. My friend comes to meet me later to go to the film centre. He recommends that we walk and at first instant I think that he is crazy. In that case, I grab my hat and gloves. As we walk, a full moon hovers low in the sky in front of us. A bitter wind whips at my face and dances with the strands of hairs that are not zippered up in my jacket. It's cold and I can feel it. And I am happy inside and happy that we decided to walk.

I get off the train at 125th street and walk around for a bit. Harlem is different than other parts of the city. I like it. I like the culture. I like that I haven't been here before and now I am. I stop and talk to the guy from Mali who is selling hand-made soap and incense. He's friendly and not overly pushy with his sales so I stay awhile and we laugh about random things like the bottle of oils that is labeled "Michelle Obama". Harlem is different than the lower east side, just as the village is different than the upper west side. The people are different, too. They are different inside the city and different outside the city and different than in Costa Rica. The things we talk about and the way we laugh doesn't feel so different.

My friend holds a guitar in his hands and he's playing music and my hands are frozen. I smile as I watch the people passing by stop and glance in his direction. I am fascinated by the scene in front of me. Some people come by and ask questions and give money and others just keep going. I like the faces of the people who stop and let the music touch them.

A lady gets on the train and tells me that she is pleased to see someone reading a real book and not the kindle. I agree with my words and my heart. My shoulder and back disagree.  We talk for a long time about modern society. She is from Trinidad. I feel that she is angry at me for some reason. By the way she looks at me and the way she holds her hands and how she interrupts me when I speak. I am not sure if she is angry at me. This may just be what I think.

I go to a Food and Farmer's Forum by myself and I meet a farmer. I love the way he speaks about what he does and I don't need him to tell me that he does not know how to separate his work from his life from his way of living and I appreciate this. I stay after to speak with him and we get a coffee together. The next week he invites me to a gathering at his friends house. When I get there, I do not know anybody and then we have a beer and start cooking together. I make the tortillas. The place is warm and full of good energy and I don't feel out of place at all. Later, all the guys and a really beautiful girl start making music together on drums and guitars and I wish that moments like these could last forever.

I see my old friends from high school and it is not hard to fall right back into wherever we were when I last left. They make me smile and laugh and we can talk about deep things or light things, serious issues or things that don't matter and I feel safe to know that I will always have these people in my life. They start to dance to the music that is played in the bar and I watch and smile and soon it is time for me to go home and I walk alone to the subway and at first I am not sure about going alone, and then I remember how much I love it. And I sit there on the subway and I toggle between people-watching and reading. I love to watch the people. {especially in New York}. I wonder if it bothers them when I watch and I hope I am not too obvious. The lady in front of me smiles. I think she can read my mind.

New York is a dreadfully busy and beautiful place.
A place that I have left for long periods of time.
A place that scares the shit out of me.
A place that brings me home.
A place that lights a fire in me.
A place that keeps me feeling. A place that keeps me alive.