The cositas we carry...

Those who follow my blog know, or have figured out, that I am of Bolivian descent. Papi came to the states in the early 1960s, and brought my Mami over on their wedding day in 1966. I know that they both brought cositas (small things) with them to give a Bolivian toquecito (touch) to their new American home. These familiar items - among them an aguayo, a monolito, pictures of the cantuta and the city of La Paz, and many, many record albums of Bolivian music - were how I came to learn about my ethnicity.

My love for Bolivia grew during my childhood, kindled by my father's determination to take my siblings and me there every summer. The months of July and August were an endless adventure of cousins, day trips, family celebrations, music, succulent foods, sunshine, Sunday mass with the abuelitos (grandparents), and every eye-popping color of the rainbow. My childhood was rich for those experiences.

The Ekeko, pictured here, was also an object of "Bolivian-ness" I recall seeing now and then while growing up. Relatives would give these small dolls to my family as we left to come home to New Jersey. This little guy carries tiny possessions, miniature foods, and paper money - all symbols for the things we hope to never have to do without.

My parents recently returned from a trip to Bolivia, and brought back my very own Ekeko. Only this time, it's the female version of the small god - an Ekeka. She carries of course food, clothing, money, as well as kitchen tools, and a cell phone. She also rides a bike, holds her baby under one arm, and carries her husband on her back. A small dog runs by her side.

I love this cosita and place her on my bookshelf. She makes me smile. I imagine she's also lugging a laptop somewhere in her bundle, a bunch of books, bread and chocolate, and of course an iPod loaded with the heart-filling music of Bolivia.

Back to school we go...

First day of school tomorrow - and I'm not sure I should even bother going to bed tonight. The night before the first day has always been sleepless for me. I end up laying there, wide-eyed, tossing, turning, making lists in my head, giddy and nervous.

I also tear up a bit on this night every year - about the end of summer, the end of free time, over the beginning of what is always a stressful season, and the realization that I might not have spent enough quality time with my son. It's always my regret on this night. He's growing and changing so quickly. Jeans and sneakers up a size. Mind and personality... amazing, curious, beautiful, quirky. There's heartache in watching him.

Before this treasure went to bed tonight, with his own mixed thoughts of what tomorrow will bring, he came to kiss me goodnight. "Thanks for a great summer Mom. I had the best time with you. Thanks for everything."

This kid. He ties my heart up in knots.

His Running Shoes

This’ll be tedious –
I know
you have a hard time
making up your mind
I drag myself to the sports store
For the eighth year in a row
I used to pick and choose
What you’d wear on your feet
To school
“These are cool” I say
Noting the reasonable price-tag
“These seem light and comfortable”
when the very washable mesh fabric and darker design
Catch my eye
But this year you’re drawn
To black with yellow piping
Crazy combination
“You’ll grow tired of these fast” I mutter
You try them on
Even have your dad tie them for you
Even now…
Big boy with long legs
You jump to your feet, bounce in place
Feeling the cushion, the give, the flexibility
Things I must learn to be –
You pretend to run around the shop
Testing how swiftly you’ll run
As I watch your feet grow at heart-pulling speed

Still here...

¡Qué vergüenza! (How embarrassing!) It’s been more than two weeks since I’ve posted. I thought I’d have so much time to write and material to write about, but I’ve discovered that I’m not as disciplined about my free time as I would like to be. I’ve squandered my time on other things, and now I feel that inevitable end-of-summer-I-didn’t-do-all-I-was-supposed-to-do blues creeping up on me. Luckily, I have a couple of weeks left of summer vacation and some time to catch up on my blog.

I’ve not been a total slacker. I’ve been devouring books and have my 12-yr old son doing the same. One of the books I had the pleasure of reading this summer was the classic To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. It’s been on my shelf forever and I hadn’t read it in high school nor in college. (Not sure why.) At any rate, it was an excellent read, although I wish I had discovered it earlier in my life. My son and I spend many mornings talking about our books over breakfast – a new and very pleasant aspect of our relationship.

I’ve also spent a large part of my summer experimenting with Web 2.0 tools and networking. There is so much out there, I’ve often gone to bed with the sensation that my head was about to explode. Twitter has become an invaluable resource for me; I’ve found many great people there who I’ve embraced as part of my PLN (personal learning network.) In order to connect with more of mi gente, I’ve been a part of Twitteros.net, and recently, I joined LatinoEducators.com, a Ning dedicated to bilingual teachers and parents. These sites have provided me with much information, encouragement, and camaraderie.

Since I also like to feel like I’ve made something in my free time, I’ve been crocheting like crazy – I’ve got several projects underway that I work on every chance I get. On our way to and from vacation in North Carolina last week, you could find me in the passenger seat, with crochet hook and yarn in hand. There’s something very soothing about crochet. I’ve self-prescribed it as therapy for hands that are beginning to see the effects of arthritis, and for the worries I’m feeling over a difficult time a loved-one is about to face.

Summer is a time for relaxing and reflecting, though, and I certainly did that. My down time was spent thinking about family, Wise Latinas (I aspire to be one), health, school, and what to do next. Sometimes, you’ve got to spend time doing nothing so you can see all the things you have yet to do, and all the ways you have yet to grow.

I did OK this summer – I did.

Speaking of Super Heroes...

While catching up with Literanista - the first blog I ever followed, and one of my constant favorites - I found out that the actress who played Wonder Woman is a Latina!

Linda Jean Córdova Carter is the beautiful brunette who played Wonder Woman. I remember being a kid and watching the weekly episodes, fantasizing about having special powers like hers. I had the long, flowing black hair, and I recall making wrist bands out of gold gift wrap which I wore a few times during long, wonderful hours of play with my sisters and neighborhood playmates. I think I even wanted a Wonder Woman costume one year for Halloween, but my oddly-shaped preteen body wouldn't allow it.

Now, as an adult I still love the idea of super powers! I encourage this kind of creative thinking with my students, and I look for books (like Super Cilantro Girl) where kids become super heroes.

So, what a sorpresa to learn that Wonder Woman was/is a Latina! Is that why I connected with her? I invite you to visit Literanista's blog, then follow her to another cool blog - Mulatto Diaries - and enjoy "No Wonder I Loved Wonder Woman".

By the way, I fancy myself Book Woman... more on that later. Stay tuned.

The Good Boys

My two nephews were watching TV when I stopped in to my mom's yesterday. I was impressed at how well they were behaving. While I had lunch with my mom, the boys joined us at the table for some milk and homemade cookies. One of the boys told me about World Wars I and II, and what he learned from the Pearl Harbor movie. The other boy told me about an upcoming fishing trip with his dad. It was a pleasant insight in to the boys' interests.

The boys left the table after a while and enjoyed some silliness, like crawling and creeping around the house, and sneaking up on me. Later, I heard them giggle as they gently tossed around what I thought was a small Frisbee. Their abuelo (grandfather) was not amused, but I assured my dad that no es nada (no big deal) and the boys returned to their cartoons.

Before I left, I tore out two slips of paper from a notepad in my bag. On each, I created an "Excellent Behavior" note, promising a special prize in the future, as long as they could present the slip of paper to me next time we meet. I handed the "coupons" to the boys and watched as they read them. They exchanged smiles, folded the slips back up, and placed them in their pockets. I kissed them good-bye, and made my way out the door.

I had to turn around though, realizing I had left my book on the table. As I walked out again, I peeked in on the boys. They were reading their coupons to each other!

Awesome. Now, assuming they're successful in preserving those little slips of paper for a few weeks, what should the prize be? Must it be a thing?

Tuneful Tuesday - "Closer to Fine"

The Indigo Girls' Closer to Fine was a hit in the late 1980s. I distinctly remember my teenage cousins singing along a todo dar (with all their heart) and how lovely they looked and sounded. Unfortunately, I didn't pay much attention to the song back then, nor to my cousins.

More than 20 years later, I came across this song again, and discovered how happy it makes me feel. Songs do that to us. Sometimes it's the lyrics, or the melody, or the memory attached to a song, that makes it linger, heal, or please.

I placed Closer to Fine in my iPod this past weekend. While I set up my son's iPod, he asked me to place it in his as well, and said "That one makes you smile."

Here's to songs that just plain feel good.

Small Talk

While washing my hair, a young girl tells me about her classes at the community college. She thinks she'll probably transfer to a four year school, and "go for" teaching. "Might as well" she adds. Next, she gives me a rundown of what she'll be doing this weekend.

"My boyfriend and I are going to this big party on Saturday night, and an even bigger one Sunday night. We're gonna be sooooo trashed. I'm gonna be soooooo tired. I'm gonna have to call my teacher tonight."

"Why?" I ask, bored with what I already know she's going to say.

"Well, there's no way I can go to an 8:00 am class and take an exam. Screw that. He's gonna have to let me make it up, 'cause I'm NOT taking an exam on a Monday morning when I'm so tired. Besides, I wanna have a good time Sunday night, ya know?"

"Mmmmmm, yeah" I reply, glad she has at this point hastily thrown a towel over my head, so she can't see the face I'm making. She will one day be someone's teacher. Lovely.

I then walk over to my favorite stylist's station and take my seat at the mirror. I look straight ahead, watching her behind me, her scissors flying around my head. As she does her magic, I compliment her on her tousled, brown curls, and congratulate her on her recent wedding. There's something radiant about her, and I realize she's happy, in love, the world ahead of her.

We talk about movies. She and her husband have just seen the one that has garnered all the awards last month. "I hated it!" she complains. "It was awful to see how they live! Why do I need to see that? How depressing! Why make a movie like that? My life is good. I don't need to see all that."

I remained quiet. I felt disappointed. I wanted to tell these girls so many things. But, I am not their teacher.

When sins were small

I sat in the wooden pew, my legs hanging over the edge, toes barely touching the kneeler. My shiny, black hair was still tied back in the braid my mother had twisted that morning, and my plaid jumper retained its pressed pleats. The vast room was warmly lit, by flickering candles on the altar and dusty rays sifting in through colored glass. Whispers and mutterings floated around, telling small children to sit still, wait their turn. I glanced up, saw him approaching, and hurriedly repeated to myself for the hundredth time, the words I would say when the time came.

He leaned over me, arm on the back of the bench, and spoke kindly, though I quickly forgot what he said, for the smell of coffee and tobacco on his breath. But his voice was kind, soft, and Irish. His reddish cheeks, wire-frame glasses over greenish eyes, and tousled brown, wavy hair were endearing to me, a little girl who had her first confession to make. He was Father Matt, my favorite of the three black-clothed men that lived in the rectory, next to the church, by my school.

“Why are you here my child?” he coaxed, as he sat beside me.

“Father, I have sinned.”

The first act of penance followed a script. His turn, my turn, his turn, my turn. I confided in him that I had said a bad word, and that I had stolen a cookie when my mother was not looking. What I was not brave enough to confess was, that I had pinched my baby sister’s leg to make her cry, and that I had snuck into my mother’s bedroom to play with her make-up, dropping a bottle of blood-red Cutex nail polish all over the floor, which I later blamed on my other little sister.

But he forgave me, placing his wide, heavy hand on the top of my head. I received my blessing and walked toward the others, who were in various stages of waiting, reciting, praying, and fidgeting. I kneeled in my assigned row, folded my arms on the bench in front of me, and rested my head. Up high in the choir loft, a lullaby soothed, smoothing my eyes closed. Through sleepy eyes, I watched while the others confessed their baby sins to men, their wrong-doings erased with old words, sent away with smoking incense.

Diversity Book Review: Stealing Buddha's Dinner

The book title, along with the cover’s image of a little girl contemplating a pink snoball, called my attention. Bich Minh Nguyen (first name pronounced Bit) writes a memoir interweaving food as a symbol of belonging. SpaghettiOs, Pringles, and fast food were the stuff of becoming American, of fitting in. Green sticky rice cakes, pho, cha gio, and fresh fruits, were the tastes of family, of home.

Nguyen and her family escaped from Saigon in 1975 and settled in Michigan. Growing up in the 80s, in the Midwest, Nguyen’s immigrant experience was similar to that of so many deemed “different” from the host culture. She struggled to fit in, longing to be like her classmates and neighbors; she fantasized about macaroni & cheese dinners and “homemade” Toll House cookies. Nguyen, however, is comforted by the foods her grandmother continues to prepare, shrimp soups, noodles, and meticulously chopped-up vegetables. She treasures even more the fresh fruits her grandmother lovingly peels and cuts for her; solace is often found in the familiar, the natural. Throughout the story, food seems to satiate different kinds of hunger. As a girl, Nguyen needs attention and encouragement. She appeases these needs in a closet with a candy bar or a ripe pear, stolen from her grandmother’s altar to Buddha.

The foods, music, and clothing styles mentioned in Nguyen’s book were familiar to me, as I was a teen in the 80s. I could connect to the childhood desire to “eat what they eat”, the shunning of that which is familiar, and the happy return to the foods that your mom makes (or grandmother, as in Nguyen’s story). It was also interesting to note that certain foods, considered “delicacies” for some, become everyday fare for others. This is especially true now, when we can regularly enjoy exotic foods in just about any American city, and savor Cheetos, tater-tots, Cozy Shack pudding, and a can of Chef Boyardee any day in the comfort of home.

I highly recommend this book. If you connect food with life's experiences (like me!) you will especially appreciate this story. You may find that you suddenly have a craving for a Pop-Tart, or you may want to try something new and visit any one of the many Asian restaurants in your area.

Personally, I need to find me some cha gio! Looks delicious!

Upstairs at Douglass

I’m correcting my students’ homework at a small table for two, my husband sitting across from me reading a book of poems. He shares the ones he knows I’ll like. He leaves me for a moment, and brings back a bag of peanuts, a diet soda, a bag of cookies, and a steaming coffee from a machine. He forgets I am easily disgusted by hot drink dispensers, and I remind him so. But I take the cookies, no problem.

We’re waiting at the college student center for our son. It’s exactly 20 years since we sat in a place exactly like this. Back then, our book-bags were laden with heavy textbooks and notebooks filled with incomplete jottings and poorly thought-out rough drafts. We wore the collegiate uniform of the late ‘80s – sweats and sneakers – and our hair was teased with mousse. We were two bright, young kids from vastly different places. We were the same in that oldest-child kind of way.

The student center was home between classes. We wrote papers there, and colored our textbooks with yellow highlighters. We ate chips and candy, diet sodas. We napped on rough, orange burlap couches, our coats serving as blankets. And we talked. We studied and learned each other, just as we did the material on our syllabuses. During those exchanges, we imagined our futures and how we would live.

On this wicked, cold day, we’re home again. The tables, clustered chairs, flyers taped to walls announcing concerts and cancelled courses, the whirring and clunk of the snack machines, the milling about of all kinds of people – all of these feel the same. This time, though, the work in our bags is different, and we’re waiting for a boy – the one we dreamed about in the student center.

Viva la vida y los momentos que compartimos

Last Sunday night, a week ago, we surprised our son with a Coldplay concert. We tricked him in to thinking we were going to his grandparents’ house for a late dinner, and on the way he fell asleep in the car. Perfect! My husband drove while we rocked out to our favorite music and the boy slept in the back.

When we finally made it to the concert, we blasted the radio, playing “Viva la Vida”, waking the boy up. His eyes were wide, alarmed. “Wake up! Wake up! Let’s go man! We’re at the Coldplay concert!” My husband was having fun with this.

“Yeeeeaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” my son roared. He was clearly psyched.

We had an awesome time. I kept looking over at my little boy, now as tall as me, singing, clapping, cheering, feeling the emotions that one feels when totally surrounded by music and people. People from all over were there, yet everyone seemed to be from the same place, feeling the same joy. There’s nothing like music to make you feel like the world will be OK.

On the way home, 1:00 in the morning, my son said, “I’ll never forget this night.” Me neither, kid. You, me, and the music.

A place is home when you make it yours

I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.
Yo siempre me había imaginado al Paraíso como una especie de biblioteca.
– Jorge Luis Borges

Several months ago, I lost my second home. My favorite bookstore, Borders, was closed down to poor sales. Funny, I thought my little family and I had done our part to keep the place running; we spent almost hundreds there on a monthly basis. Either folks didn't read enough, or another chain was too big to compete with, and my favorite bookstore shut down forever.

That store was our Friday night hang-out. It was where I read and purchased the bulk of my teacher resources and satisfied my ever-growing desire for Hispanic literature. I discovered Indian authors there, and soon began my exploration of writings from other cultures. We discovered all sorts of new music at that store, and spent many contented evenings at the little tables, sipping coffee. My husband was fond of the place as well, as he was always able to satisfy his ever-evolving interests there.

We practically raised our son at this store. In fact, during my pregnancy, I retreated to the bookstore to pore over childbirth and baby-name books, sipping on slushy frozen coffee. When my boy was born, we took his little infant self to the store every week, in a carriage stocked with baby paraphernalia, and spent hours there, while he slept. The bottom of the carriage was ideal for carrying our purchases, which included baby board books, mothering magazines, and more glimpses of the world for me to read.

As our boy grew, so too did his love for books. At one and two, he immediately recognized the place and used his baby words to say he wanted to go to the children’s section. One of my most treasured memories is that of my husband, tall and husky, sitting on the carpeted steps, holding our son in his lap, reading to him, the baby pointing his little finger at the pictures. As he got older, the little guy would calmly sit in his stroller browsing through books he had selected.

Around the age of four or so, my son discovered super heroes, and so ventured to another section of the store. The books there were bigger, and heavier! We have a photo of him, sitting on a small step stool in the comics section, holding a rather large Marvel Comics History book. The intensity and interest in his face remain priceless. My son grew and changed; so too did his taste in books, from reptiles to cowboys, knights and castles to sports, Matt Christopher to Harry Potter. As soon as Friday rolled around, he would ask, “Can we go to the bookstore tonight?”

I took the closing of this treasured place very, very hard. On our last night there, we purchased at a huge discount what would be our last Borders books. My son, now 11, was intrigued by the stacks and stacks of books, toppling over, everything in disarray, folks grabbing and tossing, and the long lines. There was no more scent of coffee brewing, no subtle jazz music playing, and nowhere could you see a soul reading.

In the car, I fell apart. I cried as if someone had left me or died. My boys just sat silently as I sobbed. I stared back in the rear view mirror and lingered at the sight of the lit-up red letters and the large wooden doors as we drove away.

There are other Borders stores a few towns away, and of course Barnes & Noble sits just five minutes from here. But still. It’ll never be the same.

Una semana en el paraíso

After a long, lovely week in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, I'm back home. Crossing the state line back in to Jersey felt good, as it always does after a trip. Home is, after all, home. This was the yearly big family vacation, spent with my mom and dad, sisters and brother, and their families. You can imagine what 20 souls living together feels and sounds like; in the moment, it can be chaotic, overwhelming, exciting, and loud. Very loud. Now that it's over, I feel a little no sé qué. I miss having mi gente right there, close.

We were lounging in our beach chairs, enjoying our last day by the ocean, watching the kids play, thinking about the long drive back. I was also internally stressing over all the things I had to do when I got home, the back-to-school clothes shopping, appointments, the loads of laundry, setting up my classroom, the diet I need to start, and the work I need to complete before the first day of school, when a scraggly old guy walked by and paused near us. I waved to him, he waved back. He inched closer, and said something to my brother-in-law, who immediately engaged him with a "How you doin'?" The guy replied simply, "Another day in paradise!" and walked on his way, stopping every now and then to take a picture of a sand crab, a sandpiper, a crashing wave, the rubble of a sand castle.

Thank you, scraggly guy with the bandanna and camera, for reminding me how lucky I was to enjoy a week with the people I love most in the world. Thank you for reminding me that our kids are growing up fast and that they are, still, kids. Thank you for reminding me that moments like these are becoming less frequent, when we can all be together, all of us in one place. Thank you for reminding me to be grateful. Thank you for reminding me that it was indeed, paradise.

This time is on loan

(This is a translation of yesterday's post.)

Mi único hijo cumplirá 12 años en noviembre, y me encuentro pensando en el tiempo que ha pasado tan rapidamente. Tal como lo hacen muchas madres, quisiera poder regresar y hacer tantas cosas de nuevo; esta madre ha cometido muchos errores en el camino. Al querer ser esposa, madre, y profesional, quizás no he podido balancear las cosas lo suficiente.

Mientras completé mi tésis, enseñé a mis alumnos de cuarto grado, organizé un programa de asistencia para padres, dirigí un programa escolar los sábados por la mañana, presenté talleres y dí presentaciones, defendí la educación bilingüe, y hasta trabajé en Washington como cabildera – mi pequeño hijo ha estado creciendo rapidamente. Aunque hayan las personas que dirán “pobre niño” y “qué madre más mala” cuando piensen en mí, espero que de alguna manera, algún día, mi hijo verá que su madre andaba hacienda cosas valiosas durante su tiempo aquí.

Claro, siempre lamentaré algunos de esos momentos que me los perdí…

“I’m busy right now” said the mother to her small child.
“I have a lot to do.
Don’t you see I have to clean, wash, and organize?
Don’t you understand I have to
write and complete this report,
sign and send these forms,
revise and edit these papers,
and fulfill all of these responsibilities?”

The boy replied,
“I just want to play with you,
draw and paint for a while,
walk to the park,
kick the ball in the yard
or ride bikes.”

Just the same, the woman found a way to avoid it
as she got involved in her busy-ness, not realizing
there was something more important to do.

That boy, so clever,
made up his own stories, read books,
played with his imagination,
created costumes and constructed scenes,
and even invented friends to keep him company.

She always praised him.
“Son, you are so beautiful,
so quiet and calm.
You know how to behave.
You don’t bother anybody.
You entertain yourself wonderfully.

Come here, let me give you a kiss.”

“No mother. I’m too old for that stuff.
Besides, I have a lot to do.”

El tiempo es prestado

My only child will be 12 in November and I often find myself thinking back to this time that has passed so quickly. As many mothers do, I wish I could take back and do over so many things; this mom made a lot of mistakes along the way. In wanting to be a wife, mother, and professional, I may have not done the best job of balancing it all.

While I worked on a thesis, taught my 4th grade students, organized a Parent Outreach program, ran a Saturday Morning School, traveled out of state, presented workshops and gave presentations, advocated for bilingual education, and even made it to Capitol Hill as a lobbyist - my little boy was growing fast. Though there are some that may say "poor kid" and "bad mom" when they think of me, I have to believe that in some way, some day, my son will see that his mother did good things during her time here.

Of course, I will always lament some of those little moments I missed out on...

“Es que no tengo tiempo” dijo la mujer a su pequeño hijo.
“Tengo demasiado que hacer.
¿No ves que tengo que limpiar, lavar, ordenar?
¿No entiendes que tengo que
escribir y completar este reporte,
firmar y enviar estos formularios,
revisar y redactar estos papeles,
y cumplir con tantas responsabilidades?”

El niño respondió,
“Solo quiero jugar contigo,
dibujar y pintar un rato,
caminar al parque,
patear la bola en el patio
o correr en bicicleta.”

Por lo mismo, la mujer encontró la manera de evadirlo
y se metió en sus cosas sin darse cuenta que
había algo más importante que hacer.

Ese niño, tan astuto,
se inventó cuentos, leyó libros,
jugó con la imaginación,
creó disfraces y construyó escenarios,
hasta se inventó unos amigos para que lo acompañen.

Ella, siempre lo alababa.
“Hijo, qué bello que eres,
tan quieto y tranquilo.
Sabes comportarte.
No molestas a nadie.
Te distraes divinamente.

Ven aquí, te daré un beso.”

“No madre. Estoy muy grande para esas cosas.
Además, tengo demasiado que hacer.”

Aspirar = Inhale

The Spanish word aspira is a cognate, and means "aspire" in English, as in reaching toward something, setting your sights on a goal, or having high expectations. Aspirar also means "to inhale" - which I had to remind myself to do today.

No importan los detalles - the details are unimportant. What matters is I'm reminded to apreciar lo que tengo, be grateful for what I have. Breathe, and realize that everything is actually good just as it is right now.

Family, health, a good cup of coffee, a good piece of bread, a book, some music, y aspirando el aire fresco de la mañana - its all good. That other thing I want - if its meant to be, cool. If not, that's cool too.

A mother grows up

Lately it seems I'm not doing anything right.
My mouth tries loud words to make you hear,
my face betrays feelings that tear me up,
my eyes are too easy to overflow.
One moment we're laughing
and you're playfully nudging me, wanting a hug.
You've even reached for my hand in the parking lot.
And then, the cloud comes,
you scowl and roll your eyes.
You don't say it but you can't stand me.

So I hold on to a time when I was just right.
You were small and my lap was the place you looked for.
Your curly head fit under my chin
and I imagined what it would be like when you got taller.

Now, we can look straight into each other's faces
but not see eye-to-eye.
This is to be expected, they say.
I'll get through this phase -
just as long as you come back to me.

(Artwork by Bolivian painter Roberto Mamani Mamani)

Go forward, young super heroes

Tomorrow is the last day of school. It's a half-day and I'm ordering pizza so I'll know you've eaten. We'll have our own awards ceremony and I'll let you raid the supply closet for "stuff" you'll need to keep you busy this summer. I'll invite you to take a book to keep, and then I'll let you in on my secret, special power (a seed I planted back on the 1st day of school.)

I have a satiny black and red cape I made several years ago. I lined the inside with pictures of book covers. You see, I'm BOOK WOMAN. When I see a child who is lost, lonely, or bored, I throw him a book. Our last activity as a class will be to create super-heroes. Who are you? And what are your special powers? I'll tell you, my class, that sometimes, we can just imagine...

In your report cards, I'm including a letter. It goes like this:

Mi querido alumno,

Es el ultimo día de clases, y yá nó nos veremos. Pero quiero que lleves contigo todos los bonitos recuerdos de nuestra clase, de los amigos, las lecciones, los cuentos, y los gratos momentos que pasamos juntos.

Te ruego que leas muchos libros, y que pongas todo tu esfuerzo en los estudios. Yá sabes que la escuela te llevará lejos. Lucha por hacer algo especial en tu vida, por ayudar a los demás, y por llevar a nuestra gente adelante.

Recuerda siempre a la maestra que te quiere mucho. Te deseo lo mejor de la vida.

My dear student,

It's the last day of school, and we will no longer see each other. Take with you the pleasant memories of our class, the friends, the lessons, the stories, and the good times we spent together.

I urge you to read many books, and to put all of your effort in your studies. You already know that school will take you far. Work toward doing something special with your life, toward helping others, and toward taking our people forward.

Always remember the teacher who loves you. I wish you the best in life.

The last day of school is bittersweet. Part of me is relieved, joyous, giddy, excited about sleeping in and chilling out, and looking forward to spending quality time with my son. The other part of me is sad, worried, but hopeful. Being a teacher is helping and loving kids that are not your own, then letting them go and hoping they will find their special powers.

For my father

Pápi
¿recuerdas cuando me llevaste al trabajo
para enseñarme a tus colegas y a tus alumnos?
Me hiciste leer el periódico en voz alta
para que queden asombrados,
pero creo que tú fuiste el que quedó más sorprendido
al ver que tu pequeña hija tenía algo especial
algo de posibilidad
y desde ese momento que ví en tus ojos el orgullo
me dediqué a esforzarme a ser algo
aspirar a más
quise siempre verme de esa manera, iluminada
en tus ojos
todo port tí
papito de mi corazón.

Pápi - gracias por todo...