Tales of a Female Nomad - Book Review

Travel often and live outside your country for a while, if possible.  You'll learn three things. 

1. You can live without many of the objects and comforts you feel are must-haves.
2. People want to connect with you.  They want to share what they have, even when they have little to give.  Eating together and talking are two of the most important activities we can engage in with anyone.
3. You create your own adventures. You just have to be willing to take the first step.

These are just a few points I've internalized from my reading of Tales of a Female Nomad by Rita Golden Gelman.  I enjoyed the book tremendously. 

In her late forties, Gelman embarks on a series of travels around the world.  A successful writer of children's books, Gelman lives a very comfortable life, but something is missing.  She sells her things, and fills a backpack with the most essential items for a journey into the unknown.  She really isn't sure what she is getting into at first.  But once she goes to Mexico, and lives in a Zapotec village... she is hooked on living simply, living with and learning from different people, and experiencing the sights, sounds, and flavors of another culture.  She travels all over the world and stays for months at a time in places like Nicaragua, Israel, the Galapagos Islands, Indonesia, New Zealand, and Thailand.  She even returns often to the US between travels and stays in different places - giving her the valuable opportunity to reconnect with family and build new friendships.

Gelman's descriptions of people and places were excellent.  I felt as if I were traveling with her.  I was especially intrigued by her detailed accounts of meal preparation and sharing in these very different places.  Female Nomad and Friends - Tales of Breaking Free and Breaking Bread Around the World, is Gelman's next book where she "pays homage to the wonders of traveling, connecting, cooking, and eating around the world".  I plan to read that one next.

I've had the opportunity to visit several different states.  I've also traveled often to Bolivia, and I've been to Spain once. (Thanks dad, for igniting the travel flame!)  I hope to have the chance someday to travel more. Maybe I'll even be lucky enough to enjoy an extended stay somewhere where I can work at an elementary school.  Traveling, eating, and teaching around the world... now that would be my dream adventure!

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.

Cleaning is not Living

Esto de limpiar no me gusta –
no tengo tiempo y
hay muchas otras cosas que hacer.
Tampoco me fascinan los productos que compré
para que el trabajo sea más fácil –
once botellas de venenos líquidos,
latas de polvos cáusticos,
organizadas en el espacio debajo del lavaplatos.
Apenas las miro, me desanimo.

¿Por qué hay tanto que hacer?
Pasar aspiradora,
barrer la cocina,
desempolvar,
cambiar las sábanas,
quitar lo quemado del horno,
lavar ropa,
desinfectar el baño,
mapear los pisos,
buscar la mugre que se esconde en cada rincón…
qué aburrido.

¿Quién se distrae con toda esta mierda?

Mejor sería para mí
acomodarme en el sillón con mi gato,
leer mi libro,
mirar las noticias,
o ver alguna película que acaba de salir.
Quiero tomar y gozar de mi café
mientras mire los pájaros por la ventana,
disfrutar un juego de mesa con mi hijo,
tomar una siesta,
escribir…

Pero, tengo que encontrarme
con un trapo en la mano
en este fin de semana.

Mejor lo hago luego.
No vayas a pensar que soy una floja, pues
tengo muchas otras cosas que hacer.

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.

En el medio

The middle sister – a small fairy-like woman
her body is wrapped in the arms and legs of her youngest
who twirls his fingers in her short, black hair
finds comfort in her soft neck
whimpers in pain, wanting

the sister in the middle – a strong, athletic woman
her heart is weakened by the growth spurts of her daughter
who rolls her preteen eyes, pulling at her, and pulling away
tests her mother with words and attitude
shrugs off a reprimand from

the middle sister – a determined, concerned woman
her thoughts are consumed by her own middle child
who flips pages in fishing magazines
squints at big words, trying to please
asks for help at homework time from

the middle child,
who used to make her mother cry and her father’s blood boil
sought attention,
rebelled, then returned as

the middle one – discovered by a man
for the treasure she is

a centered woman now –
pulled in many directions
but her hands reach, touch, fix, and heal
effortlessly
love completely.
She is a warming-core,
the center of family.

Latina Bloggers - ¿Dónde están?

Carrie at Bilingual in the Boonies had the great idea of looking for all the Latina bloggers out there. Thanks to Carrie, I've discovered muchas interesting and inspiring blogs written by Latinas. Please check out Carrie's blog and link up if you are a Latina blogger.

Si pudiera hablar

Me duele la lengua de tanto morderla
la tengo roja y quemante
nadie ve lo gruesa que se me ha hecho
cómo la paro antes que me perjudique.

Las palabras
honestas
quedan
guardadas,
calladas.
Optando por ser gente
no dejo que sepas lo
poco que pienso de tí.

Ves mis labios, mis dientes
pero no creas que te estimo.
Yo también sé jugar ese juego.


My tongue hurts from so much biting
red and burning
no one sees how thick it has become
how I stop it before it gets me in trouble.

Honest words,
remain hidden,
silenced.
Choosing to be polite
I don’t let on
how little I think of you.

You see my lips, my teeth
but don’t think I respect you.
I know how to play that game.

How to Remove a Splinter

My splinter-removing implements are arranged in a row
tweezers, cotton-balls, alcohol, safety pins, Neosporin
you’ve managed to get a huge one stuck up in your heel
and you trust me to remove it
This is love
Please lay face down, hon, diagonal on the bed
so I can work on you here by the light
poor foot
calloused skin
I’ll have to rough you up a bit
but I promise it’ll come out
just hold on, scream in to the pillow if you need to

Several attempts, scraping, piercing, poking, tearing
pulling at an almost microscopic shard
gripping your heel to steady it
I’m hurting you as I’ve done so many times
and you are not angry at me
You wince, your eyes water,
your mouth remains closed

I once thought I’d enjoy making you suffer
(just a little bit)
but now, I want this small evil to be gone.
I feel it when you cringe.
The small wooden needle slides away finally –
no trace left behind.
I’ve fixed you.

I Wear an "S"

Friday evening and I'm feeling fine.

A week of intense lessons, two days of parent teacher conferences, after school programs, loads of paperwork, lesson plans, supervising my own child's homework, taking turns preparing dinner with "el jefe", and fighting the never-ending-sink-full-of-dishes... all of these and the incessant fatigue I try to outsmart and disguise...

I've made it through another week.

On my post "A Superhero Contemplates 40", the wonderful Nardeeisms commented "Cassy, you ARE Superwoman!" MIL GRACIAS for the encouragement, and for sharing a song about how it is.

Click and listen to Alicia Keys singing about women like us, here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xK8t0gP4isE

Latina Book Giveaway!

I’ve just read Houston, We Have a Problema by Gwendolyn Zepeda. This novel was a light-hearted look in to the life of a sassy, young Latina who makes her way through family, work, and love dilemmas. Sprinkled into the story are matters of identity, expectations, culture, and stereotypes, all of which seem to affect the main character’s ability to make sound decisions for herself.

This chick lit book is apparently Zepeda’s first novel. It moved quickly and was a fun read. The main character, Jessica Luna, is a girly-girl who embraces her curves and is proud of who she is. It was entertaining to join Jess during her frequent visits to her psychic, Madame Hortensia. Equally amusing and encouraging are Jess' constant efforts to get what she wants.

Thanks to Literanista, for inviting me to read this book. Be sure to visit her site!

Now, I’ve been given the opportunity to offer a free book giveaway to my readers. Five copies of Houston, We Have a Problema are available, courtesy of Hachette Book Group USA. Please leave a comment to this post by Wednesday, December 10. The first five folks to do so win a book! In your post, tell me you'd like a copy of the book AND share your thoughts (if any) on the terms Hispanic and Latina.

Rules:

You must live in the United States or Canada. No P.O. boxes, please.
So, who wants a copy?

A Super Hero contemplates 40

Her cape is ripped,
snagged on splinters, shredded by glass,
no longer flowing behind her in the wind,
faded from years of flying.
The shine rubbed off a long while ago.
Her sleek unitard has seen better days,
worn in several spots,
threadbare where she least needs it to be.
She doesn’t look quite the same in it,
but it’s black,
disguising flaws
and years of bad eating habits.
The thigh-high boots will have to go soon
though she doesn’t know how low-heeled clogs will go with this look.
Her feet just aren’t the same.

Her vision is failing.
She can’t see through walls as she used to.
They stop her cold, she gives in too easily.
Her steely grip is weakening from arthritis,
easily dropping things she’s been trying to hold on to.

Had Marvel or DC known her,
she would have remained beautiful, strong, powerful, young –
a force to fear.
In the mirror though, she is drained –
fine-lines earned from real work, long hours,
and endless worries.
She sighs, shrugs, downs her morning elixir,
brewed hot and strong,
and heads out, pulling at her tights,
fluffing out her long-flowing black hair,
(she still has that going)
and calls on her will to
get through another day.

So tired, I can't sleep

Nine o’clock, exhausted, ready for bed
so cold, extra blankets
alarm set, good night.
My eyes opened at 11, I remembered the laundry.
I woke again at 12, counted to 239, thought about work.
I saw the clock at 1:34, wondered if it had to do with age?
Flipped the pillow to the cool side,
threw my arm around my husband at 1:55,
and mulled over an argument.
Counted to three hundred something
and saw green glowing at 2:46,
considered where to stop for gas in the morning.
Unwrapped myself from too-warm covers at 3:50,
tugged at the comforter again around 4:44,
mentally rearranged the next day’s class schedule.
Sirens! Screaming! Beeping!
Fumbled for the button at 5:30,
hit snooze, not so gently, for just 10 more precious minutes.

An afternoon swim

Rainy day weekends command naps
and she is more than willing to oblige
once the clock shows 2 or 3
or after lunch, when her insides are full and warm.
She bids farewell to the others, and calls up to her bed
“I’m on my way!”
gathering up her book as she climbs to her room,
her quiet heaven.
She slips off her daily clothes, folds them neatly and places them
on a nearby chair, for later,
then reaches under her pillow for the softest nightshirt,
stretching her arms as the comforting worn cotton falls around her shoulders.
Pulling the covers away, she wants to jump in,
but won’t disturb the cat, already blissfully asleep.
Carefully, precisely, she climbs in, and lays down,
opening her book to the part where the boy and his horse
ride into the ocean and swim with the dolphins.
While she reads
her feet rub against each other rhythmically
remnants of a child’s self-soothing habit
and after two or three pages
her eyes begin to grow heavy
and the rain calls her to sleep
the book falls away,
and the breeze lifts the curtains.
The rains sing and soothe
as she swims away.

Blue jeans for breast cancer awareness

Tomorrow is National Lee Denim Day. Wear your jeans and make a donation to help find a cure for breast cancer.

I'm an eight-year survivor. My grandmother and aunt have also survived. I've lost a coworker to the disease, and several other women I know have been through some kind of scare after finding a lump or receiving the results of a mammogram.

I was 33 when I was diagnosed, and my son was just four. I worked summer school that year. There were many times when, due to scheduling conflicts and my family living far way, I had no place to leave him, so I had to take him along with me after school to the hospital for my daily radiation treatment. Picture me in one of those awful open-backed gowns, asking the ladies in the waiting room to keep an eye on him while I went in to the "chamber". My little boy sat on the floor with his coloring book and crayons and sat patiently, while several kind-hearted women of various ages and different stages of illness watched over him for me. I remember those good, strong women and offer up a good wish for them, wherever they may be.

Please share the Lee National Denim Day link with family, friends, and coworkers - and donate to this urgent cause. May our mothers, sisters, daughters, and girlfriends see a future without breast cancer.

Breaking off a piece

It works like magic
on your insides,
the parts suppressed by adulthood,
your center, your soul,
the hideaway you keep.

It loves you -
a brief respite from daily matters
that makes you smile,
intense on your tongue,
curiously erotic,
making your eyelids flutter and
filling you sweetly,
kisses melting on your tongue
soothing every imaginable pain.

You forget
for a moment
where, what, why.
The treasure of the Amazon
has become your delicious secret.

Ha!
That’s why women I know have buried
Russel Stover in their lingerie drawer
Whitman’s in their desk
and Hershey in their handbag.

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.”

Latina Book Review: Border-Line Personalities

Border-line Personalities proved to be a great read. Topics such as mother-daughter relationships, family secrets, being bilingual, ethnic pride and denial, raising kids, sexuality, love, and careers are all discussed by 20 different Latina writers. Although the viewpoints presented in this collection of essays are varied, there is a clear sense of some commonality among Latinos.

Several points hit home for me in this book. One of them, el qué dirán (the "what will they think/say") is so prevalent in the lives of Latinas; many of us are raised by a mami who warns us not to embarrass her, the family, and ourselves by "non-traditional" or "unacceptable" behaviors and decisions. This proves to be a source of internal conflict for Latinas who struggle to be true to their more modern and independent, American selves.

Another topic that emerged in these selections was that of labeling and stereotypes. Often, we are incorrectly called Spanish, when in fact some of us are immigrants from or descendants of Mexico, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Chile, Argentina, and all of the other Spanish-speaking countries that form Central and South America. Many of us are born in the United States. When I'm asked "what are you?" (yes, people do ask) I reply that I am American-born, and that my parents are Bolivian. I identify with both cultures. I speak Spanish, but I am not Spanish.

One of the essays reminded me of a disappointing conversation I suffered with my college roommate many years ago. She seemed to think I was a "good" Hispanic because I did not "act like one". I remember her saying something about "those people", and how I didn't look like them, or "talk fast" like them.

So what is this term Latina all about? For me, and the writers in Border-Line Personalities, it's a feeling, an outlook, an attitude, a way of life, a source of pride. Latinas relate to each other on another level because of the way we've been raised, the similarities in our different cultures, because of what is expected of us, and because of the way we're perceived in the greater picture of American life. Latinas continue to redefine themselves while also contributing positively to the forward movement of their families and their communities.

Want to read this book? I'll be glad to send it to you. Comment on this post by Monday, August 4, and mention if you are interested in receiving my well-kept copy. I will select a winner and mail the book to you.

Packing - Escape

Girlfriend has an idea, she just hasn’t told anyone yet
She’s gonna take her money, put it away in the
Banco Independiente
out of his reach
She’s gonna sign her real name, the one her dad gave her,
to the papers and
she’s gonna pack some bags and get the hell outta there
Stuff the back seat of her new little car she
bought with her pay
Pack her suitcases and boxes of books
crates of CDs and DVDs of her music, her movies
She’s gonna yank her sheets, her blankets, her towels
from the closet, and the bed, yeah
and from that tiny little kitchen where she
poured her heart into his meals
she’s gonna grab the dishes her mother gave her
the pressure cooker she saved up for
the expensive set of pots and pans she thought she'd need for this life
and the fancy wine glasses he never bothered to court her with
wrap them all fast and stuff them in a box
she can do all this, while he’s out at work
(at least that’s where he says he is
but the hours he keeps are not work hours, ya know?)
So when he leaves, she’ll get it all done
she'll move quickly
and once she’s set
she’ll take baby’s things and stuff them all in two huge baskets
and pack a diaper bag with the most essential items
she’ll need for the drive
last thing she’ll take
will be his son, while he’s softly sleeping in his crib
she’ll wrap him in his daddy’s jacket -
the last thing she’s gonna take

If the flip-flop fits

A few weeks ago, before school was over, I was assessing the state of my summer footwear. I figured I would probably need a pair or two of new sandals, for work and for going out. I also thought I’d need a new pair of flip-flops for hanging out around the house and for quick excursions and running errands. I like to make sure I have a couple of comfortable options that will go with everything, especially for those hot and humid days when the thought of wearing anything on my feet makes me cringe.

Since we live in a small house, we keep our clothes stored in the attic in huge plastic bins and switch them from season to season. The same goes for our shoes. When I went to the attic to pull a blue Rubbermaid bin marked “Summer Shoes”, it felt heavy as I lugged it in to the bedroom to get a better look. I removed the lid and was assaulted by the stale smell of plastic and rubber. I immediately recognized two pairs of flip-flops belonging to my husband, one with leather straps, and the other with a canvas/mesh strap and college logo. Next to these were my son’s flip-flops – one pair was the cheap, dollar-store rubber kind, the other pair was a nicer natural jute-strapped pair.

Underneath the guy’s stuff were my summer shoes. I felt pleased as I took out three different pairs of black sandals in varying heights, one light-brown pair, a pair of red flats, and two pairs of white, mule-style, slip-on sneakers. They all looked pretty good for another season and I decided there was no hurry to buy new stuff. I could certainly make these all work with my summer outfits.

There was more in the bin. I retrieved:

1 pair of green and black top-sole, black cord strap flip-flops
1 pair of all-black, micro-suede top-sole, sporty flip-flops
1 pair of black, straw top-sole, with Svarovski-like beaded strap flip-flops
1 pair of black and white flowered canvas strap flip-flops
1 pair of red strap, sporty flip-flops
1 pair of suede top-sole, silver and gold braided strap flip-flops
1 pair of straw top-sole, denim-style strap flip-flops
1 pair of blue and white strap, mesh top-sole, sporty flip-flops
1 pair of blue and white flowers with see-through strap rubber flip-flops
1 pair of standard, dollar-store, purple rubber flip-flops
1 black and pink rubber flip-flop, missing its mate

I think I have a flip-flop addiction. My husband says I’m just cheap.