Writing Truths

I had a great evening with my sister, son, and husband. Gathered at the dinner table our conversation led us to the indigenous languages of Nahuatl, Yacutec Maya, and Purépecha. We candidly spoke about what it's like when you're American and one of your parents was born on foreign soil, what that means as far as identity and connection and how people treat you differently on both turfs even though either will go to great lengths to prove otherwise. 

We spoke of travel, education, and culture.  My son worked on his mathematics and reading homework.  We asked him if he learned about Columbus.  He said he had learned a bit about Columbus, but the teachers were sure to tell him that Columbus did not discover America.  A fact that I was proud was being taught to my fifth grader.  This could also be respective to the area in Texas where we reside.

It was a beautiful evening as we wrapped up the conversation and the laughter when we took it outside to water the matas (plants).  It reminded me of being at my grandmothers.  How each evening we'd spend long hours at her home and she'd take us outside in one sweeping gesture so that she could water her dear plants.  The conversation always turned lighthearted and carefree as she spoke about different plants and different animals that attacked her plants.  

I found myself in a pleasant déjà vu last night.  I am becoming the matriarch in small and careful steps as God wills it.  Stories continue to riddle my lips and l find it is my duty to keep these stories alive in the best way I know how, speaking and writing my truth.  

Pajarito, A Storyteller

I find random items in my yard while regando las matas. I imagine the birds make their way to my fence and bring stories of other yards along with them. They drop pieces of plastic, ties, ropes, nails, cardboard, leaves, pecans, grass clippings, branches, and seeds.

Each item is an adventure entertained by these pajaros as they make their way around the neighborhood. On occasion, I find a feather or two. Perhaps, a territorial move to prove that they own a particular piece of the barrio. Stealing stories for each other and conquering tales of other birds, they litter the ground with new cuentos that can be told en la mañanita. 

“Y los pajaritos cantan, la luna ya se metió...”

Off Social Media Production

Sometimes it begs to be told in different colors.

Writing everyday.

The Fabric Of Books In Our Lives

Often, I find that literature bridges a divide between me and someone with which I might not otherwise have anything in common.  Books have always been my escape yet, in recent years, they have become a platform of understanding between someone of a different world view or a different country altogether. 

This weekend I noticed a woman pronouncing her W’s as V’s and wondered if she was Russian or German or if she was just pressing through a speech impediment.  My mind became hooked on how we say Volkswagen, but it is really pronounced Volksvaguhn.  From there, my mind darted off into thinking she was maybe Romanian and that she grew up in Germany and made her way to the states as an adult becoming a teacher of cultural studies.  Her hands and how she carefully placed her eyes on things told me otherwise.  Maybe she was Slavic. 

I am enraptured by language.  This has only come about because of a Linguistics course I took in college years ago where I couldn’t stop finding ways to use fricatives, labiodentals, glottal stops, interdentals, and nasals in sentences.  For years, after the course, I analyzed ways of forming words in my mouth only to tell people that what I was saying had a Gaelic or Germanic root.  It was the most fun I had ever had with words.  A lot of what I learned in that class has been lost; however, I can refer to certain file cabinets in my mind and remember some of the more exciting elements of this linguistics creature.

I could spend hours listening to this woman speak or trying to decipher from what country was her accent.  This is where forming a bridge from one world to another is all the result of reading.  I approached her gently.

I imagined she may have been sitting in a garden, curious and timid.  The years pressed into her skin and her stories far hidden in her throat.  With each swallow she pushed one story down to bring to the surface another story – her arm outstretched to her blind daughter. 

“May I ask what country your accent is from?”  I never dare to ask, what country are you from? because I think it to be terribly rude to assume someone is not from America just because of their accent.  Her eyes lit up as if someone was asking her to dance.  Indeed, we would dance, but not with our feet.   

“Iran.  I am from Iran.”

“From Tehran?” I pressed.

Joy overtook her face.  The fluorescent lightbulbs from the ceiling were now visible in her eyes. “Yes, but vy?  Howv do you know?  You have been there?  I am surprised you know this place.”  A connection.

“No, I have not been there.  I read a book by Nafisi.  Reading Lolita in Tehran.  It is the only exposure I have had to Iran.”  A book she had surely heard of.  I hoped.

“Dr. Nafisi!  Yes!  Such a good book.”   I had now entered her curious garden and if she offered tea, I would joyfully oblige.

We continued our talk and my husband joined us as did his aunt whom informed us on how she had met this incredible woman.  She offered me stories as a friend would offer tea.  I humbly accepted.  I feel inclined to share her stories with you, but it is not rightfully my place quite yet.  I hope it is not the last of our encounters. 

Snapshots: Day 1 National Poetry Month

Day 1 prompt for National Poetry Month, 2015

On mornings I wake with my son

I am disarmed by his hummingbird kisses

I wear them with me as

Flowers wear the sun that crystallizes

On their garment petals

My daughter provokes laughter

That can be heard as poetry in motion

Giggles of words scribbled

On a dry erase board, she takes

Exasperated breaths as her tears cake

To her rosy cheeks

I quickly reach for my journal

To write about the images my children

Invoke in me, a pinwheel of colors

Layered onto my brown skin

Each continues to tell a new story

With their touch and their stare

Similar to books packed into boxes I

Line the kitchen sink with

Coffee crusted mugs recently

Pregnant swells of bellies filled with

Horchata latte like the ones at Barrio Barista

It is time to move and fill the walls

With new stories

Ms. Olga

A few days ago, as we sat at the Pig Stand on Broadway having a fruitful conversation on food, life, and happenings, a sweet woman whom sat behind my fiancé slid out of her booth and turned slowly to tell me, “Never get old, mija.”

She was a sweet older woman.  She shared her Senior Times and advised me about bad knees.  She was so inviting, tired, curious and spoke in a low tone.  Stories developed on her tongue; however, she tamed them and we never heard them.  Her eyes searched us as she asked, “Are you all a couple?  A married couple or just boyfriend and girlfriend?  You two are such a beautiful couple.”  She offered a smile and a dim shine in her eyes.  I lifted my hand to show her, “We just got engaged!”  Her body melted and she motioned to hug the both of us, slowly and carefully.  “Love each other the way you do now and you will last forever.”  Kind advice from, “My name is Olga.”  We introduced ourselves in return and listened as she gently spoke about having dinner and having had three glasses of wine prior to her meal.  “I had to get a bite in me.” She neither struck me as a drunk nor a woman out to have a good time.  I wondered where she’d been.  It may not have been home.  Wherever she was headed, she didn’t seem to want to go there.  Alone. 

Photo from squar3one.blogspot.com 

We offered to pay for her dinner and her eyes welled with tears.  The gesture took her breath away.  I had to pry the ticket from her hands careful not to give her a paper cut.  She didn’t know what to say to us, but she brought her hand to her heart and managed, “Thank you.  Oh, God bless you.”  My heart momentarily sank as I realized that perhaps no one had ever done this for her or it wasn’t something she expected from the world. 

We weren’t supposed to be at the Pig Stand.  We had already had dinner elsewhere and were satisfied.  I suggested coffee because I know it leads to long conversations with my love.  We sat behind a woman that we never saw enter the restaurant or did we notice her as we sat in our booth.   I don’t know Ms. Olga’s story only that she lives in the Palo Alto neighborhood and that she was far from home at the Pig Stand on Broadway.  Daily, we encounter people with stories that are not ours and somehow manage to connect.  It is representative of who we are as a people.  There we are en las caras de los ancianos. 

Be blessed, Ms. Olga, wherever you go.     

Family Tree

Before we find peace

We find sticks

Use them as weapons 

Before collecting them 

To build something more

We pry open tombs

Wage wars within ourselves

Then blame it on the tomb