My sister has this black jeep. My dad advised her not to buy it, because they get stolen pretty easily. But hey. She looks good driving around in that jeep. It suited her well, so she bought it while living in Denver. Ellen has lived in DC now for a few years and every morning when she walks out to her car two thoughts cross her mind. 1. Will my car be there? 2. If it is there, will my car’s windows be broken? That’s city living people. I guess it makes us all a little rough around the edges but keeps us real. People in this city love to break into or steal my sister’s jeep. I don’t know if its just bad luck or they like to pick on Ellen over and over. A few months ago she came out to find her jeep was gone. A few kids came and took it for a joy ride. Then they left it to have the cops come find the car. They didn’t take anything but a couple pieces of juicy fruit. I mean at least that was considerate of joy riders. My sister did have some good Cds and a sweet pair of sunglasses at the time in her car. So that made her a little less mad-their thoughtfulness of sorts. One day a month or so after that event she comes outside to find someone came and smashed her little side back window. Now she is pissed. I mean its raining slightly and that little back window is going to cost a few hundred dollars to get fixed. Not only that but it’s the crack of dawn and she has to go into work with little sleep to deliver a baby. It is a moment of bad karma with the world. Swearing she gets in her car and tapes the back window with a plastic bag. She almost felt like leaving a little note. Hello stranger. Please stop breaking into my car. Stop taking it for joy rides. Honestly, I don’t mean to be rude but its getting old. Thank you. I told her most people aren’t as rational as her and the note probably wouldn’t work. She left the car like that for a couple weeks as a gesture toward bad luck. Sometimes its good to just be mad at the world and how things happen. Just for a few days. Then you get out your citicard and get a new back window. Well a week after she is riding around with her little black garbage bag taped to her window she comes to find that someone has gently pried the tape off. Someone has been in her car. She searches the car carefully. Things seem in place. I mean its not like she’s keeping much in there anyway. I mean get wise right. But she knows someone has been in there. She has a sixth sense about it these days. Ellen then notices her gym shoes under her seat have been pulled out. In them she had a new pair of white gym socks. They are gone. And in their place are a pair of OLD brown dirty gym socks. They are resting inside her shoe-folded carefully. She knows it must be a homeless man looking for a fresh pair of socks. He has the decency to try to make a trade of sorts but leaving his old pair behind. Seeing this she’s almost not mad, she kind of wants to leave a new note: Sock Taker, If you want me to get a eight pack of white new socks for you. I will. Just let me know where I can drop them off. Its like can’t we all make a pact with each other.
A way to make better karma in this crazy place. Getting in her car, she pulls away, the black garbage bag flapping in the air as she goes.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Family to Which I Belong: A childhood story
A Childhood Story
I grew up in a family of five. I had this friend who lived across the street. She grew up in a family of four. They were a lot like us and very different from my family. We ran around our neighborhood with bare feet, our moms let us stay out late to play night games in the summer, we had good Catholic values, and we both had boy hair cuts as little kids. There were some things that were a little different. Molly had air conditioning and I didn’t. Molly had cupboards of snacks. Especially fruit roll-ups. And her mom baked with her. It wasn’t that my mom didn’t bake with me; it was that she had a lot of other stuff going on. I was the youngest in my family and my mom was rushing everyone to and from every which way. There were a lot of moms like Molly’s in my neighborhood. They baked and puffy painted their kids names on sweatshirts. They were the ones who came on all the field trips and organized the book fairs. In ways I think I wanted that. I was young and unaware that my mother was not a mould and now looking back I loved that she didn’t conform to all the expectations of my hometown. She was a journalist, a mother, an activist for the Catholic Church; she was many things other than just my mother. Of course this is hard to understand as a little kid. Until you are an adult and respect the importance of trying to hold onto yourself.
This one day I went across the street to see if Molly could play. I rang her bell and she came sliding down the hall in her slippery soccer socks. “Do you want to play dolls?” I asked.
“I can’t today,” she replied effortlessly. “My mom and I are baking a double chocolate cake.”
I could feel the cold air spilling through the screen door. Oh how I longed to go inside her house! At least for the cold air if for nothing else! I sighed and shrugged, “OK,” and I skipped away. I sat down on my back step and thought about how mad I was at Molly whipping up batter with her mom. My mom was probably working her part time job. My eye lids flapped furiously like a pair of angry birds. Then and there I decided I would make my own cake!
I was no more than nine and had no clue how to embark on such a task. I got out a big zip block bag and opened our cabinet. I grabbed some flour, sugar, baking soda, a few eggs, a splash of milk, and some chocolate chips. I poured it all in the bag. I dug my hand in our utensil draw and got out a big wooden spoon. Then I collapsed on the back step, the big bag pulling at my arms, and began stirring the glop together. I could feel the tears resting in the back of my eyes, but I quickly pushed them away in anger. I didn’t need a mom to bake cakes and puffy paint bows for my hair, I thought. I poured the mystery soup into a pan and put it in the oven.
Turning the dial, the oven began heating up. I knelt and stared at it. The kitchen began filling with a strange aroma-not burnt, but not flavorful. Suddenly, my older sister came through the door and saw me staring at the oven door. “What are you doing?!” she screamed. She flipped open the oven door quickly pushing me out of the way. Ellen grabbed oven mitts and whipped the pan onto the stove top. “What were you thinking baking all by yourself??!” I began crying then and said, “I just wanted to bake a cake too…like Molly.” She looked at me, her skinny brown boy hair cutted sister with wide blue eyes staring at her; glop all over the front of my rainbow sleeveless shirt. “Just because her mom bakes a cake with her doesn’t mean she is a better mom. If you want to bake a cake just ask next time.” She sighed and a smirk rolled onto her face. She handed me a fork and we took a bite of the half baked creation on the back step. It was disgusting. We spit it out in the grass and began laughing.
My mom then burst through the door with groceries and Little Ceaser’s pizza. We screamed with excitement and tore the pizza lid off. She looked at the destroyed kitchen, looked at me, then my sister. “I won’t even ask what happened here!” We burst out laughing then, my tears dried, and burned our tongues as we bit into a piece of pizza. Childhood is like that. We want our neighbor’s lives, until later, we look back and see how much we truly were destined to be born into the very family that is our own.
I grew up in a family of five. I had this friend who lived across the street. She grew up in a family of four. They were a lot like us and very different from my family. We ran around our neighborhood with bare feet, our moms let us stay out late to play night games in the summer, we had good Catholic values, and we both had boy hair cuts as little kids. There were some things that were a little different. Molly had air conditioning and I didn’t. Molly had cupboards of snacks. Especially fruit roll-ups. And her mom baked with her. It wasn’t that my mom didn’t bake with me; it was that she had a lot of other stuff going on. I was the youngest in my family and my mom was rushing everyone to and from every which way. There were a lot of moms like Molly’s in my neighborhood. They baked and puffy painted their kids names on sweatshirts. They were the ones who came on all the field trips and organized the book fairs. In ways I think I wanted that. I was young and unaware that my mother was not a mould and now looking back I loved that she didn’t conform to all the expectations of my hometown. She was a journalist, a mother, an activist for the Catholic Church; she was many things other than just my mother. Of course this is hard to understand as a little kid. Until you are an adult and respect the importance of trying to hold onto yourself.
This one day I went across the street to see if Molly could play. I rang her bell and she came sliding down the hall in her slippery soccer socks. “Do you want to play dolls?” I asked.
“I can’t today,” she replied effortlessly. “My mom and I are baking a double chocolate cake.”
I could feel the cold air spilling through the screen door. Oh how I longed to go inside her house! At least for the cold air if for nothing else! I sighed and shrugged, “OK,” and I skipped away. I sat down on my back step and thought about how mad I was at Molly whipping up batter with her mom. My mom was probably working her part time job. My eye lids flapped furiously like a pair of angry birds. Then and there I decided I would make my own cake!
I was no more than nine and had no clue how to embark on such a task. I got out a big zip block bag and opened our cabinet. I grabbed some flour, sugar, baking soda, a few eggs, a splash of milk, and some chocolate chips. I poured it all in the bag. I dug my hand in our utensil draw and got out a big wooden spoon. Then I collapsed on the back step, the big bag pulling at my arms, and began stirring the glop together. I could feel the tears resting in the back of my eyes, but I quickly pushed them away in anger. I didn’t need a mom to bake cakes and puffy paint bows for my hair, I thought. I poured the mystery soup into a pan and put it in the oven.
Turning the dial, the oven began heating up. I knelt and stared at it. The kitchen began filling with a strange aroma-not burnt, but not flavorful. Suddenly, my older sister came through the door and saw me staring at the oven door. “What are you doing?!” she screamed. She flipped open the oven door quickly pushing me out of the way. Ellen grabbed oven mitts and whipped the pan onto the stove top. “What were you thinking baking all by yourself??!” I began crying then and said, “I just wanted to bake a cake too…like Molly.” She looked at me, her skinny brown boy hair cutted sister with wide blue eyes staring at her; glop all over the front of my rainbow sleeveless shirt. “Just because her mom bakes a cake with her doesn’t mean she is a better mom. If you want to bake a cake just ask next time.” She sighed and a smirk rolled onto her face. She handed me a fork and we took a bite of the half baked creation on the back step. It was disgusting. We spit it out in the grass and began laughing.
My mom then burst through the door with groceries and Little Ceaser’s pizza. We screamed with excitement and tore the pizza lid off. She looked at the destroyed kitchen, looked at me, then my sister. “I won’t even ask what happened here!” We burst out laughing then, my tears dried, and burned our tongues as we bit into a piece of pizza. Childhood is like that. We want our neighbor’s lives, until later, we look back and see how much we truly were destined to be born into the very family that is our own.
Obama for President.
I have been feeling like a grown up more than ever. With my boyfriend searching for an architect job in a terrible economy, living in a city with the highest sales tax, and high gas prices (unless I want to pump around the neighborhood I work...which I did once and would not recommend), I am beginning to feel the effects of adulthood. You can feel the tension in the air which is something I've never experienced before. Everyone looks stressed, just walking down the street, you can see it, painted over their faces. Distraught. Worried.
So this election was pretty important. I think our country could use a little more spirit these days-a new found soul to help us get our beat back. The night of the election my sister and I went with 100,000 other people down to Grant Park. The city of Chicago was lit up and glowing. The line to get in stretched for miles down the closed city streets. We stood in line hoping to inch up, to get closer, to be part of what many of us had been waiting for so long. Cells phone stuck to people's ears trying to keep up with which way each state would go. We finally go in and we began to run. There ahead was Grant Park and CNN screen was blaring through the air. Finally we reached the grassy field and we stood and looked around. I was surrounded by a sea of people. Black people, White People, Asian, Indian, those who spoke English, Spanish, French, or other, rich, poor, middle class, homeless, almost homeless, young, middle aged, old, freshly born. Here we stood together and there was this sense of anticipation on every one's faces. Like when I a kid and would wait at my front door at 6:15 each night anticipating that moment-when my dad would turn down the corner from the bus and home from work. I knew he would come, but every night I had this tiny moment, like maybe he wouldn't. And tonight, it felt like that. Like we expected something good, but yet knowing it something could happen.
I stood in my high heeled boots for five hours, and I expected to stand out for many more. I couldn't help but think about the way my mom would describe how she felt when JFK became president. And although Obama is his own being, in ways for the first time I identified with my mom. I wanted him to win so badly, for me, for my students, for our country. For those kids who will now know that an African American can be president, or that it doesn't matter what your race/gender but rather who is most qualified and entrusted, to those who can restore trust in our nation's leader, to Europeans and other countries who can restore faith in the U.S.'s ability to change and learn from our mistakes, and to those who need to regain hope in themselves and what America can offer.
I believe Obama will put some life back into the soul of this nation. I know he will make mistakes and things will not magically change overnight. But for me, he is the person I trust to turn things around. As I reflected, suddenly there it was, the announcement, he had won. I stared around me as the crowd cheered and screamed. I could hardly believe my eyes. It happened so fast and my heart lifted. The crowd was wild with joy, but in such a mellow and peaceful way. We sang and high-fived and awaited Obama to come out on stage. Finally there he was before us greeting us and as we listened to his words I knew that yes, yes we can.
We drifted home that night with the city streets closed to the waves of people trying to make it home. To those we may have voted McCain or those we voted Obama, the point is we are one country and we can unify. It was late and I had to be up soon for work, and as I sat on the El awaiting my Western stop, exhaustion rested under my eyes. It was one of the first times I felt so happy to feel so exhausted. I looked out at the city lights and awaited home.
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