tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132928072024-03-13T12:42:52.431-07:00mad organicaDiz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.comBlogger426125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-41847693376985849122020-12-04T09:39:00.002-08:002020-12-04T11:25:58.868-08:00Hi<p> I’m rubbing my finger down the patterned, table runner I bought in Mexico City on my birthday 2 years ago. I turned 51 then. It’s fuchsia and royal blue and orange and green, woven with hands. It’s exactly what I had wanted. I had taken Maya to Mexico City as a graduation present, when she finished Cal State Monterey Bay, the first of anyone in my family to walk the stage and earn a degree. It was a huge deal. The trip coincided with my birthday. And it was the trip of a lifetime. I can’t wait to parcel out details of that trip, but on my birthday, we went to a craft mart with kiosks. It was empty because we had gotten there early. The linoleum tiles shined and all the blankets and clothing were tightly folded, and the bags and plates and glasses were neatly arranged. There was a faint smell of floral disinfectant. But it felt like we shouldn’t’ve been there -- like, was this mart any good because we were the only ones there? But, like I said, it was early. </p><p> Vendors stepped to us immediately as we passed. I spied their goods quickly, avoiding eye contact; we mainly kept it pushing, speeding through the mart quicker than we had expected. I was losing my patience until we slid into a large kiosk. The woman behind the counter said hello, but didn’t move so I took my time in there. And I found the runner. It’s handmade so it was expensive, comparatively. I’ve been told that when shopping at kiosks, one is expected to negotiate. But I imagined a woman making this by hand and what? I was going to haggle for sport without thinking about callused finger tips and hurting backs and hopes of good sales? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want to play the back-and-forth game. The vendor, with a neat helmet of a hairdo, told me the price and I said, “Bueno, gracias,” and handed her the runner to ring up. Maya said to the woman, “It’s her birthday today.” And the woman looked at Maya who said, “She’s my mother,” and the woman took 20% off, equally sad for my lack of negotiation skills and touched by Maya’s desire to speak up for her mother. The runner has been on my table ever since. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4s1FZYXwKCA/X8py9V-twVI/AAAAAAAACLE/R7jHvjzUzk8zZ0W9Yy3cw4ep00eR7ocogCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_2468%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="640" height="278" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4s1FZYXwKCA/X8py9V-twVI/AAAAAAAACLE/R7jHvjzUzk8zZ0W9Yy3cw4ep00eR7ocogCLcBGAsYHQ/w282-h278/IMG_2468%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>I think about that trip and get emotional about the perfection of it. It was a transitionary trip where my child was now my best companion. We wanted to do the same things with the same amount of enthusiasm. We dressed up for dinners and sipped mescal and clinked wine glasses at meals. We went to museums for hours and laughed hard about all things. But I still kept one eye on her when men approached to strike up conversation. We could do these grown things together, but reside and play in this pocket of perfect familiarity that we have cultivated and created with the upmost care for a lifetime. <p></p><p> During that trip, the day before my birthday, we climbed the Pirámide del Sol in Teotihuacan. The volcanic steps were not easy to climb; two-thousand-year-old, precisely-cut steps that were narrow and daunting, laced with a thin rope as a railing. We were huffing in an altitude of eight thousand feet. And yet, grandmas in skirts and sandals made their way up in slow and steady steps, assisted by the elbow on steps that were two feet high because this was a passageway to a spiritual portal. We felt that. We plodded up the ancient pyramid. At the top, after the tourist’s instinct to take silly or smiley photos, we just stood and took in an energy beyond our understanding, standing on a city that -- beyond the fantastical facts of living sacrifices that seem to foreshadow all other facts -- was so sophisticated, not just terms of engineering and technology-- well before the Greeks and Romans -- but where their spiritual sophistication laps us a thousand times. Most indigenous people inherently pull to the forefront the godliness of nature. It was evident here with the hundred carvings and paintings of animals and birds and plants and insects. The names of gods and goddesses were of Nature itself! We are not above that or more important than them, as humans. We are from that. We are that, for gods sake. </p><p> We thought of our ancestors up there; our dead, our guides, our protectors, without trying to conjure them. They just came and comforted us and made us feel light and overwhelmingly safe like this was a big surprise to us when -- we forgot -- it happens all the time. </p><p> In Teotihuacan, butterflies are thought to be akin to the soul. Obvious metaphors for rebirth, reincarnation, transformation are present. But also, they are thought to be relatives to dead warriors; protectors. The first time I was on the Pirámide del Sol with Julio two years before, I saw no butterflies. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t1iGnmMx0XA/X8pzbJoi7vI/AAAAAAAACLQ/w2x7jVexbLUzn_WSBqa618Rrcxhds8bGACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_2476.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="513" height="253" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t1iGnmMx0XA/X8pzbJoi7vI/AAAAAAAACLQ/w2x7jVexbLUzn_WSBqa618Rrcxhds8bGACLcBGAsYHQ/w202-h253/IMG_2476.jpg" width="202" /></a></div><br />But standing there with Maya, many copper and black beauties made their erratic and circular routes over and around us. It seemed astonishing. They seemed miraculous. And our heads bobbed and flitted trying to keep up with their flight pattern. Maya tried to capture them with a photo as they toyed with us. Finally, I stopped trying to track them and just watched them dance above Maya, circling her; or falling towards her and then darting up. My beautiful woman-child was being blessed with transformation. <p></p><p> This is all to say, hi. It’s been 10 years since I blogged here. And I suppose if I make this regular again, I’ll be nostalgic about the last 10 years, the years I didn’t write about much -- some, but not much. I feel like a different person now, but it seems my themes are still the same. I’m missing a lot of things right now, but I am suddenly missing this connection; stitching us together with words and you relating to them in your own way. Mainly, I hope you’re well.</p>Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-70999286843923718892010-07-09T10:10:00.000-07:002010-07-09T22:48:15.059-07:00These Streets Will Make You Feel Brand New, Part 1Just got back from New York. The trip was all I had hoped it would be from sweltering uncomfortable familial accommodations to serious play time in lower Manhattan.<br /><br />Mama Luz was out of her gourd this trip, and I say this with the utmost amusement and a tiny bit of concern. It's not beyond me that's she's probably menopausal, but when someone like her gets her hormones extra fucked with, it's like swinging the mood pendulum from the Gateway Arch of St. Louis. The pendulum hitches and sticks on the frazzled, annoyed side much longer, however. The shit she blurts out had me rolling most of the time, but sometimes I was like, Damn Mama Luz. I will say that she is happiest messing around with the girls, especially Maya who has always been her running buddy, since Maya was 2. They are equally rough - I mean rough! -- and will laugh until sides hurt. Mina gets in on the action too of course, but she will land in Big Papi's lap or by his side, watching WWF, which Big Papi calls his soap opera. He filled us in on all the characters.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDd2QP_97QI/AAAAAAAAB44/O_uvXMqShGQ/s1600/summer+2010+184.jpg"><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491988292146425090" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDd2QP_97QI/AAAAAAAAB44/O_uvXMqShGQ/s400/summer+2010+184.jpg" /></a></p><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDd48oMl1WI/AAAAAAAAB5A/rcCKBK_O-_0/s1600/summer+2010+185.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491991253579322722" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDd48oMl1WI/AAAAAAAAB5A/rcCKBK_O-_0/s400/summer+2010+185.jpg" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDd6SSkSOOI/AAAAAAAAB5I/4LcgoYgDvGE/s1600/summer+2010+183.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491992725241870562" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDd6SSkSOOI/AAAAAAAAB5I/4LcgoYgDvGE/s400/summer+2010+183.jpg" /></a>Ug, so sweet . . .<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDd7_-4jKqI/AAAAAAAAB5Q/ySDXOWc6K2g/s1600/summer+2010+182.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491994609743768226" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDd7_-4jKqI/AAAAAAAAB5Q/ySDXOWc6K2g/s400/summer+2010+182.jpg" /></a>Here's what's hard to talk about: The deep grime of their house sends my anal sensors into a hissy fit. Mama Luz will spend hours and hours -- it's gotten so much worse with age -- straightening and rearranging the house. Her ADD, and the fact that she drinks coffee from dawn to midnight, does not allow her to sit still ever. So, she rearranges. I was constantly asking where my suitcase was, damn. So, the house is fairly neat (though she won't throw anything away), but there is a layer of grime and dirt that gets ignored from all the straightening. It's not outright obvious, but because of my own neurosis it barks out at me as if sirens and flashing lights were swirling. I never took my shoes off. I had to talk myself down to take a shower. I wouldn't touch the kitchen. I opened doors with towels and closed shit with my knuckles. I felt like a crazy person in that house. I feel guilty writing this because it was an equal mix of her neurosis and mine, but either way, I didn't get much sleep and I didn't eat well because of it. Other than that, good times were had in that house no matter how sweltering hot it was (102 humid degrees with no AC) or how cramped we were (up to seven to one bathroom). I felt big, big family love and I will squash all my squeamishness to feel some of that.<br /><br />Some stellar Mama Luz Quotes:<br />"My cousin has been menstruating for 3 months straight. It won't stop. I told her to have the doctor yank all that out because FUCK. THAT. SHIT."<br /><br />"So, I get these bootleg DVD's four for $20 and this last time she throws in a fifth one for free so I get Shrek 3. And of course all the DVD's are ALL FUCKED UP EXCEPT FOR SHREK 3!" Big Papi chimes in, "Yea, but we can return them." Mama Luz: "Yes, she very good about that. I just have to be at the laundromat from 2-3."<br /><br />Maya says, smirking and trying to hug her, "Mama Luz, I love you so much. Give me a hug." Mama Luz, "STOP HARASSING ME, BITCH!"<br /><br />Baby Luz, who's like a real sister to me, has had a chipped tooth and one bad false front tooth since she was 10 years old. She's 38 now and recently got them fix and said, "Ma, look at my teeth!" Mama Luz: "YOUR TEETH NEVER BOTHERED YOU BEFORE. NOW YOU'RE TOO GOOD FOR BROKEN TEETH?" Baby Luz (because believe it or not she is more volatile than her mother): "WHAT THE FUCK!"<br /><br />Maya just told me this story: Maya, Mina, Big Papi and Mama Luz were visiting an amusement park and went to a diner to eat before entering the park. Mama Luz downs her coffee and there is only a bit left in Big Papi's cup. She goes to take a sip from his cup and he softly protests, "Honey." Mama Luz, insulted, slams the cup down on the table and walks out of the restaurant. Haha. So clearly she's in a panic about getting enough coffee at the park. She buys a coffee at the park and puts it in the locker to cool so she can enjoy it after a ride, but she gets so mad about something else (unclear about what) that she does this overhead baseball pitch of the coffee right in the garbage can. Maya said it was so funny, but she couldn't really laugh too much. But see, the moods are amp'ed up a notch. Maya said by the end of the next ride, Mama Luz was all happy again. When I talked to them last night, I couldn't hear half of what they said because they were all laughing so hard. I'd hear Mina get hit with a pillow by Mama Luz, then Mama Luz yelling; Maya was wheezing the entire time.<br /><br />Anyway, on and on with the stories . . .<br /><br />July 4 is her birthday and this birthday was her sixtieth. If you said "60" or old or "grandma" to her, you'd likely get your clock cleaned. Big Papi organized a huge party at the house. He organized and then Mama Luz's ADD went into overdrive about what was needed and what needed to be where and how and naw, change it again and this and that and on and on . . .yo, it was miserable. I escaped to Manhattan the three days leading up to the party (more on that later) and left my children, Baby Luz, Big Papi and other family members to fend for themselves. Before I left, I told the girls, "Don't take anything personally. That's just her." Then I was like, Peace, I'm out!<br /><br />On the day of the party, I came in on the train, back from the city, and arrived at the house around 2 in the afternoon. It was about 101 degrees, but the tents they put up in the backyard covered the newly arrived guests nicely. People streamed in from then on; family mainly, but friends of family and neighbors too. Around 3, I asked Mama Luz if she was having a good time yet and she stared me down with stink eye. Then she told me to get the ef out of her way.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeGHCcEYOI/AAAAAAAAB5Y/NCbJRRFjJkQ/s1600/summer+2010+292.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492005726073413858" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeGHCcEYOI/AAAAAAAAB5Y/NCbJRRFjJkQ/s400/summer+2010+292.jpg" /></a>Cousin Nancy then got to making her famous Mango Mojitos which acted like a sledgehammer to bad moods,whether it was an unshakable stress about party planning, the beat down from the heat, the vice grip of menopausal hormones, whatever; mango mojitos were the cure. Rum it up, Nancy!<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeHoocid5I/AAAAAAAAB5g/665Q0QbbRSw/s1600/summer+2010+399.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492007402723243922" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeHoocid5I/AAAAAAAAB5g/665Q0QbbRSw/s400/summer+2010+399.jpg" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeNXxF13nI/AAAAAAAAB5w/qA2u9X-GXM0/s1600/summer+2010+401.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492013710055956082" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeNXxF13nI/AAAAAAAAB5w/qA2u9X-GXM0/s400/summer+2010+401.jpg" /></a>Later that night, around 10ish, Cousin Tuty got the bright idea to mix a drink with half mango mojito and half straight Bacardi! Ai, dios mio. She called it the "I Love You" Drink because certainly after a few sips you were sloppily telling everyone you loved them. <p>At 3:30 in the afternoon, Mama Luz's happy switch went brightly on (mojitos kicked in) and stayed on until late, late into the night. The homemade food was laid out -- serve yo'self y'all -- drinks were flowing, music pumping. We danced on the hard concrete patio from afternoon until one in the morning, when the cops finally came to tell us to shut the racket. One in the morning is an early night by Mama Luz Party Standards, but all in all, the night was so fun. Here are some pic's.<br /><br />Us with Titi Elsie, Luz's sister.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeOjZhHGBI/AAAAAAAAB54/5ROTMZdGf_k/s1600/nyc2.jpeg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 302px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492015009397938194" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeOjZhHGBI/AAAAAAAAB54/5ROTMZdGf_k/s400/nyc2.jpeg" /></a>The girls with their titi Luz. Mama Luz had gotten all the ladies in the family Old Navy flag tank tops. By the time I got back from the city, Mama Luz had rearranged my tank top out of existence. Of course she was mad at me about it.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeSpLQcm8I/AAAAAAAAB6A/wK9sHHJSmGI/s1600/summer+2010+390.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492019506695674818" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeSpLQcm8I/AAAAAAAAB6A/wK9sHHJSmGI/s400/summer+2010+390.jpg" /></a> Ok, its on.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeXaa_8L6I/AAAAAAAAB6I/vcdXJoaIYoE/s1600/summer+2010+503.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492024750781509538" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDeXaa_8L6I/AAAAAAAAB6I/vcdXJoaIYoE/s400/summer+2010+503.jpg" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDejmTilWsI/AAAAAAAAB6Q/XwHBbBr4_Zo/s1600/summer+2010+505.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492038149077293762" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDejmTilWsI/AAAAAAAAB6Q/XwHBbBr4_Zo/s400/summer+2010+505.jpg" /></a> It ain't a party without some dominos. Here's Tio George, Mama Luz's son, and Papi Guillo, Mama Luz's dad, talking shit.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDelPA1p6UI/AAAAAAAAB6Y/XGUwQ_asSFY/s1600/summer+2010+285.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492039947943274818" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDelPA1p6UI/AAAAAAAAB6Y/XGUwQ_asSFY/s400/summer+2010+285.jpg" /></a>Speaking of Papi Guillo, the mango doesn't fall far from the tree. At 83, he out danced us all, and just as flirtily as he did 10, 20, 60 years ago.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDen8Qyc-1I/AAAAAAAAB6g/XosN83J7qWA/s1600/summer+2010+298.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492042924342180690" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDen8Qyc-1I/AAAAAAAAB6g/XosN83J7qWA/s400/summer+2010+298.jpg" /></a>The original PR Playa of the family.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDe0Hnj9fyI/AAAAAAAAB6o/tuzQKuWYn70/s1600/summer+2010+320.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492056313573506850" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDe0Hnj9fyI/AAAAAAAAB6o/tuzQKuWYn70/s400/summer+2010+320.jpg" /></a>Don't stop, won't stop. Dancing with her cousin Nelli who drove four hours from Virginia to come to the party, then drove fours back after 10 o'clock.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDf5e0hs1LI/AAAAAAAAB6w/ARfVuOJiJFk/s1600/summer+2010+456.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492132578492994738" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDf5e0hs1LI/AAAAAAAAB6w/ARfVuOJiJFk/s400/summer+2010+456.jpg" /></a>What the -- Guillo!<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDf7qTVfRWI/AAAAAAAAB7A/Q6s98DfL-o8/s1600/summer+2010+439.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492134974765090146" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDf7qTVfRWI/AAAAAAAAB7A/Q6s98DfL-o8/s400/summer+2010+439.jpg" /></a>Shake it, babies.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDf6pNwLRQI/AAAAAAAAB64/lvli7cPknoY/s1600/summer+2010+473.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492133856574915842" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDf6pNwLRQI/AAAAAAAAB64/lvli7cPknoY/s400/summer+2010+473.jpg" /></a>Maya keeping our dances alive with Baby Luz.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDf8wP9fDAI/AAAAAAAAB7I/3hx9eLd2O04/s1600/summer+2010+357.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492136176449948674" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDf8wP9fDAI/AAAAAAAAB7I/3hx9eLd2O04/s400/summer+2010+357.jpg" /></a>On and on til the break of dawn . . .<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDf-HbWajSI/AAAAAAAAB7Q/eJVfLpX7sYc/s1600/summer+2010+361.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492137674155920674" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDf-HbWajSI/AAAAAAAAB7Q/eJVfLpX7sYc/s400/summer+2010+361.jpg" /></a>Group picture! Except Uncle Raymond was balancing his mojito on my head in this one . . .<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDgCXud3yiI/AAAAAAAAB7Y/MVXjMCj4uGo/s1600/summer+2010+348.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492142352211888674" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDgCXud3yiI/AAAAAAAAB7Y/MVXjMCj4uGo/s400/summer+2010+348.jpg" /></a>Then Baby Luz risked her life and climbed on top of the house to get this great shot.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDgDxxkkZgI/AAAAAAAAB7g/8etzRbd2W8M/s1600/summer+2010+573.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492143899233510914" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDgDxxkkZgI/AAAAAAAAB7g/8etzRbd2W8M/s400/summer+2010+573.jpg" /></a>Happy Birthday, Mama Luz. I love the fuck out of you.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDgErKtptsI/AAAAAAAAB7o/jz1n4aZ59co/s1600/summer+2010+557.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492144885235037890" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TDgErKtptsI/AAAAAAAAB7o/jz1n4aZ59co/s400/summer+2010+557.jpg" /></a>I was gonna write about the Manhattan leg of the trip too, but this got too long and Manhattan & Betsy deserve their own post. It will be soon coming; it won't take a month it's been taking me to write a post lately. Thanks for the nudge Pixilyn - much love!<br /></p>Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-30119727414688493722010-06-06T18:01:00.000-07:002010-06-07T15:26:35.258-07:00Photos From a Quince or TwoLa Quince de Cynthia is over, finally. The preparation for the event had been long and exhausting -- on top of Maya's already taxing schedule -- and the money we paid for the dress and shoes . . .I can't even imgaine the money Cythia's mother spent. Oh my gosh, a mini wedding practically.<br /><br />Cynthia is a shy, beautiful girl, and she quite possibly was only appeasing her mother and grandmother with all this quinceñera business. Ah, but sometimes that part of the tradition too.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TAxJHlUcTTI/AAAAAAAAB2Y/nyFZLOzwAwU/s1600/june10+016.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479835241228815666" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TAxJHlUcTTI/AAAAAAAAB2Y/nyFZLOzwAwU/s400/june10+016.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TAxISphUYTI/AAAAAAAAB2Q/Sg7l9xjxUPs/s1600/Maya%26Cynthia.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 277px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479834331823497522" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TAxISphUYTI/AAAAAAAAB2Q/Sg7l9xjxUPs/s400/Maya%26Cynthia.jpg" /></a> Here's Maya's chosen escort all flush-faced and clean-cut. He wore a medallion over his tie, which on him was somehow adorable. Maya said things to him during the performance like, don't be nervous. You got this. Don't forget to start with your left foot.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA07t4e-YyI/AAAAAAAAB3A/VbW5n2mQ3Bo/s1600/june10+066.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480101981022216994" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA07t4e-YyI/AAAAAAAAB3A/VbW5n2mQ3Bo/s400/june10+066.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA01PZ_FF9I/AAAAAAAAB2w/hhgjsE7JiYk/s1600/june10+025.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480094860369532882" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA01PZ_FF9I/AAAAAAAAB2w/hhgjsE7JiYk/s400/june10+025.jpg" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA02rRGiudI/AAAAAAAAB24/o-Qoc4QivZc/s1600/june10+027.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480096438532880850" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA02rRGiudI/AAAAAAAAB24/o-Qoc4QivZc/s400/june10+027.jpg" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1ATr5BWwI/AAAAAAAAB3I/fJOSvwR4sms/s1600/june10+036.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480107028523342594" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1ATr5BWwI/AAAAAAAAB3I/fJOSvwR4sms/s400/june10+036.jpg" /></a>The waltz moved me. Children of a hip-pop generation wanting to please their parents by keeping traditions. And these kids never did this reluctantly or I didn't hear about total dissent. They showed up to a lot of practices and swapped their jeggings for formals and did a great job. The family was proud. So was I.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1Ydf3dsyI/AAAAAAAAB3Q/YmThw18dspY/s1600/june10+048.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480133585373344546" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1Ydf3dsyI/AAAAAAAAB3Q/YmThw18dspY/s400/june10+048.jpg" /></a>I love this picture of Cynthia hugging her uncle, her grandmother watching, and the mariachi band surrounding them.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TAxMKBX726I/AAAAAAAAB2g/LnJ51kT-cog/s1600/TioyAbuela.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 273px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479838581654281122" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TAxMKBX726I/AAAAAAAAB2g/LnJ51kT-cog/s400/TioyAbuela.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TAxREQ7HKSI/AAAAAAAAB2o/G4FJE5y3EVE/s1600/june10+009.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479843980307278114" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TAxREQ7HKSI/AAAAAAAAB2o/G4FJE5y3EVE/s400/june10+009.jpg" /></a>I didn't know Maya had brought other shoes to change into. They were so perfect and cute and her.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1ay6Wd6kI/AAAAAAAAB3g/mzqFOyfhcOM/s1600/ChangingShoes.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480136152283212354" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1ay6Wd6kI/AAAAAAAAB3g/mzqFOyfhcOM/s400/ChangingShoes.jpg" /></a>Ug, so great.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1dLUaWL7I/AAAAAAAAB3o/ov3Ti4sRJsg/s1600/ShoeChange.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480138770618920882" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1dLUaWL7I/AAAAAAAAB3o/ov3Ti4sRJsg/s400/ShoeChange.jpg" /></a>The converse were a perfect touch when it came time to party, when she could be herself again. Kind of like her own quince, which was so dramatically different. I didn't get a chance to tell you about it. It wasn't really a quince in any traditional sense, but we called it that anyway. Actually we called "MAYA'S ROLLER QUINCE!" Check out these invitations I made: <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1hapNnITI/AAAAAAAAB3w/vNzTvLApVpE/s1600/may10+085.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480143431947198770" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1hapNnITI/AAAAAAAAB3w/vNzTvLApVpE/s400/may10+085.jpg" /></a>We had it at a skating rink, one that I went to a few times about 25 years ago. The place is exactly the same. Here is Maya's "quince dress". Gorgeous!:<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1l4oY-TVI/AAAAAAAAB34/_N6LulapSu8/s1600/may10+040.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480148345169005906" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1l4oY-TVI/AAAAAAAAB34/_N6LulapSu8/s400/may10+040.jpg" /></a>The Papi-Daughter Dance: <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1m9HKiWpI/AAAAAAAAB4A/-nGcC4b8hOk/s1600/may10+051.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480149521661057682" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1m9HKiWpI/AAAAAAAAB4A/-nGcC4b8hOk/s400/may10+051.jpg" /></a>Maya's damas of the court:<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1onQ8ZODI/AAAAAAAAB4I/vyL19VlFXVo/s1600/may10+067.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480151345352226866" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1onQ8ZODI/AAAAAAAAB4I/vyL19VlFXVo/s400/may10+067.jpg" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1pxvFSxPI/AAAAAAAAB4Q/3In4-Be3P_o/s1600/may10+061.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480152624752936178" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1pxvFSxPI/AAAAAAAAB4Q/3In4-Be3P_o/s400/may10+061.jpg" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1qge1AgqI/AAAAAAAAB4Y/WL-n_Mn9ZH4/s1600/may10+046.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480153427843515042" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1qge1AgqI/AAAAAAAAB4Y/WL-n_Mn9ZH4/s400/may10+046.jpg" /></a>A girl becoming a woman:<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1skC9qgaI/AAAAAAAAB4g/YDxbH9KpATg/s1600/may10+078.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480155688106361250" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1skC9qgaI/AAAAAAAAB4g/YDxbH9KpATg/s400/may10+078.jpg" /></a>Whoops, not quite.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1tgTVo3mI/AAAAAAAAB4o/G7t196DlPVg/s1600/may10+079.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480156723294035554" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1tgTVo3mI/AAAAAAAAB4o/G7t196DlPVg/s400/may10+079.jpg" /></a>She's the perfect mix:<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1uZTsnI9I/AAAAAAAAB4w/U7pWl4e3-Y0/s1600/may10+062.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480157702642934738" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/TA1uZTsnI9I/AAAAAAAAB4w/U7pWl4e3-Y0/s400/may10+062.jpg" /></a>Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-54405166042785087082010-06-02T14:45:00.000-07:002010-06-03T15:19:15.600-07:00Near Brooks Court This TimeI sat in my car, parked on a narrow, busted-up street in Venice, getting irritated. I had been waiting twenty minutes already, trapped in the car, trapped again by things I can’t control. The sun was up and warm still but it was just starting to shadow the tallest of things, like telephone poles. Maya was in the alley up and to the right of me practicing with a group of kids for a quinceañera they'll be in next week. But the practice was running late, as usual. They only had another week to learn all the traditional, choreographed steps. The mother was in a bit of a panic.<br /><br />I stared at two pairs of shoes that were wound around a high wire by the laces above me, a pair of low-top white converse and a pair of any-brand sneakers, scuffed. I stared at them motionless against the waning blue. The laces looked stiff like sticks. Whoever threw the converse up there had gotten the shoes exactly even with each other. They looked so neat and straight, suspended and highlighted against the sky. The scuffed sneakers were very uneven -- one way up, one way down -- but quietly still and in nice contrast to the straight converse.<br /><br />I let it go then. I was gripping so tightly to the irritation. It embarrassed me suddenly.<br /><br />I clicked my seat back to a half-recline and meditated on the shoes. All four windows of the car were half way down and the quinceañera choreographer started the song over, again. It was a sad mariachi with a sloshy melody and sour horns that touched me. It wasn't meant to be sad, but the words were long-held, in spanish, about the changing of a butterfly. A girl to a woman, you know. I looked toward the alley and a few of the kid-couples marched up behind a low chainlink fence on the uneven asphalt, stepping to the music. Then they started the waltz. The boy of the first couple wore a stiff-brimmed Raiders cap, a zipped-up black hoodie, work pants and blue-white sneakers. He towered over his partner who was all eyeliner and giggles. She kept tugging up her acid-wash skinnies. The music stopped and I heard the lady yell, "Noooo", and the eyeliner girl rolled her head back on her neck. They started again. The next time, they got far enough so I could see Maya being very focused in her turquoise, knock-off Ray Bans and SAMO basketball sweatshirt and cuffed shorts. She carefully walked arm-in-arm with her partner who had a clean-shaven head and wore a crisp, white tshirt. He held his arm up, holding her by the fingertips, and she stepped through, not looking at him, not connected to him. It was all about getting these steps down. And I choked up. She was so sweetly serious, so beautiful and young.<br /><br />A hand-painted delivery truck squeezed through the middle of the street next to my car and sounded a breathy, melodic horn. It braked and the back door rolled up. It was a mobile snack shop with hanging chips, chicharrónes, candy, gumballs, and other things I couldn't see on the walls and base, exploding in snack-package colors. The truck was there every time I came to pick up Maya from practice. It's a nomadic lounge because once it stops, people gravitate to the tail and hang out. Two girls passed me, gripping dollars, and came back from the truck digging in a bag of fresh cherries.<br /><br />Mina crawled through the half-open window of the car and told me Maya was almost done. She turned on the radio, inserted a CD, and punched at the buttons until she found the song she wanted, Hit ‘Em Up Style by the Carolina Chocolate Drops. I sat back, looking at the shoes and listened to the deft fiddle mashing it up with the outside mariachi horns and the murmur of the snack -truck crowd. I watched the orange shadows creep up the street California city style; against century-old thick palms and beautifully cracked concrete and tiny, lumpy alleys canopied with wires. I freefloated in my seat, as I've been trying to do for weeks now; suspended and free inside the vehicle.Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-57095120458706225582010-05-05T10:53:00.000-07:002020-12-04T22:27:56.110-08:00I've been doing that volunteer work at the Upward Bound House. I've taught a few baking classes to the kids and I helped with the Easter Egg Hunt and tomorrow I'll cook and be part of the Cinco de Mayo party. It's been all joy. The whole experience. The baking classes are so sweet. My heart wants to shatter when I look into their little faces. The kids thank me at every turn, raise their hands to impress me with their stories. They hug me and ask me if I'll come back "yesterday." I connect with their child's panic of wanting good things for themselves and their parents. And it kind of kills me. I don't tell them the baking is vegan. They just like to measure and mix stuff. I've had some questions, like the time I used rice milk. "Look! It's white, like milk!" They love to smell ingredients; cinnamon, freshly grated lemon rind, canned pumpkin. I'm never sure they'll like what we make because it's unconventional, contains less sugar, but they stuff whole, warm muffins into their mouths with wide eyes and ask me if they can take one to their mama/brother/grandmother. The students have mainly been little boys though last time I had one little girl who told me long stories about her grandmama's vegetable garden in Atlanta. Her two front teeth were missing and her thin, beaded braids swung and tapped her on the jaw when she spoke. Her name was Dee and they call me Miss D too because my name is hard to remember. Her name is hard too and she said she had six letters in her name and I said I have seven, I know how it is. And we nodded at each other while the boys tried to wet-finger sugar off the table. During the Easter Egg Hunt, I was assigned a four-boy search party. Two sets of brothers; one set aged 9 and 7, the other brothers were just 4 and 3. The tiny brothers held my hands with their teeny doll hands and wouldn't let me go, not even when they saw colorful plastic eggs sitting all alone, ones that the big kids hadn't trampled to yet. I'd have to tell them, "Go get the eggs now." And they shuffle-ran over and picked up the eggs, shook them, dropped them into their brown paper bag. Halfway through the hunt, the four year old looked into his three year old brother's bag. There were only about five eggs in there and without any words or hesitation he reached into his own bag and plopped in three eggs into his little brother's bag. Then my big boys came over and looked into the little boys' bags and without any words or hesitation, they reached into their bags and plopped a few more eggs into each of the little boys' bags. I'm tearing up typing about it because it was all so quiet and natural, instinctual, to share and be fair. I'll love those boys forever, if just in my memory of them, for that. Even, or especially, as transitional kids they understood the power and upliftment of sharing; upliftment as the giver and as the receiver equally, the true balance of community and humankind. There is always enough to go around. Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-7418445712878874692010-04-04T12:34:00.000-07:002020-12-04T22:31:25.757-08:00Mami's Been On Spring BreakYou think you're in shape until you, on a whim, print out a free pass to a distant, fancy gym and take an Afro-Brazilian dance class. It's not like I am a stranger to these dance moves. The class said Afro-Brazilian, but it was Afro-Caribbean as far as I'm concerned and I know the basic moves of los santos. In fact, I used to be the dance, when I was younger, and El Conguero was the drum. At 21, I used to take a similar class where we came across the floor by two's dancing to live drums. My roommate Eva and I knocked the ballerinas off the front line because those poor girls couldn't unlock their hips and me and Eva couldn't keep ours still. El Conguero was a guest drummer for the class now and again and I would sway and switch up the floor while he played and stared holes in me. Eva would swing her hair around in big sweeps and laugh deep. She was a big girl who wore tight leopard catsuits and red lipstick to class without an open care though sometimes she got secretly hurt when the stiff dancers looked at her wrong. I swore I'd slash a ballerina who talked shit on her. When the teacher told us we belonged on the front line - technical training be damned -- we swished our way through the others, Eva flinging her long dark curls, and me fixated on the drums. So I know the dance, but it had been a long time. The teacher of the class I took last week had a perfect energy, a woman who at first glance looked like a middle-aged fifth grade teacher with glasses and a big behind. But I wouldn't have trusted a little booty lady leading this kind of class. She put on samba music for the warm up, but one drummer showed up with a conga and percussive toys and I felt relieved. When the fifth grade teacher circled her hips like they were not connected to her waist, I was convinced we were in great hands. I know the etiquette of a dance class and even if I connect with the music personally and instinctively know the movement, I know to keep my ass in the back and not try to show up the regulars. That's rude anyway. But after two trips across the floor, the fifth grade teacher pointed to me and told me to get my culo front and center. The older woman whose place I took was gracious and welcomed me. The two women who flanked me, not so much. Didn't matter. I was in direct line with the drum then. I closed my eyes, mainly, and went. There were two men in the class, which apparently was rare, so the teacher concentrated on more masculine moves, dances de Chango; kingly and strong. So I stomped barefoot and squatted low, twisted my torso and flung my arms back with an arched back and an upward tilt to my chin. Queens know the dances of kings too. Over and over and back and forth, we got low for Chango and I yelped for the shy dancers and slapped five with the older woman and a beautiful blonde zaftig woman who put herself in the back. God, I wanted to tell the curvy blonde that these dances were made for her and F any person who ever made her feel badly about her body including herself, but I just slapped her five instead. After the class, I was exhilarated and nostalgic for sure, but the day after it felt like the whole back half of my body had been dipped in pain. I was crying every time I made a move for three whole days. Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-13704583428577489372010-03-21T20:58:00.000-07:002020-12-04T22:34:12.708-08:00Off Line & Upward BoundOur SAMO girls basketball team made it to the 3rd round of the state playoffs and went down in a heart breaker against Clovis West, a team out of Fresno. We lost by 4 in a back and forth battle. We shut down their 6'3", 250lb center, but we could not contain their star guard who played out of her gourd. She dropped 39 points on us out her team's 61. She bombed threes, drove on three girls at a time and dove on the floor for many balls. She said after in an interview, "I never wanted anything more. I wasn't going to lose." And you have to respect when one's ability matches their drive. She was amazing.
Mina just finished her Y league. They lost today in the championship game. She's a superstar though. Her natural athleticism is pretty phenomenal. Here is the other star, Cloe, also 10. This was the team's one-two punch. While Cloe grabbed a defensive rebound, Mina would have already bolted to the other end. Cloe would cock back her arm and rocket a pass to Mina, who was the only one able to catch a pass like that, and would usually finish with a lay up. This happened about five times a game. Can you beat the stance of these girls? Is there anything more beautiful?<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S6bu8XHpAAI/AAAAAAAABzA/ujC6FaTefJs/s1600-h/mar10+055.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451307119744188418" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S6bu8XHpAAI/AAAAAAAABzA/ujC6FaTefJs/s400/mar10+055.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 224px;" /></a>Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-15753199358067687272010-03-08T09:35:00.000-08:002020-12-04T22:35:26.681-08:00Serious FunOur Santa Monica Girls basketball team, for the first time in our school's history -- since 1891 when we were hooping it up in long, wool black dresses and sporty hats (and you know I'm giving SAMO the benefit of the doubt that they even let us ladies look at a basketball then) --, we will raise a banner in the gym stating that our girls are the Southern Section Division 1A CIF Champions. We are the Champions! We start our state tournament at home on Tuesday.
The night we won the CIF finals, we traveled down to Orange County in ancient school buses, yellow rounded bullet-type buses where the insides looked like vaults; the best that a shoe-string budget can buy. I haven't had my teeth rattled like that on a road trip since my own high school away games. Maya traveled on the team bus and Mina and I traveled on the family bus. There was a third bus that transported faithful students, and the entire boys varsity and JV teams. We brought the noise. We screamed, we stomped, we competitively bantered with the opposing crowd across the court. Man, I swooned when I saw our boys teams clustered together with their rally shirts and painted faces, jumping up and down and creating chants, stomping their feet. In the end, our girls were too strong. They played amazingly.
Security wouldn't let us rush the court after the game. The post-game glory was for players, coaches and media only. I gave Mina the camera and told her to weave among the trees on the court and get us photos! They didn't stop her. Here the girls were posing for our local newspaper.
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S5U5ESg4hpI/AAAAAAAABx4/Ap2_xwg40pU/s1600-h/feb10+101.jpg"><p><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446322070226503314" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S5U5ESg4hpI/AAAAAAAABx4/Ap2_xwg40pU/s400/feb10+101.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 224px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></p></a>I love this picture of our star player, the one signed with a full scholarship to UCLA for next year. She already knows interview politics. All star athletes do, but I love her nervous tick of shoving her hands in her uniform like that. She does it during games too, sometimes. It's the only vulnerability she shows usually.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S5U6eU7aqcI/AAAAAAAAByA/jMMtKnoQ4W0/s1600-h/feb10+104.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446323617062889922" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S5U6eU7aqcI/AAAAAAAAByA/jMMtKnoQ4W0/s400/feb10+104.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 224px;" /></a> All the players know Mina already. Here's Mina showing love to players she looks up to. I ask Mina, "Will you play that intensely when it's your turn?" And she says, "Shoot, more intense." I believe her. <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S5U7I6CCsHI/AAAAAAAAByI/4MVMigbUmqE/s1600-h/feb10+108.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446324348577296498" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S5U7I6CCsHI/AAAAAAAAByI/4MVMigbUmqE/s400/feb10+108.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 224px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> Here's Mina with our other star player, my favorite player. Both of these girls have a competitive intensity that is incredible to watch. I love when it makes people a little uncomfortable, like, yes we want them to win, but should young ladies act this way. And most of us shout, Most Definitely! Git 'em girls! We like our warriors with swagger, please. And we love them even more when they're gracious and loving to our warriors-to-be.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S5U9weFDQAI/AAAAAAAAByQ/3mkYBPZx6kQ/s1600-h/feb10+110.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446327227291746306" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S5U9weFDQAI/AAAAAAAAByQ/3mkYBPZx6kQ/s400/feb10+110.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 224px;" /></a><br />Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-37056975077204181232010-03-02T14:08:00.000-08:002010-03-04T14:08:13.145-08:00Face the Wall or Bust!When I woke Mina this morning, she was wearing an old wrap-around dress of mine from my more corporate dress days, a contribution to her dress-up box. Mina was completely naked underneath the ill-tied dress. She likes to be free, she says. The best part is that wasn't what she was wearing when I tucked her in last night.<br /><br />Y'know, parenting is a trip. There's no such thing as auto pilot or having it down or I got this completely. I mean, I'm working with complex human beings, as complex as me. How they process and handle things can be a world apart from how I do or the other child; or maybe exactly the same and it could be something I need to iron out myself. Sometimes it all feels natural; zone-like. Other times, I'm improvising like a motherfucker. Like when I realized that Maya has been shrinking a bit in the face of her biggest challenges. It has been a subtle shrink, barely detectable. Her personality is so upbeat and her social life is so on point right now it took me a minute with close examination to realize her shit hasn't been as together as would seem. Believe me, it ain't a major slide or anywhere near drastic -- I mean, she's juggling a lot right now -- but maybe it could have been a tipping point, or a crossroads of a possible, total Fuck Off. I don’t want to wait to find out. There's been a tiny slip in her grades; she's been blowing off difficult reading for honors English; she's been shirking her solo basketball skills practice. Her phone/text game is tight though! And her friends worship her. Boys flock and flounder around for her attention. She treats the boys perfectly; as her goofy, beautiful self, as a homie; "No, I don't want to date you. Let's stay friends!" But in the shadow of her social stardom, a tiny storm cloud looms. And I was all sitting back, admiring her sense of responsibility and the ease with which she handles everything when I happened to notice the lining of the storm, hidden, and I was like, Oh shit, that's my cue, right? I gotta get back in the game, full-press. She broke down a bit when I confronted her. First, she did a nice little teen push back by getting defensive about her chores, another thing she’s slightly blowing off. She told me I was overreacting about not being able to get to them all at the exact time I wanted them done and damnit, she was right. I told her so. I told her I was sorry for overreacting. But the meat of the whole problem -- the slipping and the shirking -- has been fear. A sort of freezing up when things get harder than she thought they'd be. Her English class for example. This teacher is no joke. He's challenging them at a near college level, I think, and she's freezing up more and more because of it. She's locked up, feeling unable to do good enough work or give any worthwhile analyses for this guy. I think she's doing well, but she's feeling the pressure instead of enjoying the challenge. More subtly, she has not been working on the more challenging skills in basketball -- improving her dribble left and right, shooting rhythmically and repetitively -- for fear of not making JV any way. There are only four spots for JV next year and she wants it so badly that she has sort of iced herself mentally. And on top of it all, she's pushing back on chores because, well who wants to do chores? So, man, I could only reinforce that facing all these challenges is the only way not to feel squashed by them. Fuck it; bring it on Charles Dickens and double-team defense. If you can't fully understand the language of Charles Dickens, then understand some of it and do the best you can, right? If you don't make JV, fuck it, at least leave your heart on the court trying. There is absolutely no relief in hoping it all goes away. I know she wants to impress her teacher and I know she so badly wants a spot on JV, but really giving it her complete all for herself is what matters to me. I know she will not be able to top that personal sense of triumph no matter the outcome. I hope she believes me until then. I told her I wish I had given her the genes that made us prodigy-naturals at things, but I don't have that. I only know about working hard. A lot of times, hard work makes me really good at things, and sometimes it makes me just ok. It's her lot too. I think it's a curse to expect to do well at everything you walk into. She has a little bit of that. She doesn’t understand why everything, at any level, isn’t at least kind of easy. The discomfort of realizing that this just isn’t the case is confusing to her. The thick wall of a really tough challenge holds her back. Very gently I asked her, "When was the last time you gave a 110% at something?" She was crying and said, "Tae Kwon Do." I said, "That was so hard, wasn't it? The tests, the tournaments? And you thought you wouldn't get through them, secretly, right? It seemed too much. And when you did, when you did well even, how did you feel?" And she cried and cried.<br /><br />Y'know, facing it and giving 110% never gets easier, does it? I mean, sometimes it down right sucks ass -- it's so hard! -- but the best thing about being older is knowing what it means to one's sense of self, to defining who we are as a person. I love it/I hate it/Mainly, I love myself for it. Man, I hope it clicks and holds with her. She's so far from mediocre. I mainly wanted to let her know that. Extraordinary is heavy sometimes especially when you have to work at it. It takes a lot of courage.<br /><br />I had a very similar talk with Mina the week before.<br /><br />I often think about the speeches I give the girls. Like when I thought I was going to throw up on the spin bike this morning. Or when work seems too much sometimes, or when the (extra)chores get on my nerves, or when my writing waits patiently, again. Just the mustering of energy to be brave can feel too much. I started a new story. The novel became so demanding, and I was making myself feel badly about it until I just faced up and started a story, started to just write. No need to squash all the love out of something just because it's a challenge. My point is, I can't give such heartfelt speeches if it means nothing to me too. It means a lot. I know how important this kind of stuff is.<br /><br />Speaking of extraordinary, our girls varsity basketball team is playing in the regional CIF final playoff game tonight! If we win, we go on to play for state. State! This is the farthest our girls team has gone in our history. We're all getting on the party bus to travel to Orange County to watch & cheer. Then, I'll give the president of the booster club the $650 you guys helped me raise for the program. Thank you so much. I'm so proud to be able to give that to him today. I run the 10K on Sunday. It's supposed to rain this weekend so that will be fun, on the muddy trail. Can't wait to tell you about that. Or about our win tonight.<br /><br />Face the Wall or Bust, y’all.Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-84370644471524990092010-02-21T11:47:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:14:33.582-08:00Music Stuff and My Dog's a Sock Monkey with a MohawkI've been true to expanding my new-music game, and I realize I always get drawn to old music done new. So, I'm now in love with the <a href="http://www.carolinachocolatedrops.com/">Carolina Chocolate Drops</a>who I heard on my alternative radio station a few days ago. Their new CD is in the mail to me as I type. I couldn't decide which video to post. This one doesn't show off their fiddle skills, which melts me, but the singing is just gorgeous.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kactUjHB2PM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kactUjHB2PM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />Here's the other band I just learned about, <a href="http://www.slavicsoulparty.com/main.html">Slavic Soul Party!</a> They're a Brooklyn-based "gypsy brass" band with a lil funky back beat. Man, I love me some gypsy music. I am easily slain by an accordion, it seems.<br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UI70WboVwHg&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UI70WboVwHg&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br />Diggin around the internet after Slavic Soul Party! I then stumbled across the <a href="http://www.whatcheerbrigade.com/">What Cheer? Brigade</a> which is a 19 piece brass band, also with Balkan roots but with a punk, New Orleans undertow. They're out of Rhode Island. So, so good.<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/daU3LlSJrZs&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/daU3LlSJrZs&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />I don't think anything lays me out like cultural folk with a modern twist.<br /><br />Hey, here's my new, little, bitty pastel piece. I'm practicing on farmers market flowers. It didn't photograph too well, but you get the idea.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S4Gb2y-_xhI/AAAAAAAABxg/zAvNWhUXt4M/s1600-h/feb10+094.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440801190541510162" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S4Gb2y-_xhI/AAAAAAAABxg/zAvNWhUXt4M/s400/feb10+094.jpg" /></a><br />Oh, and our dogs either love their lives or hate it.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S4GcSDeS8CI/AAAAAAAABxo/yP2ViFyUEAU/s1600-h/feb10+077.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440801658824224802" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S4GcSDeS8CI/AAAAAAAABxo/yP2ViFyUEAU/s400/feb10+077.jpg" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S4Gcnp-ISoI/AAAAAAAABxw/aITmhVr55Zc/s1600-h/feb10+078.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440802029935544962" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S4Gcnp-ISoI/AAAAAAAABxw/aITmhVr55Zc/s400/feb10+078.jpg" /></a>Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-79764353997392053392010-01-26T19:04:00.000-08:002010-01-26T23:11:28.356-08:00The Highs and Lows of a Beginning Running PracticeIn the past, I would have considered what I'm doing, in terms of my running, training. As in, I'm training for this 10K. But I see running differently than any other athletic endeavor in which I've participated. It is a meditation or more specifically it is a reorganization of the physical as linked to the mental. When the book ChiRunning described running as a practice, I realized that's exactly how I felt. I've officially started a running practice.<br /><br />Historically, I've always wanted to be a runner. I have always admired the simplicity, the high, the legs. But as a teenager and a young adult, I hated every drudging step. I thought it was like being tortured in a vat of concrete. How could anything be so dull and agonizing? Then last year, my friend and uber athlete Kellie gave me a few, life-changing pointers for better running technique. I tried it a few times and couldn't believe how much of a difference it made. I still was not ready to start a practice however. Then a couple months ago, I read Born to Run. Kellie's tips got me to the cliff and Born to Run push-kicked me off. Born to Run tricked me into believing I was a natural if I practiced and pulled up that instinct. ChiRunning is fine tuning the tips and keeping me from clawing back up the cliff walls and questioning if this is even a good idea.<br /><br />In the excited beginnings of my practice, running seemed so easy that I couldn't understand why I had never liked it. I went for distances I would have never even thought to attempt so early before. Four miles on the road and five to seven miles on the trail. I couldn't believe it. But I'm here to report that the honeymoon is over now. The regularity of my runs has become a true practice and the excitement has deflated, though the drive to work on the form and perfect an injury-free lightness and endurance still pushes me out the door. But now four miles is tougher than it was before, oddly. And the one time I ran seven miles on the trails seems out of reach for the time being. The best part about considering running a practice is that I know to go with what feels doable until I can build upon the base. I don't log miles. I don't wear a watch. I have a loose idea of the distance just because I know my area so well and because Husband rides the same trails on his mountain bike, but other than that I have no desire to measure anything more about my running. I'm obsessed with form and the meditation of it; of being entirely absorbed by the process, and enjoying the after high . I'm dedicated to the pure practice of it. So far, this is working. We'll see how it goes.<br /><br />There have been a couple situations though that have made me question the sanity of a pure practice. The day that I ran seven miles on the trail, I felt great. The route I ran was 3.5 miles up a slight grade, then I turned around and came back down. The trail is a dried creek bed tucked in by yellow-leafed oaks and green-grass hills. The trail is rocky, though not too bad, and side ravines rise and dip. It is stunning. When I was running back down that day, at about mile five, I had to go to the bathroom, poop as it were, and the more I ran, the more the pressure built. I stopped to walk, a little worried, and the pressure subsided. I ran - had to poop. Walked - it went away. I was feeling so good otherwise that I didn't want to walk, y'know? It was the first time I legitimately felt like a runner and the poop pressure was stealing my thunder. So, I ran until I seriously thought I was going to shit my pants. Like, seriously. So seriously that I frantically looked off the side of the trail. The phrase Does a bear shit in the woods kept repeating in my mind because -- I don't know why, I was just kinda panicking. Then I'd think, Really, am I about to do this? This trail is not a crowded one, but there are walkers with dogs now and again, very few runners and more occasionally mountain bikers who are either laboring up the path or whizzing back down it. When the thought of shitting my leggings no longer seemed funny and my throat closed and my face broke out in a cold flush, I jumped down a small ravine, ripped down my pants and squatted. I grabbed my baby-blue baseball cap off my head to blend more with nature though I was pretty well hidden. Two mountain bikers flew down the trail. Only if they had been jedi masters would they have seen me. When I was done, and it only took seconds, I looked around at the leaves. Large, splaying oak leaves were under foot and when I picked one up I was surprised that it was soft, not crumbly hard like I thought it would be. It was near luxurious as toilet paper. When I stood and looked around, I felt equally liberated and mortified. What kind of line had I crossed? Was I now in some sort of club? I finished my run, feeling physically great, but jazzed by embarrassment, trying to shake it off. I giggled all day about it.<br /><br />I've taken great measure to get my poop on before my runs now. Kellie told me to pack handie wipes. I told her she should really try a partially-dried oak leaf. Luxurious!<br /><br />So, last weekend, I did an easy three miles around my neighborhood, down to the ocean and back. To the ocean, there is a tiny downhill grade so I felt great going down and I knew after the turn around I would have to put in a little work. A few blocks after the turn around, I had to pee, but nothing serious so I plodded along, focusing on my form. It seems that when tightening the core and relaxing the limbs, the kegel muscle is rendered useless because I then proceeded to pee about a third of my bladder's contents into my pants. Not a spot in the chones, but a good 1/4c. right in my leggings. For those of you who know me, I only wear black leggings because I sweat so much it looks like I sport a pussy halo after working out. Wearing black leggings apparently comes in handy when you pee your pants too. And the thing is, though I blushed and couldn't believe what was happening, I didn't stop running. What was I gonna do, really? So I focused on my form and plugged away and out of curiosity, tried to do a kegel while running without much luck. I must work on that type of coordination. Four blocks from my house, I peed another 1/4c and didn't even flinch this time. I shook my head. Fuck it. When I got home, I shouted my hellos and sprinted to the bathroom and peed out the last of it, this time in a toilet. As washed out my leggings, I wondered what this practice was turning me into. Mainly, I felt that if I gave up on my practice now, THAT would be humiliating. One month I shit in the woods, the next I piss my pants all to give up? Fuck that. I feel I have to earn the right to laugh this off. I mean, right? Or does a practice entail the endurance of self humiliation; strip one bare of their faculties to realize it doesn't matter. The focus matters. The form matters. The connection matters. The tapping in, this is what matters. I dunno. This is what I'm telling myself anyway.<br /><br />All this, in part, to raise money for a basketball program too. Lord, what I do for the kids. Speaking of which, thank you so much to those who have so generously donated to the cause. For those still considering, push that button!<br /><br />I leave you with a few photos of my girls ballers.<br /><br />Maya, waiting to inbound the ball during a game.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S1_Fq5VaRZI/AAAAAAAABwI/tS3UU9JPHBE/s1600-h/jan10+012.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431277016367908242" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S1_Fq5VaRZI/AAAAAAAABwI/tS3UU9JPHBE/s400/jan10+012.jpg" /></a>Maya, waiting to defend during a game.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S1_anwFoZrI/AAAAAAAABwQ/pEtawPUqIbI/s1600-h/jan10+013.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431300052090382002" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S1_anwFoZrI/AAAAAAAABwQ/pEtawPUqIbI/s400/jan10+013.jpg" /></a>I am invested in the Samo girls basketball program for Maya, for my own legacy and for the ones who will eventually take it over. Mina's ball skills are no joke. She is Samo's future.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S1_a85qJgTI/AAAAAAAABwY/gluUEanXdIc/s1600-h/jan10+014.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431300415436718386" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S1_a85qJgTI/AAAAAAAABwY/gluUEanXdIc/s400/jan10+014.jpg" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S1_cIMAmDMI/AAAAAAAABwg/KuZedl7nRB4/s1600-h/jan10+016.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431301708852890818" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S1_cIMAmDMI/AAAAAAAABwg/KuZedl7nRB4/s400/jan10+016.jpg" /></a>Mina plays in a YWCA league. She's at a little higher level than these girls, and she lives to hear the parents on the side line ooh and aah at her skills; her left, her right, her crossover, her steals. Last week she hit a buzzer beater and left her hand in the air like she was Kobe. We almost died from pride. Here she is on a fast break, after stealing the ball.<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431302208938464066" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S1_clS-SU0I/AAAAAAAABwo/05LC-U_Ph5o/s400/jan10+017.jpg" /><br /><br />Anyway, practice makes practice; it takes and gives love. Perfection is bullshit.Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-22427086438383617592010-01-14T07:53:00.000-08:002010-01-14T08:29:08.096-08:00For the Love of Girls BasketballI went to a parent meeting last night to talk about the state of our high school girls basketball program. There was good news and bad news. Or not so much bad news, but news that we just have to accept now. That news is that as a public school, the parents and athletes are responsible for raising every single penny for our three programs; varsity, junior varsity and freshman teams. When I say every penny, I mean it. We have to buy uniforms, warm ups, bags, we rent the vans for away games, pay for gas, we even have to pay for lower-level coach salaries. Usually, they don't get paid at all. If you haven't heard, California is an absolute financial mess. The state of our state is carving deep, deep holes into public programs, especially schools. It's devastating. I live in a bourgie neighborhood too so I can't imagine how hard-hit neighborhoods are offering anything positive to kids. It's pretty much all grass roots and community support. I could spew a long, obvious rant about the ramifications of this, on our children, but I'll stay on topic.<br /><br />The good news about our basketball program is that we're good. The varsity girls' team is getting recognition and is turning heads. We had a chance at state last season. Our star senior has already signed with UCLA; another to UC San Diego. When I used to play, the girls team was sequestered to the south gym, then called the girls' gym. We weren't even allowed to practice in the boys' cool gym. (This gym is where 17 Again was filmed, incidentally). But now, the school has relabeled the gyms North & South. Maya was confused (rightfully) when I, out of habit, called it the girls' gym. The girls' program used to play on different days and seemed completely separate from the boys program, but now the girls teams play before the boys games. I think that's sick. The crowds come for the girls and stay for the boys. We used to have to beg the boys team to come support us and now they are in the stands, cheering, yelling things to their athlete friends on the girls squad. Our girls varsity team has a swagger that moves me. Entitlement, ladies. Grab it while it's hot.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S045AyiJg0I/AAAAAAAABv4/YAx-JYPVkpc/s1600-h/samoballers!.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426337286755812162" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/S045AyiJg0I/AAAAAAAABv4/YAx-JYPVkpc/s400/samoballers!.JPG" /></a> Maya has melded so seamlessly with her freshman team. As a parent, we want many, many things for our kids: The obvious stuff, the priorities, the basics, opportunities -- the list is endless -- and this is what takes 24hours a day, but when the special extras work out, you want them to enjoy it full hilt. I couldn't guarantee her that high school would be enjoyable. Middle school was tough so I was prepared to guide her through high school too; to be herself, stay strong, build character, learn lots, enjoy what she enjoys. It's not always fun to encourage an effort-filled enjoyment of life, but sometimes that's how it is. But her high school experience so far has been just great. A lot of that has been because she is on this team. She's comfortable being herself. She's respected as an athlete. Boy athletes crush on her. She became fast and deep friends with two girls on her team, girls who I'd gladly call my own. They're on the left there; Mama E (they call her) is on the left, Messiah in the middle. If Messiah isn't the greatest girls name in the history of girls names, I'm not sure what is. These are the friendships that could last a lifetime. I know it did for me with Betsy. This is exactly how we were. Anyway, Maya's team experience is teaching her things about living and being a person that I can't really reach. It's like filling in the nooks and crannies of her growing up. She obviously has to fill in some of that stuff on her own and being a team member is allowing a lot of that.<br /><br />So, in last night's parent meeting, when the conversation of fundraising was belabored and pummeled over our heads until many parents' lips curled in resentment, I got it. Even after the meeting, Maya bashed on all the emphasis on raising money and I told her not to. Our grassroots fundraising is the only way we can keep the program thriving. Her coach has said that he wants the girls program to be as respected as the boys. He's done a lot to make that happen and I anticipate that Maya will benefit from it all for the next four years whether she realizes how special her extras really are.<br /><br />I'm going to run a 10K on Feb 7th to raise money for the girls program. Would this be something you'd support? $20 here, $10 there to encouragement me to bust it out for our basketball team? I wish I was ready to run in something more noble and impressive, but for short-notice fundraising ideas, this is what I can do. Any bit will help, seriously. The next post will have more details. Go Vikings!Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-30424450596888644392009-12-30T10:37:00.000-08:002009-12-30T14:12:25.311-08:00Gimme a New Year With SoulI'm gonna ask Mr. Billy Preston to bring in my new year because I want to do this dance every day of 2010. I can twine and jerk, yes I can.<br /><br />Give it to me, Agent Double O Soul. (This clip is from a movie so I urge you to stop watching after 1:40. That just me.) Ok, sock it to me good, Double O.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ikb40zUdGAA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ikb40zUdGAA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />Ug, that's too good.<br /><br />I offer some emotional fodder for those of you who are feeling and needing other things for 2010. Commonly, we need similar things in a fresh year; change, letting go, renewal, love, hope, simplicity. We might need them at different times, but our themes, I imagine, intersect. This is why even when these aren't my particular themes for the year, I feel deeply for them. I feel your paths, friends. They are often my path too. This song below was a lifeline for me during my Adventist days -- my christian stint as it were -- when I was 17, 18, 19. This song saved me more than getting dunked did, though the entire experience was unbelievably worthwhile. This song was solely about surrender, for me, and I didn't know to who or what I was surrendering, but I just needed to lay down my troubles somewhere for a while. I appreciated the help, more so than any of the church members would ever know. This song was sung in my church very similarly to this version and I'd sit in the wood pew, alone; I'd slump down and cry my eyes out. (You'll notice in the video that two of the singers become overcome with emotion in the end). Back then, I needed so much. I needed help then, so much, I didn't know where to start or who to ask, and this song let me set it all afloat, for a little time at least. On me, suffocating me, it was too much, but drifting away, it seemed more manageable. Though I don't subscribe to fundamentalism now, I'm still all for giving in to something bigger.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qmf6CqRUYPk&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qmf6CqRUYPk&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />Needing change is a big new year theme. I don't feel this personally this year, but usually change comes anyway. This song is for you needing it. It's hard to beat Sam Cooke's version, but my girl Lauren stabs me. I miss her, but I honor however singing conventionally tortures her. She's done plenty for me in her short career.<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ErD-uawYMWE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ErD-uawYMWE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />My themes this year are about simplicity; the soulful renewal of all things simple. It's also about giving more. I figure I have to work on that one, every year, until it's all given away. Oh and I'm gonna work on my running game; maybe tighten up my music game.<br /><br />As a good faith downpayment for my tightened music game, I offer the amazing Bebe and Siempre Me Quedará (I'll Always Keep)<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NNrJsFtux7A&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NNrJsFtux7A&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Happy New Year, my friends. Here's to socking it to ourselves this year.Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-14682094864267081362009-12-09T09:58:00.000-08:002009-12-09T12:49:18.062-08:00LoveHusband called his dad a couple days ago to check on him. Big Papi said, "Just sitting here watching the game with Mom." And that's all he said about that. So Husband called Mama Luz the next day to get the full scoop and she said, "I told that fucking bitch from the laundromat to stay away from my man!"<br /><br />And both sentences -- watching the game with Mom and I told that bitch -- mean the same thing: We love each other very much and we're working this out. Big Papi could have easily said, "Still in the car." And Mama Luz could have easily said, "I told that bitch she could have him," but they didn't. We're encouraging them to talk it out instead of glossing this over. They said they are. They said they want to visit us in February and we're jumping up and down to make that happen. We're just waiting to hear when the school year has a break for Mama Luz. She drives the school bus.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Monday was the anniversary of Mama's death. The date - Dec 7 - burns lows at the bottom of my psyche, like an eternal last light of a dying kerosene lamp. That date is kind of like my birthday, like, when I randomly hear someone say my birth date, I get a jolt of recognition. I get a current from Dec 7th too, the mention of it or anything related. I said to Husband, "My grandmother passed away today." He said, "I'm sorry, baby." I calculated the years. "It's been 27 years now. That's weird. 27 years is a long time." He said, "I'm sorry." I said, "But 15 is a hard age to lose the only person who liked you." I laughed. He said, "We like you, baby. You have big fans in this house!" I said, "Oh, I know, papi. Thank you."<br /><br />For the splitest of seconds, I thought maybe Mama had something to do with bringing Papi and me together though, really, I don't believe in that. And I believe in a lot of wonky spiritual, unseen shit. I believe our cherished dead can protect us in subtle ways. I believe in the power and spirituality of nature. I believe in god, a flowing energy that connects anything living -- including plants and animals -- externally and internally. I really believe in that form of god. I believe in prayer even if its sole power is to make us feel better. I believe in good and bad luck, to an extent. I believe in the santos for the same reason I believe in prayer. I believe in not crossing other people's god because not only is that disrespectful, it's bad luck. And their god is probably from the same source as your god anyway. I think karma is overrated and misunderstood. I think karma just happens and it's ironic and missing the point to strive for it. You do good to just do good and you don't do bad because it's hurtful and bad. Then karma might happen. I believe in doing good. And I believe in the power of myself because I'm connected to that god source, and this is why I don't think Mama had anything to do with bringing my husband and me together. I did that. But she did teach me how to love. I love him well because of the smallest amount of time I got to be with her. And because of me, of course. Man, it was so short though, that time with her. It was a fraction of my big life and I am still so affected by the infinite spec of love she poured over me. I admit that most times I think of the absence of her, especially our painful seperation when she was alive, and I was wracked with a child's panic caused from being apart from her. I starved for the attention she gave me and felt quietly gutted out when I couldn't get it enough. I resorted to sad, old-soul tactics – and being an old soul is overrated too because a child is only told that when they dig too deeply into themselves to extract what they lack on the outside, what they need so badly, so they dig to tap into that god source for self comfort and this makes the eyes immediately age. So as I kid, I believed I could talk to her in my mind; I caved over the panic to calm myself down and I made it into a glowing pool, a bright and secret source of love. I stored it, and waited. I waited until a ton of years later when I was able to dump it on my girls, my Husband. Turns out, the pool keeps going, it doesn't run out. Just grows and grows. I did that.<br /><br />Thank you Mama. Thank you for starting the pool-source and for teaching me that kindness and gratitude never run out either. I miss you so much.Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-52231044206207643322009-12-02T09:34:00.000-08:002009-12-02T12:40:32.130-08:00Ancient Lessons In CoupledomI thought a long time before writing this because it hurts. And it's not my story. But in a way, it could be and is often any couple's story.<br /><br />Mama Luz kicked Big Papi out of the house a week ago. She called us to tell us that they were done; it was over after 33 years. To say that we were floored is sparkles and sunshine compared to how we felt. We were stomped and pinned, breathless. Tears exploded out of us. They had been a united, anchored boulder in our eyes. They were not perfect, but perfect for each other certainly. They championed each other, for god’s sake, and this idea of championing is so comfortably key to a relationship. Not long ago, friends had put that notion to words and we believed it so fiercely, didn't we? From the just-married, to those seeking love, to me who has been married almost 12 years. I absolutely believed it a cornerstone. But it was not enough. It is not enough.<br /><br />Husband's and my faith in love, in coupledom, in foreverness diminished greatly in the wake of her words. How does anybody make it, we thought. We looked at each other and with no hesitation clung to each other, said I love you's a hundred times as our understanding of a solid relationship crumbled and slid away from us. I suppose we could have questioned ourselves, but even more we felt, fuck it, we'll be the last couple standing then. In our instant and gut reaction to each other, we didn't know many details of their demise. All that became important was that our belief in each other was real because nothing else was, it seemed.<br /><br />All the grown kids -- Husband, his sister Baby Luz and me -- have taken shifts on talking it out with them, mainly with Mama Luz because she's more vocal – lord, is she vocal. We take turns relieving the high-pressure steam that is her volcanic emotion, and Husband works on luring the petrified and frozen and near non-existent emotion buried so deeply in his dad. Husband is chipping away in a way that makes me well up with pride. He is a progressive and well-adjusted man saving his father. It's so beautiful it hurts. At the surface, there was an indiscretion. This time by him. In the past, by her. But the thing that drew the line -- a line which has cracked into a gapping chasm after decades -- is the most simple and complex of couple problems; communicating real feelings. She bulldozes. He withdraws. Both styles hem each other up. Over the years, they've glazed it all over with pleasantries and the mundane day to day. He retreats to the TV and she fixes the house. Talk of intimacy, of appreciation, of basic and deep love became cemented and trapped under the glaze. I think many couples are just a few quiet nights from getting here; a few sexless weeks, months, years and then it seems too hard to go back. Each year made it harder on them. Until last week when he decided to get shit off his chest in what he felt was a strong way -- a putting-the-foot-down kind of way -- and it came out so rusty and awkward and hurtful, like he was vomiting sharp rocks. And that sparked her to come back with her raw force, so hurtful and fierce. He tried to match her thunder, but that's not his strength because he was usually the balance of calm and love. She's the action and passion. They don't weave their strengths together anymore we found out.<br /><br />What is the championing worth if after we've beaten back the hurtful world we can't tell each other how wonderful we make each other feel, how beautiful they look, how sexy they are, what do you need mami/papi, I love you. I'm crying typing this because it hurts to know they've gone so long without this.<br /><br />Big Papi is sleeping in his car, in the NY winter. We cancelled our Puerto Rico trip to help them (I know -- more on that later. In short, it seems ridiculous to spend all that money on a vacation when family is in severe crisis and needs help.) We were ready to pay for a motel for him, but he refused. We stopped insisting when we realized he was punishing himself. And he knows her well because it's been the only thing that has cracked her so-tough veneer. Her conversations go from fuck that motherfucker, which we expect, to "At least he took his blanket," and "At least it's not that cold tonight," which almost brings us to tears. Old fashioned penance is working some sort of magic on her. And our hearts are breaking each time we talk to them and realize how much they still love each other. But they’ve mistreated each other; their silence the biggest abuser. If they can only crack the glaze, move mountains of resentment, forgive, talk, weave, love again. I'm not sure they'll get there yet, but there's hope. When I was talking to her a couple days ago, when she was spewing F bombs and yelling shit to me that I didn't ever want to hear about him, I told her that she didn't deserve to feel this hurt and I know she was angry, but we had hope for them; we knew there was love, that they need to talk it out more, get counseling. She said she'd cut him if he came by - sigh. It was the first seed planted about hope and she went bananas on me, screaming, "I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU DO IT OVER THERE, BUT WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU EVEN TELL ME TO THINK ABOUT GOING BACK TO THAT MOTHERFUCKER?? IF YOUR HUSBAND DID THAT TO YOU---" And on. I don't take this personally because I know that's just how she communicates, but I know I had to get forceful back. I yelled back that Hell yes, I'd be fucking angry and all his fucking shit would be on the lawn too, but I would want someone to tell me to just consider the years we've had, consider talking it out. To my surprise, she got quiet for like one second. Then I broke the news that he was sleeping in his car. And she quietly said, "Good."<br /><br />My husband has been a hero. He had to track his dad down to talk it out. Big Papi is mortified by the whole thing, reeling in confusion, wishing he never opened his mouth or strayed. He wishes it would all go away now. He wants to come home; he wants his wife back, but Husband told him he can't have it like he had it. He shouldn't want it how it was and it will take a lot to work it out. My husband gave him such sound advice on how to be a fully realized man. The role reversal, son teaching father, was emotional. He was a beacon of light, a savior to a man who could have easily cocooned himself and faded away to crushing loneliness, poverty, sadness, nothingness. He said, "Dad, I'm your only son and I need you. I need you to talk more. We need it. Mom needs it." And Big Papi bawled his eyes out and so did Husband. The last conversation was a gem too, but more in a get-your-shit together kind of way. I heard things like, "That's your woman. Go get her, and treat her like your woman should be treated." I was like, goddamn, baby.<br /><br />Anyway, it's all broken down to be built back up into something better and much more solid and loving, if they're both willing. There's so much shit through which to traverse though. I don't envy the work ahead of them if they wish to take it on, but god, we hope they do. The thought of them losing their loves while in their sixties is painful. But in the end, it is not our relationship to save. We can help them see some light, some hope, help pay for counseling. We can let them know that we want them to fight. Husband gave tremendous advice, but it will be their work that saves them. I can only work on loving my man the best I can, talking to him, appreciating him, staring at him like he's the last biscuit on a desert island, and of course, still championing him until the wheels fall off.Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-28970401860421348282009-11-20T09:03:00.000-08:002020-12-04T22:48:39.702-08:00Use Your Skills for Good I took Mina and her BFF to see the junior division of the <a href="http://derbydolls.com/la/">LA Derby Dolls</a> and I gotta say it was the best time I've had in a long time. I had been a fan of roller derby as a kid in the 70's, when Skinny Minnie Miller was a star and the games were scripted like the WWF. Women's roller derby has made a big surge in the last couple years and now it's treated like a true sport where points are scored legitimately. The camp factor aside, these women are athletes and I got oddly teary-eyed when the intro music was blaring and the skaters were rolling around the rink in a warm-up pack, crouched and bouncing. Man, any kind of empowerment chokes me up every time. The skater's names were hilarious: Anya Handsanneez. Cherrylicious. O. Hellno. Eat-It Piaf. If it was raunchy or violent, it was incorporated into a name. Of course I spent most of the game coming up with my own name when I become a derby star. Here it is: Celia Cruzinforabrusin. Best name ever, right? Don't lie. I shouldn't have posted this! Don't steal it! Anyway, Mina and I were screaming at the skaters by the end, and she was begging me to join the little girl league, which starts at age 8. I'm seriously thinking about letting her do it, but dang if that's not one more thing on our plates. We got this terrible picture of her and her favorite skater, Slammin Amazon from the Hells Belles.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SwgV_j3PQQI/AAAAAAAABtA/rkjhcS8_4Ps/s1600/slamminamazon.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406595534361149698" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SwgV_j3PQQI/AAAAAAAABtA/rkjhcS8_4Ps/s400/slamminamazon.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>
Speaking of Mina, I had her parent-teacher conference this week. I got good and bad news. The good news is that she's doing pretty well in school! She's learning how to juggle more and more balls and all in all, she's doing well. Tests scores are average, but again I got a comment regarding her thought process. Like, she was the only kid that mentioned the overall message of the book in their big book report project; she didn't just summarize facts. I do influence her to think like that, but she still processed it and put it in her report by herself. When making her auto biographical poster, she was one of three kids only, when asked what they'd do with a million dollars, who said they'd be charitable with it. She said she'd give half to the schools and spend the other half traveling the world, helping kids. Gulp. So proud. So, the bad news? Mina decided to get in a good amount of trouble on the playground the day before my conference. Demerits and all, which demerits really don't mean shit compared to the trouble from me when I heard the news. Mina is drawn to a particular girl who is doing poorly in school, but has the sharp, mean wit of a 30 year old. Who doesn't love that type? She's hilarious, but I told Mina that if this girl influenced her in a negative way, it would be lights out on the friendship. They had been doing well. We had even taught the friend a few manners when she was up at our house; she seemed new to those. But last week the friend decided during lunch that she didn't want another girl to be on the handball court and she instructed Mina to throw a ball at the girl to drive her off. There are not many kids in school, girl or boy, who can hit a kid with a ball on command, but Mina can. Her arm is laser-like in precision and impact. So Mina does it and the friend then demands that Mina throw it again, but harder. The victim tries to duck and hits her head on the handball court while doing so. The teacher told me she knew that this is not Mina's nature and that when Mina got caught, she welled up immediately, but still my jaw dropped a little and all I heard for the rest of our meeting was: My child has used her powers for evil, not good. She was a follower-pawn of evil. That and, ooo I'm gonna whoop her tiny ass when we get home.
I'm not one to get mad about many things. The girls can push me around to a certain extent as long as they're not nasty about it. As long as their school work is their priority and they are kind-hearted, good people, I pretty much lay down for anything. If they're slipping in grades or school work, that can be worked out, y'know? But when I hear that they have shown signs of maliciousness and bullying, that unglues me. That upsets me to no end. Fuck some algebra if you can't be a kind and decent person or can't have a mind of their own. If they use a great athletic talent to hurt and scare someone, that's when they see a mami they don't ever want to see. I don't get ragey. That's not my style, but I did spank her, which I haven't done in a long time, and honestly this upsets me enough to make me teary so when I gave her the big-picture, universal talk about thinking for herself, not being a robot and most importantly being a kind person, I was on the verge of crying, and that cut in her like a sniper bullet. Choked up, I told her that she was a great person, that I knew that like no one else did, "So, be great," I told her. She cried and we hugged hard for a while and that was that. She was back to being great. Oh and she can't hang with that friend anymore, which is a bummer because the girl was growing on me.
Here's Mina's 5th grade school picture. When she gave it to me she said, "Aren't I BEAU-ti-ful?" She was beaming over the picture. I said, "You certainly are." She said, "My hair is so shiny and perfect, dang." Man, I laughed. I said, "You have a beautiful smile, Mina." She said, "DON'T I?" I said, "And I dig that necklace you picked out." She said, "I KNOW!" To say that these girls have extra helpings in the confidence department is the understatement of the year. <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SwgfyJLxuJI/AAAAAAAABtI/e3gK4cqx16o/s1600/nov09.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406606298977515666" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SwgfyJLxuJI/AAAAAAAABtI/e3gK4cqx16o/s400/nov09.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 224px;" /></a>
Here's Maya showing her confidence before her first, high school Homecoming dance!<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/Swgi3ILUHHI/AAAAAAAABtQ/ji8pyA9dXjM/s1600/nov09+003.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406609683141368946" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/Swgi3ILUHHI/AAAAAAAABtQ/ji8pyA9dXjM/s400/nov09+003.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 224px;" /></a>Now, give me a goofy dance move for good measure.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SwgpM9VrM0I/AAAAAAAABtY/Nf2F-qHoy_8/s1600/nov09+004.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406616655258923842" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SwgpM9VrM0I/AAAAAAAABtY/Nf2F-qHoy_8/s400/nov09+004.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 224px;" /></a>
Now, work it out with AW.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SwgssBoZLYI/AAAAAAAABtg/ySf62k_mpGU/s1600/nov09+007.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406620487522004354" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SwgssBoZLYI/AAAAAAAABtg/ySf62k_mpGU/s400/nov09+007.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 224px;" /></a>Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-46794492792848475232009-10-28T11:33:00.000-07:002009-10-28T12:58:37.675-07:00Resisting the CaveSo, there I was, laying down my parental wisdom (again) on my girl, Maya; giving a fab speech about high school drama. She's been in the thick of it lately with crushes & breakups -- her own and in the middle of her friends'. I was telling her not to get caught up in what other kids say and not to tell them too much of her own business because this only becomes fodder for them to exploit, and then Maya stopped my speech and said, "Mami, you don't like ANY drama at all. But I like a little bit of drama." This stopped me in my tracks for a minute because I've spent 14 years teaching her to have her own mind, and I admire her for taking me up on that piece of sound advice, but for a second I was bummed that her own mind was separate from mine -- just for a second I felt that. I'm allowed, right? I did not express that to her, of course. Then I was proud of her for being so honest and self aware.<br /><br />And then I felt lonely.<br /><br />I can't express enough how parenting is an all day, every day, every minute venture. It takes a type of dedication that wins medals and cash money and nobel prizes outside of the parental arena. And I'm getting to that stage of parenting where we are supposed to know how to gracefully pull back the intensity. Where we give them space to be themselves, ease up on our gas and so delicately not dump any of our own shit full-load onto their heads. We are told to be prepared for all of this and it's just supposed to be so seamless to shift gears and watch them drift away. I mean, I know we want this. I know it will happen. But ain't that a bitch?<br /><br />It's that I like them so much. The three of us are joined together and do so much together. And it's time that I peel away from Maya a little, unnoticed, and let her text out her dramafied scenarios by herself and hang out in her room with her ipod, while I take up something else that will fill that intense parental-focus hole. Cage Boxing, maybe.<br /><br />In the scheme of all things teenage, Maya really is a breeze. I'm fully aware and thankful. We've just had a series of independent baby steps lately. I shouldn't be surprised by how lonely it makes me feel. I'm just very attuned to how loneliness feels, I think, and it doesn't necessarily panic me, but makes me shrink back a bit. Like, loneliness or aloneness is supposed to be my natural state. Like, I come out of a cave to connect with people just a little bit and then burrow back down into my mind. Husband is out of town too and his work, in general, is beating him down big time, so with that, I feel exposed to how much emphasis I put on the girls especially when Maya and I go through these natural and smooth baby steps towards independence. It makes me question the time I've put in. Like, was/is it too much. Obviously not, but I guess it's natural to question every step we've made as parents. I second guess, sometimes, making their emotional state at all times the golden number one. It wouldn't have happened any other way though.<br /><br />Objectively, I gladly sling shot these kids into the stratosphere and without a trace of my bullshit smeared on them. And I know, too, that it's ok to feel how I'm feeling even if it’s quietly (other than the blog!) and even if I want to fight the loneliness for once.Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-30977723994049291612009-10-23T09:16:00.000-07:002009-10-23T09:58:16.514-07:00Begone Woe TattooHi Friends,<br /><br />I've crossed over. I am the tattoo lady. I'm sleeve bound perhaps.<br /><br />But this, this put a high bounce to my step when lately I've had a hard time catching a rhythm or any kind of spark. Here is my Begone Woe tattoo, right on the inner forearm. No hiding it now. Behold:<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHYWlAMPNI/AAAAAAAABsA/0Cx5r14QFHI/s1600-h/oct09+013.jpg"><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395831710968200402" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHYWlAMPNI/AAAAAAAABsA/0Cx5r14QFHI/s400/oct09+013.jpg" /></a></p>Bye woe, with her lil kerchief.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHY8zKkkHI/AAAAAAAABsI/KkYTZDJ81WE/s1600-h/oct09+014.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395832367604863090" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHY8zKkkHI/AAAAAAAABsI/KkYTZDJ81WE/s400/oct09+014.jpg" /></a>A petal on the bike wheel! Heartgush. <p><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHbklp58bI/AAAAAAAABsg/Z8rueJ7Bwok/s1600-h/oct09+005.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395835250196214194" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHbklp58bI/AAAAAAAABsg/Z8rueJ7Bwok/s400/oct09+005.jpg" /></a> The details slay me. Look at the hem of her dress and her precious face, and the sash and the jewlery! I love her so much.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHZnutOPbI/AAAAAAAABsQ/xx7DK_YORTE/s1600-h/oct09+015.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395833105142398386" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHZnutOPbI/AAAAAAAABsQ/xx7DK_YORTE/s400/oct09+015.jpg" /></a> And the details of the bike; the itty bitty shield thing on the frame.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHaNhkbQ-I/AAAAAAAABsY/lkuExMK0vZ8/s1600-h/oct09+008.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395833754450871266" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHaNhkbQ-I/AAAAAAAABsY/lkuExMK0vZ8/s400/oct09+008.jpg" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHdcPmsYPI/AAAAAAAABso/OgzwCWR1UlQ/s1600-h/oct09+006.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395837305861464306" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/SuHdcPmsYPI/AAAAAAAABso/OgzwCWR1UlQ/s400/oct09+006.jpg" /></a> Happy Friday Familia. Feels good to be on the upswing again. Begone Woe! Come, Hope.<br /></p>Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-26352356288157525042009-10-15T10:14:00.001-07:002009-10-15T12:48:25.378-07:00Impossible MotherhoodA couple days ago I read an article in the LA Times about a book called Impossible Motherhood by Irene Vilar. The title of the article was: Memoir of a former abortion addict. The by-line: In 'Impossible Motherhood,' Irene Vilar, now a mother of two, writes of what led her to have 15 pregnancies ended.<br /><br />Vilar writes of her fifteen abortions.<br /><br />I was sort of stunned when I read the title because as an adamant pro-choicer and a feminist (are we comfortable with this word yet? I am) I still felt squeamish and light-headed by this notion.<br /><br />Before reading the article, I tried to imagine what would lead Vilar to this level of self-abuse. Standard and societal judgments leapt to mind. It's easy to dismiss someone as careless, ignorant, which I could not keep myself from initially feeling. When I stopped myself from this sort of judgment, I considered that we fight for rights period, right? We don't fight for rights to then judge the extent by which they are exercised.<br /><br />Then I read the article. The complexities of Vilar are so entangled that simple judgments of her are trite, insignificant. I have not stopped thinking about her. One publisher -- one of the 51 who had first rejected the book -- said that the memoir was too painful to publish. The reason the book finally did get published was because it is intelligently written even if her story hangs in the balance of an undeniably complicated issue.<br /><br />Vilar's abortions were a protest of sort; self-abuse as revolt. That is my interpretation, and this thought hurts me. Much of Vilar's revolt seems subconscious, a sickness that she was unable to stop for a long time. She explains it like another other addiction. When I learned more of the complexity of her rebelliousness against her ex-husband (she was 16 and he 50 when they met; he insisted they have no children) and even more compelling, her familial and cultural history, Vilar's story became a multi-generational, gender-encompassing tragic flood.<br /><br />Vilar grandmother was Lolita Lebron, the Puerto Rican nationalist who moved to NY in the 1950's - leaving behind her family -- and then shot up the U.S. House of Representatives, wounding five congressmen. She was convicted of trying to overthrow the US government and served 25 years in prison. Lebron left behind Vilar's mother in PR, an infant at the time of the shooting. Vilar's mother eventually killed herself by jumping from a moving car while 8 year old Vilar tried to hold her back. Several factors contributed to Vilar's mother's severe depression: Being abandoned by Lebron, her cheating husband, and a coerced, unneeded hysterectomy at age 33.<br /><br />Here's a passage from the article:<br /><br />"Puerto Rico, at the time, was a living laboratory for American-sponsored birth control research. In 1956, the first birth control pills -- 20 times stronger than they are today -- were tested on mostly poor Puerto Rican women, who suffered dramatic side effects. Starting in the 1930s, the American government's fear of overpopulation and poverty on the island led to a program of coerced sterilization. After Vilar's mother gave birth to one of her brothers, she writes, doctors threatened to withhold care unless she consented to a tubal ligation.<br /><br />These feelings of powerlessness -- born of a colonial past, acted out on a grand scale or an intimate one -- are the ties that bind the women of Vilar's family.<br /><br />'If there is something that is intersecting across generations -- my grandmother, my mother and me -- it's the issue of control," said Vilar. "I chose a very private drama to show my problem of control, my mother chose a personal one, not as intimate as mine, and with my grandmother, it was the ultimate political control.'"<br /><br />I'm so heavy-hearted about the depth of this story especially as the book starts to kick up a duststorm for the Pro-Life movement. They use Vilar's story as an argument for them, an example of how we women cannot control ourselves. Women must need governmental parenting. The push for their own agenda demeans any significance in relation to our historical damage. This is not to say Vilar has nonchalantly experienced her abortions. Many were followed by suicide attempts. If she is brutally honest about her experiences, she is also very humbled by the feminist movement which kept abortions safe and legal in the US. She is alive because of the movement, she says, because she would have aborted anyway, by any means. Her addiction and struggle with self-determination and control may have been a painful revolt, but they were still exclusive from the positive gains that the feminist movement championed. Vilar's revolt was strictly personal, yet it still makes me think of our long history of oppression. I feel it so deeply with her story.<br /><br />Anyway, I wanted to tell you about the book because I think it will be kept pretty low key, except by Pro Life advocates, which is unfortunate. Pro Choicers seem to be fairly mute on Vilar's story, but I could imagine that the basic battle to keep abortion laws in place is difficult enough without having to debate Vilar's situation.<br /><br />Here's the <a href="http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/news/la-et-abortion-memoir13-2009oct13,0,7832320.story?page=1">LA Times article here</a> if you want to read a bit more.Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-40874366220441847332009-10-13T11:31:00.001-07:002020-12-04T22:57:35.377-08:00Rambling Out of a RutJohn Wooden was a little ahead of my time though I still bow down to him as the basketball god that he is. He turns 99 tomorrow. He might be waiting around for another UCLA championship, but he'll be well past the century mark if that's gonna happen. Though Wooden is rightfully revered, Chick Hearn was the old basketball dude who I loved. I pretended he was my grandfather when I spent plenty of nights alone, watching Laker games of the Showtime era on our thirteen inch black and white TV that got three channels. And one of those was channel 9! Thank god; home of the Lakers and home of the voice of Chick Hearn, my fantasy grandfather and long-time Laker announcer. Inches from the screen (because that shit was still kinda snowy) I'd eat toasted almond ice cream by the bowlful, enraptured by the drama that was playoff basketball of the 1980's. Man, I would laugh at Chick's sayings (THE JELLLOOO'S JIGGLING!) and whoop at the TV when the Lakers kept my hope buoyant. Chick Hearn was the only celebrity that got a tear from me when he passed. He was good company for a lonely kid. <div><br /></div><div>I took the girls to a couple more writing workshops at 826LA over the weekend. They were split in different groups on different days this time; more in their own age group. Mina's was back in Echo Park. While she wrote about Creatures of the Future, Maya and I went to the second-hand store across the street and browsed. I tried to convince Maya to get a navy corduroy jacket from maybe the 80's that had a huge sew patch on the back of the University of Wisconsin Eau Claire. On the front, in yellow, the name Andrea was embroidered and underneath was her title (I don't remember it now) in the Agricultural department. Then I tried to convince Maya that bowling shirts used to be the main reason we went to thrift stores back in the day. I held up a shirt for her to try on, and she said, "I can't wear that shirt. It says Lorraine on it." I was like, Yes! That's -- you want to -- Lorraine! It says Lorraine, dude. She wasn't having it. But she did go for the old blue Boy Scout shirt with the many patches. So, I got through a little. On Sunday, Maya's workshop was called "Secrets & Lies." Nice! It was about telling truth through lies through dialogue. How cool is that? This workshop was at the Venice location, in an upstairs office of the <a href="http://www.sparcmurals.org/sparcone/index.php?option=com_frontpage&Itemid=1">SPARC</a> building. SPARC is the creation of <a href="http://madorganica.blogspot.com/2009/03/lonely-great-wall.html">Judy Baca</a>. Baca has been the premiere, political muralist of Los Angeles for three decades. This is the building my mother worked at for years in the late 70’s, early 80’s. SPARC used to be the old jailhouse in Venice and I remember as a kid loving that some offices were actual jail cells, with bars and everything. While Maya was in workshop, I wrote a bit. But then I wandered the halls of a closed SPARC, swearing it used to be bigger and still awed by it. I didn't have my camera, but I took a few photos with my phone. Baca's work is still so relevant and interesting and phenomenal. She exudes power, mainly. Power in dissent. Power in cultural and gender self acceptance. It's the feeling I had there as a kid; these halls makes one feel powerful:
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTQF53n0TI/AAAAAAAABrQ/RNRt6zCzrOc/s1600-h/goddesstree.jpg"><p><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392163453721366834" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTQF53n0TI/AAAAAAAABrQ/RNRt6zCzrOc/s400/goddesstree.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></p></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTQYDFVUeI/AAAAAAAABrY/jobNCvWgy4Q/s1600-h/sparchall.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392163765432439266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTQYDFVUeI/AAAAAAAABrY/jobNCvWgy4Q/s400/sparchall.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTQnwX1OtI/AAAAAAAABrg/IBByEytH0vs/s1600-h/sparcstairs.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392164035287661266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTQnwX1OtI/AAAAAAAABrg/IBByEytH0vs/s400/sparcstairs.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTQ6YzJUpI/AAAAAAAABro/04dkQVUbURA/s1600-h/robertkennedy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392164355377287826" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTQ6YzJUpI/AAAAAAAABro/04dkQVUbURA/s400/robertkennedy.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>
Here's some outside:<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTRLebV2xI/AAAAAAAABrw/nQQ3kzRVk7s/s1600-h/sparcparkinglot.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392164648945834770" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTRLebV2xI/AAAAAAAABrw/nQQ3kzRVk7s/s400/sparcparkinglot.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTRbTyqyfI/AAAAAAAABr4/xgC_x43C0NU/s1600-h/sparcmural.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392164920968792562" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DmNqwNWwNkM/StTRbTyqyfI/AAAAAAAABr4/xgC_x43C0NU/s400/sparcmural.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br /></div><div>We watched a movie called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chocolate_(2008_film)">Chocolate</a>. It's a Thai movie about an autistic teenage girl who could pick up martial arts moves just by watching them -- then it was time to avenge her mother! It was awesome. The movie had some of the best fight scenes we've seen in a long time. The film was on the cheesy side - it's martial arts flick -- but seriously, that girl kicked ass, Muay Thai style. Mina watched it twice. One of the best fights, though one of the shorter ones, was between the girl and the bad guy's pawn who was more severely autistic for Battle Autism. The boy fought in a series of unpredictable twitches and B-boy moves. He wore Run DMC glasses and an Adidas track suit! The girl was taken aback until she picked up his moves - because that's her power! She was so good. <p><br /></p></div>Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-150274795966848122009-09-30T12:00:00.000-07:002009-09-30T16:17:32.703-07:00Queen of the Setting SunThat's the third line from my high school anthem, where Maya goes now. I went to Back-to-School night there last night, and though I experienced much trepidation when visiting her/our middle school, I felt energized on the high school campus. I do have very fond memories from the place. I didn't exactly realize that until the class reunions, and now, spending a fair amount of time on campus and reliving it through Maya.<br /><br />All of Maya's teachers are great, but I'll make special mention of her honors English teacher who is young and smart and funny and puts literature on a golden pedestal. I almost begged to audit his class for the year. I wanted to hear every discussion about the books they'd read. Of course, this is Maya's time to sort out and discuss and fall in love with it all, which will certainly happen in this class. She and I are going to read some of her assigned books together so we can talk about them. I say it's to discuss together, but really rereading these classics has been so joyful for me. I told you how I felt about recently rereading To Kill A Mockingbird. Now I'm reading The Great Gatsby and man, it's so good. Why was it not this good before? Oh, it was? My mind just hadn't busted through its young fog yet? Maya's teacher is a leading authority of Steinbeck's work; he gives lectures across the country so, whoa, cool. He's going to be great for her, just like my high school literature teacher was for me.<br /><br />Did I tell you Maya made the freshman basketball team? That experience has been pretty magical in itself. I don't think you can beat the whole budding-into-adulthood-team-bonding experience. Maya's thrilled about it all and so far, the girls have been great. Maya's jockeying for the JV team already, which I heard from the head coach. He said that Maya told him straight up she wanted to be on JV. And I threw my head back and laughed. I told him, "Good for her." He nodded, "Yea, I liked that." The JV coach told Maya, "Someone's gonna be a leader of my team pretty soon." And Maya said, "Oh yes I will be." Haha, man, I love hearing about the bravery of my girls from other people.<br /><br />The high school football games have already been seriously dramatic for Maya. She attended the first game of the year, her first game ever, and she was jazzed by the whole experience of rooting with her friends. Tragically, during the game one of our players was seriously hurt. His neck was accordioned in a tackle and he lay motionless on the field for 30 minutes as the paramedics took their time getting him carefully onto a gurney and rushed to the hospital. It's been three weeks now since it happened. He's still in ICU, his breathing tube just recently removed, and they aren't saying much about the long-term effects. That does not sound good, but we can only wish him the best of thoughts. The whole school rallies for him; this is obviously very impactful on the students. The USC football team and Pete Carroll have called him, encouraging him. Last week, Maya went to the football game again. It was a close one against a long-time rival, and right after the game, outside the stadium as kids filed out, a non-student was stabbed by another non-student. Cops were already there monitoring the exit of crowds and the kid was immediately arrested; the stabbed boy will make a full recovery. It was gang related, apparently. The two towns, ours and the opposing football teams', have always had a latin gang history. The cops and the school acted perfectly. Their presence already there during the incident, but still, another big-life/near-death incident for these kids to ponder and secretly stress about.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />During Back-to-School night last night, the parents had to file into the auditorium to hear, I'm not sure what, because I jetted - ditched the entire meeting -- when after looking at the night's program I realized that my favorite teacher of all time, my literature teacher, still taught at the high school. By the light of my cell phone, I saw his name in the program and I ran out to find his class as the choir was singing a lovely rendition of the national anthem. When I found his class, I knew he'd be alone because all the good parents were in the auditorium still.<br /><br />I remember him as a little hemmed up, soft-spoken but with a dry, tight humor. His neck was potmarked and his mouth smaller than most people's, so were his eyes actually, but he laughed easily. He was probably in his early 30's when he taught me and he wore brown corduroys and brown oxford shoes and buttoned-up plaid shirts and horn-rimmed glasses. His age was only revealed in his hair, which displayed a youthful wave. He probably was unaware of the good bounce to his hair. Most importantly, he loved literature and he displayed a thoughtful and kind examination of it that unlocked my own unique and thoughtful examination. He read things similarly to me, obviously on a more advanced, less foggy level, and he held out his hand to me to pull me deep into the full and meaningful view of literature; not always the straight-on perspective. I had him every year for English because I picked his classes as electives too, which included Mythology and Folk as Lit and Bible as Lit. He also ran a lunchtime ping pong club that I frequented. This ping pong club also ran a few games of pickup basketball in the park. I never missed those. He still runs the Ballroom Dance Club at the high school. See? He's perfect.<br /><br />Last night, when I found his class, I spied into his room from the hall. He was standing over his podium, reviewing papers, and I felt a sudden crash of sadness. His hair was gone, shaved to a too-close buzz cut. And I was sad because he was older and I didn't want time to pass for him. I wanted him vibrant and perfect still. I said his name walking into the room. I was wearing my glasses which is an instant disguise for me. Hardly anyone recognizes me with glasses, even people I see regularly. Though his hair was gone, his face looked very much the same, effected only by a bit of a time sag. His attire, his glasses, his small features and potmarked neck, all the same. I said my name and his tiny mouth smiled in surprise. I hugged him though he wasn't really prepared for that and his voice jump started into an easy excitement. We reminisced fondly. I told him about Maya, and he shook his head. I looked at his hand for a wedding ring and saw none. The school rumor back in the day was that he lived with his parents, a man-child with never a love interest. He told me his parents had died a few years ago. I didn't ask about a wife or a partner. We did not have that type of relationship. I was sad again for him. He walked over to his class filing cabinet and without effort pulled out a file and sorted through some papers and 8x10 class photos. He pulled out the photo of my entire 10th grade Lit class circa 1983, and I laughed hard when I saw myself looking earnest, trying not to smile, trying to look scholarly but it was just a parody of that look. I was wearing a bandana on my head, 1940's style, and I was holding a ping pong paddle in my hand across my chest, pledge-like. He said, "See? You were a stand out." I knew not to say, "I was?" because when I was younger he had made me feel like all my comments had been insightful and ahha! worthy. He asked me what I did now. I said, "I'm in technology, but really I'm a writer." He said, "I knew it." Just then a parent came in with a student forcing us to end the reminiscing. I got his email address and went on to Maya's first period on a high, but mad I didn't get a chance to tell him, You were the best. You were my favorite of all time. You encouraged me to love things how I love them now. But I have his email and believe me, these sentiments will get to him soon enough.<br /><br />I honestly believe that Maya will feel the same about her young and vibrant Steinbeck scholar. She has already cried to me about the ending of Of Mice and Men, and I'm already forever grateful to her teacher for that.<br /><br />We’re in month one of high school, people. It’s going to be a profound ride as it was for most all of us.Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-27822867897960710822009-09-21T15:19:00.000-07:002009-09-21T16:36:04.142-07:00826LA Echo ParkFor those of you with school-aged kids, do you know about <a href="http://www.826valencia.org/about/">826</a> started by Dave Eggers? It's a free tutoring program, usually language-arts specific, for all-aged kids. The original is in San Francisco, but they've branched out to many major cities. The building he originally rented for the tutoring/publication space was a retail-only space, so he had to come up with a shop idea, as a facade. They turned the front part of the building into a pirate supply shop. They sold handmade peg legs and evening-wear eye patches, all types of funny and clever pirate things. The store is really just a front to the meaty, inspirational stuff that goes on in the back, though the store does very well now apparently. Eggers' old Brooklyn neighborhood then demanded an 826 center, where one then sprouted with a super-hero supply store facade. The one in LA, in Echo Park, has a Time Travel convenience store front. I've posted a TED clip of an Eggers lecture about the whole deal at the bottom of this post. It's long (20 min), but definitely worth it, especially if it will help you steer your kids in the direction of a (hopefully) local 826 center, which are <a href="http://www.826national.org/chapters/">all around the states now.</a><br /><br />So, as Maya is getting more interested in writing and Mina has been overly worried about the level of writing now demanded of her in fifth grade, I signed them up for an 826 workshop last weekend. The fantastic workshops are also free. This one was called Writing for Pets, where kids of all ages wrote a story specifically for an animal. In fact, volunteers brought in two dogs, a cat and fish as inspiration. Kids read their stories directly to the animals. I chose this particular workshop because it boasted that even the shiest of writers would feel inspired, and this was most important considering Mina's building anxiety about her ability to express herself well enough on paper. But 826 was right on the money. Mina bounced out of the workshop squealing and pumping her fists. Oh my gosh, I was over the moon. The workshop was a little young for Maya, but she still enjoyed it and we all got a huge kick in the pants about the time travel mart. Here's an <a href="http://826la.org/store-sundries/#F.A.T.">online sample</a> of what they sell there. It's all so thoughtful and hilarious.<br /><br />While the girls were in workshop, I went next door to the cozy <a href="http://www.storiesla.com/">Stories Books & Cafe</a> where I scored a $4 used copy of Mrs. Dalloway illustrated with a great 1970's cover, complete with coffee-ring stain. I love it. I then wrote for over an hour until a group met in the cafe planning how they were going to fight some Medieval Renaissance battles around the Echo Park Lake. Not even kidding. I saw velvet costumes on hangers.<br /><br />I snuck back over to the kids' workshop and they told me I could listen in on the last of the readings. I heard pip-squeak voiced kids reading tales of Jonesy the Dog and whispers of fish adventures. Pure heaven. After workshop, the girls ran to me rattling their stories so I'd read them right away. I wasn't allowed to stand up until I had read every word. Their stories were funny and great. Mina was relieved and pumped. Here are the first few lines of her story:<br /><br /><em>Once there was a princess cat named Lucy and she lives in China. Lucy loves to torture any animal that lay foot in her castle. One of the things that she does for torturing is to make the dogs dance a hard dance or clean the castle until it is cleaner than her.<br /></em><br />Maya's was about an Egyptian cat that became a detective to solve mysteries of the pyramids. Both so great!<br /><br />After mulling around the time mart, we headed across the street to a thrift shop and I scored a light grey men's suit vest. It was made for a small man and it had pockets high and low. Maya got an owl t-shirt, and Mina tried on 80's crocheted dresses. As much as I love the Echo Park neighborhood, it was one thousand degrees on the street so we headed home, towards the ocean, for lunch and to plan which workshop they'd take next.<br /><br />Check out Eggers' awesome talk about 826.<br /><object width="446" height="326"><param name="movie" value="http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><param name="bgColor" value="#ffffff"><param name="flashvars" value="vu=http://video.ted.com/talks/DaveEggers_2008-stream-Clay_xxlow.flv&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/DaveEggers-2008.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=432&vh=240&ap=0&ti=233&introDuration=25000&adDuration=0&postAdDuration=0&adKeys=talk=dave_eggers_makes_his_ted_prize_wish_once_upon_a_school;year=2008;theme=words_about_words;theme=how_we_learn;theme=the_creative_spark;theme=ted_prize_winners;event=TED2008;&preAdTag=tconf.ted/embed;tile=1;sz=512x288;"><br /><embed src="http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf" pluginspace="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" bgcolor="#ffffff" width="446" height="326" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="vu=http://video.ted.com/talks/DaveEggers_2008-stream-Clay_xxlow.flv&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/DaveEggers-2008.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=432&vh=240&ap=0&ti=233&introDuration=25000&adDuration=0&postAdDuration=0&adKeys=talk=dave_eggers_makes_his_ted_prize_wish_once_upon_a_school;year=2008;theme=words_about_words;theme=how_we_learn;theme=the_creative_spark;theme=ted_prize_winners;event=TED2008;"></embed></object>Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-79045816823847524872009-09-11T10:20:00.001-07:002020-12-04T23:08:51.036-08:00Me Like DaughtersOnly two things are certain right now: School and Writing.
1. School has started. And this means a rigid schedule is back in effect and it's putting the screws to everyone. Holy shit, it's tight! We've been very graceful about it considering because we've pumped up the Start of School for weeks. Maya's a high schooler! This is huge and wow is she good at it already. She's so responsible and getting in her groove. She’s equal parts maturity and goofiness. So great. Mina's a fifth grader! This is also huge because she's ruling school this year. She's the big cheese. I did not tell you guys that I received her state test scores in the mail a couple weeks ago. We all know the Infamous Second Grade Debacle, how she was tagged as remedial and "not cut out for school" and I, shocked beyond belief, was all, the fuck she ain't and you just don't understand her is all! and I'll take matters in my own hands thank you very little . . .For fourth grade Mina tested advanced in math and just shy of advanced in language arts. It was her best year yet. I rubbed the test paper all over her when she came home. We sang “You did it! You did it!” for days. She was thrilled with herself.
So, anyway, school . . .it's all consuming. Riding their asses is exhausting. Keeping them engaged, very tiring. But seeing them rocket on their own has been transformative for me. You hope it will all pay off but really you can't think about it too much, you just have to do it no matter how it will turn out. They'll still have to make decisions on their own. But honestly, they really are amazing people.
2. Writing. I'm writing so a bunch of other balls have dropped. I get obsessed and then whoa, I wonder if plants need water to live and if so, why haven't they figured out how to do that on their own? Or is toast a legit dinner? I like it. But is it good for everyone else? It's not like I'm at the computer 10 hours a day writing this novel. It's more that I'm thinking about it 10 hours a day so tasks that require, oh, remembering stuff or too much cognitive awareness is challenging. Some of the things I'm still able to do while I'm internally piecing together a plot are: cleaning/laundry, walking the dogs, cracking a homework whip, uh, let's see what else, working (it's robotic work anyhow), buying food at the grocery store though haphazardly because the meal-plan side of my brain is a little soft right now, working out. That might be about it. Everything else is shot. Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-83406419178143371982009-08-30T19:38:00.000-07:002020-12-04T10:23:20.476-08:00This & ThatGod killed my patio garden. Though I'm sure, as usual, god can't take all the blame. I left the garden to go to Squaw and when I came back, it wasn't the same. The garden was well cared for by my neighbor Molly, but this didn't relieve the abandonment issues the garden was apparently harboring. All the leaves turned a celery-yellow, and all the snap peas came in while I was gone -- cheap shot, Garden. When I left, zucchini were budding, about three good-sized ones. I was excited to harvest them when I got back, but all evidence of them had been erased when I raced to the garden to check their progress.
I asked Molly how the zucchini were thinking she had plucked them off the vine and enjoyed them, and she said, "What zucchini?"
I said, "The zucchini disappeared?"
She said, "What zucchini?"
I shrugged and said, "See? I know absolutely nothing about gardening."
It might have been Mina's tutor who dog-kitty-house sat for a couple days, but she has since flown to Paris on an exchange program and it seems silly to ask her about three zucchini gone missing when she's all Eiffel Tower and Champs-Élysées and shit. I don't need to embarrass myself to that extent. It really is about making sure I'm not completely hallucinatory and/or a completely incompetent gardener. I may never know. <div>Just like god gave my bike a flat tire and gave me an intolerance to baked goods. Well played, god! The tomatoes survived the trauma of my absence and they are fantastic. Thank you tomatoes. And the bell peppers were kind enough to stick around. It looks like I have some pole beans and cucumbers still coming, but the supporting plant, the leaves and stalk and such, look so sickly I'm not sure what the outcome will be. I stare at the garden like it's a mystery, like what will unfold has nothing to do with me.
* * *
I bought this Ecco Bella Lotion in Vanilla. I stole the idea from Lisa because she had it at Squaw and she was kind enough to let me get a squirt. She called it her pastry lotion because that's what it smells like, sweet, flaky pastry. Uh, it's intoxicating. I told Lisa that I was going to steal her scent. After I slathered it on at home, I asked Mina, "Don't I smell like a glazed donut?" And she said, "No, you smell like PlayDoh." Motherfu--- what does she know about smelling like pastry! I do think Mina meant it as a compliment and her comments have not kept me from smearing myself twice a day with the stuff.
* * *
LA's burning down. It's scary. Every year we know we're going to get fires in California and we only pray that the damage will be at a minimum and that they won't last long. But the heat is not helping. They are burning in every direction. Yesterday I told Husband it feels as if California is on the constant verge of catastrophe. Like when we rode our bikes on a stretch of bike path that goes under the pier yesterday; when we were directly under the gigantic wood pier, it creaked from cars and pedestrians above. I looked at the support columns and thought, if an earthquake hits now, forget it. My husband looked at me -- we were in the pier's shadows -- and I know he was thinking the exact same thing.
We rode down to the beach as monstrous smoke clouds billowed behind on the horizon near the mountains. We parked ourselves on the sand and I marveled at the waves which were as reflective as glass; I haven't seen that in a long time. It was such a contrast to the smokey skies and the ash rain, how the waves of the ocean were extra clear, shiny and perfect. It was perfectly LA, where everything feels at conflict; paradise on the brink of disaster. So, I was on the sand thinking of fires and earthquakes, when I see fifty yards from the shore three dolphins threading in and out of the water just beyond the small break. Mina was in the water, closer to them, and she yelled to us to look. Her body was silhouetted against the glass water and fins cut up, just above her head in my line of view. More dolphins looped passed, about ten in all, and then they turned around and came back. They lapped back and forth for a half hour. I didn't take my eyes off of them once. I watched them the entire time.
Wish us well, sibling states.</div>Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292807.post-20391024734177735452009-08-25T08:55:00.000-07:002009-08-26T08:28:25.866-07:00On Our SexualityI'm not going to write about my mother in this post. Because she could easily take it over, and though I sat witness in the sidelines of her sexuality as a kid and suffered near-blackout discomfort about it, I interestingly developed an independent and relatively healthy sense of sexuality despite that. Almost. Actually, hearing the sounds of sex makes me light headed, nauseous from swirling embarrassment. It is instantly horrifying. Any porn I've ever watched has been on mute. Sexy breathing, even, in music or jest will give me hot flashes of rage. But god has been kind in that any noises I personally make, I am deaf to. Man, that's merciful.<br /><br />So, I won't write about my mother here. Or not too much.<br /><br />In my forties, I find it fascinating, and sometimes funny, remembering my history of sexuality with its accidental buoyancy and occasional pitfalls. I'm fascinated most about the whole concept of female sexuality; and I do mean concept because I'm not one of those women from say Real Sex who would go on a masturbation retreat or swing unabashedly with the neighbors. I don't even sleep naked. I don't write this post to put my sex life on display, past or present, either, but to express that my main interest in women's sexuality is purely in relation to our empowerment, our sense of freedom, our comfortableness, our confidence. Isn't this connected to our sexuality? Or more, isn't it related to not the overemphasising of it, but our lack of self consciousness about it?<br /><br />This has been dangerous territory for us, hasn't it? Since the beginning of time? Because our sexuality and the appropriateness of our sexuality has always been open for judgement, which, in general, is fucked.<br /><br />This grows in interest to me not just because I feel so comfortable with myself at 42,but monumentally as my daughters bud into their own. And oh lord, there's the rub; here's where the entire history of sexuality, personal and worldwide, becomes overwhelmingly important because I'm determined to make them feel at ease. And confident. And beautiful. Mostly, I want to obliterate the shame. And all this without embarrassing the shit out of us.<br /><br />Handling menstruation was a first step. I mean in the mechanics of it all because the first steps start from the second they observe you, as a baby even, and they do watch. I mean, we did, right? We watched our mothers and aunties and grandmothers fumble around about themselves, sometimes gracefully and more often not. But when crushes start and they attract attention and when their flow beings, a hands-on approach goes to a new level. So, when Maya started her period, no matter how much I emphasised the shamelessness of it, Maya still felt it. I can't block the outside world and waves of perceptions, you know, which is why even the most well-adjusted kid has to be armed constantly with our reassurance. Especially in terms of their bodies and sense of self. It never ends. I knew this going into motherhood. I'm in the thick of it. I can't say I always feel prepared, but I will say I never back down from it. I can't trip on my own issues. I'll hollow myself out and get pummeled with every personal fear, secretly, to help them build their own foundation stronger.<br /><br />So, tackling menstruation was not so hard, but their looming and unstoppable sexuality is on the horizon, and I'm honestly not too worried about it because it is unstoppable, it will come whether I'm of help or not so my nervousness lies more in preparing them enough. Strengthening their base enough. Eliminating enough of the shame no matter how much everything on the outside wants to injected it back in. And it started with: No, menstruating is not nasty or evil and it is what it is and you tell me what boy in school is giggling, tell me if his mother doesn't get her period. Then we'll be interested in what he thinks.<br /><br />My boobs went from budding cute to god-damn! in a matter of months, the summer I turned seventeen. It was like that Skipper doll where you pulled down her arm and her boobs grew ta-dow! and then she was Barbie? That entire summer I was selected to work for a mini Peace Corp-type project on a West Indian island. The first time our group went down to the beach, I rocked a white bikini and one of my group mates, Will from the Bronx said, "I'm gonna take a picture of you for the boys back home." Unashamed, I said, "Knock yourself out." I didn't pose or look coy. I stood there, impatiently, because I wanted to get into the water. That summer I also lost my virginity, on the island. It was the influence of the sun and island breezes and the remoteness and my body bursting into curves which were photo-worthy, apparently, though my want of touch was completely an internal decision. Nothing was put upon me. I had zoomed in on a man I liked, a 23 year old from the island, who helped tour around our group. He did a double take on my interest and we connected. I did not want to be his girlfriend. I wanted the connection and the experience with him. And it was the ultimate empowerment to go after what I wanted and have the exact experience I wanted. I look back on it -- not him exactly, but the experience -- with great fondness.<br /><br />That was all by accident -- or more by absence of thought or conditioning -- because on that island I was not my mother's meek shadow of a girl. I was not shackled by her overt and desperate sexuality, nor hindered by the few violations I had experienced, experiences that were not completely life-depleting, like what many of my sister-friends have experienced. I don't mean to downplay the violations against me because had they happened to my daughters I would've ripped somebody's fucking throat out, but I do know worse things have happened to so many girls, my friends included. Anyway, on the island, all that stuff fell away like cracked egg shells and I stepped out a beautiful woman, lit with a self-piloted desire.<br /><br />Maya's boobs are growing. Bigger than mine at fourteen. She is unaware of how beautiful she is and unaware, for the most part, of the womanliness of her shape. She wears old tank tops where her boobs spill out and I blurt, "Dude, they're not little anymore. Might want to cover them more." And then I wonder if that embarrassed her. Or am I teaching her self respect. I do say those things in the name of self respect. Then I wonder if the whole concept of self respect (for women) is sexist.<br /><br />Maya is not self deprecating because that's never been allowed in our house, and she's not very self conscious for a fourteen year old. She just Is, which makes her all the more radiant. That's not to say that's the ultimate type of beauty -- this unconscious beauty -- because Mina, at only 10, knows exactly how beautiful she is, and it is a gorgeous quality as well. She is confident and a tad wicked. I feel they are both coming down the shoot, y'know, on a tight rope and I have to teach them to stay true to what they naturally are, and let them know they are beautiful no matter how that beauty manifests which is every which way in terms of women as far as I'm concerned, and that they are just as smart as beautiful, and strong, and they don't have to be one or the other because as women we not only can have it all, but we simply ARE all. Period. And I have to do all of that when most of our outside information, and sometimes our inside information, is conflicted and jumbled and telling us otherwise.<br /><br />Growing up in the center of the first-wave feminist movement, I was hardly ever told I was beautiful. That was not important. Our strength and our mind was important. And I did believe that only those things were important until I wondered if I was desirous at all or appreciated in a full spectrum kind of way. I don't believe that's solely a woman thing either because I tell my husband constantly, sincerely, how fucking beautiful I think he is, his body, his hair, his smile, and he says Thank You shyly, but I see how it revs his engines even when he appears to be the most confident dude on the planet. Our partners want to know they are desired and wanted, and so do we. So, as a kid my mother didn't like people telling her how pretty I was, which I understand in theory. At fifteen, a grocery store clerk told my mother while looking at me, "You are in such trouble in the coming years." And my mother said, "Why?" though she knew exactly what the clerk was getting at, which made the situation awkward. I laugh about it now because I did like that about my mother sometimes, when she just cut people down awkwardly, against the grain of normal thinking. But mainly, I didn't know I was beautiful for a long time, which might have been a good thing. I'm not sure. See? Confusing.<br /><br />Being among the feminists of the 1970's, I did learn that whatever women wanted to wear was fine no matter what, army pants, ties, cowboy boots, but the conflicting part was their judgement against women who wanted to wear anything revealing or wanted to express their sexiness in more conventional ways. It was perceived as sexist and degrading. I told you the high heel story; how I was told high heels were invented so women couldn't run from rapists. I've never been too much of a high-heel person, but when I have worn them, I generally feel bad-ass in them, not victim-like. But when they hurt my feet, then fuck that, why wear them. Comments about how good our legs look in high heels have never had an effect on me. I feel no pressure from shit like that. Men sound like fools to me when they say things like that.<br /><br />That's not to say I can't strut when I want. It's a conscious switch to my hips that makes me feel theatrically sexy. It's not to say that I can't lower my head when I walk into a room and split the air, leading with a sonic-like vibe. I don't always turn it on like that. The 70's feminist voices nag at me, about using anything physical to get attention. "What if it feels good to me?" I fight the voices. I don't think it's different from when a man knows how to stand in a room or sit in a chair with his sleeves rolled up and lower his head and split the air and fully look at someone he's attracted to in big swallows. So, I've made peace with strutting and splitting. But not while showing too much cleavage because I can't get the feminist voices out of my head about that.<br /><br />I witnessed the ultimate convergence of strong feminine sexuality at an art fair once as a kid. She was a hippy type who straight-lined passed any perceptions to honest earthiness and she oozed free-spirited love. She was all hair and brown shoulders and boobs and hips in flowing skirts, but mostly she was true smiles and sparkling eyes free from judgement of herself or others. She was all acceptance. That was ultimate beauty for me as a kid.<br /><br />Her, and Brigitte Bardot.<br /><br />I rented And God Created Woman during high school and couldn't believe this film and this woman was not on the lips of everyone. Granted, the film was from the 1950's so most likely it was talked about then. I thought I had discovered my personal guide to sexuality, which included free dancing to live drums! and rebellion against men AND women, in all forms I knew. I wanted to be Brigitte Bardot. Inside at least I did because I was not even close to being that rebellious. I didn't share this with anyone because I wasn't sure it was ok to admit that I wanted to be sexy. My friends were athletes. My mother, a conflicted feminist. Would the feminist counsel say that the Bardot-level of sexiness was degrading? I kept it to myself, deeply buried, until I landed on a West Indian island a few summers later.<br /><br />As a mother, I know that expressing ones sexuality is not the safest of endeavors, emotionally or sometimes physically. It is an exploration of dicey waters, fine lines and murky definition even though the other side, when it all connects, can be phenomenal and soul deepening. Not that I'm encouraging them to express it anytime soon obviously. I know they'll have to figure out most for themselves no matter how much I hope for nurturing and healthy experiences for them. Most of all, I do hope for that. I want them to feel good for themselves and love all aspects of being loved. I want them to cherish their role in that love. I can only think that building the base is the thing. A balanced and strong base of their womanhood and every aspect of that, inside and out, around and through. To know that the sexiest women are the ones with their shoulders back, with self-lit smiles and the eyes that spark all acceptance. Or however else they want to be.Diz Riverahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04618954577639763316noreply@blogger.com18