Torn

Look how long it's taken to make my way back here! 
Time gets shorter and tighter as it slips through my hands and feet -
I try to finish a billion little things
as I juggle enormous tasks.

Has anyone realized how long it's been since I've posted? I'm trying to keep up with everything; work has a way of taking over. In the 20 years I've been teaching, the amount of work I bring home has increased dramatically. No matter what I do, I'm always behind. Added to that, my responsibilities to family (which should come first) as well as those to my advocacy organization; I often have a hard time keeping up with it all.  All I can say is... you should see my house!

I wish... I could read and write all day and then I wouldn't feel like I'm not doing everything I should be doing to complete ME.

Realzar... La Raza

I was invited to attend the National Council of La Raza 2010 Annual Conference in San Antonio, Texas, July 10 - 14. The call was totally unexpected and very short notice, causing me to hesitate and think I'd need to sleep on it.  But I didn't need to think on it too much; how could I not go?  I've been a long time supporter of NCLR and its ideals, and to think that I've been given yet another opportunity to be with people who work toward the same things as I do... well, it means a lot.  And as my husband said, when I was on the fence about going, "You have to go. It's your thing!"

NCLR is "the largest national Latino civil rights and advocacy organization in the United States".  I'm excited to listen to the conference speakers, learn new things about community and advocacy at the workshops, and network with people from across the country.  You can be sure that I'll be seeking out other educators and advocates for English Language Learners.  While there, I'll be tweeting my experiences @CassyLL.  Do follow!

I'm a proud Latina and I feel it's my obligation to support other Latinos, especially my students and their families.  While at the NCLR conference, I'll draw fuerzas y animo from the other participants - strength and encouragement, for the work that lies ahead of me.  Mi gente... I'm so excited! 

Macrame

Blue bandanna taming

wavy brown hair
tied and tucked under
at the nape
faded flare jeans
plaid western shirt with pearlized buttons
and platform sandals.

It was the bracelet that drew me in,
brown knots and beads.
I wished for one,
and unwrapped it on my birthday.
She was college life,
l'air du temps
sweet potatoes with allspice in the kitchen,
and rice with pigeon peas.

The cositas we carry...

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

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

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

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

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

Still here...

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

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

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

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

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

I did OK this summer – I did.

Looking at old pictures...

When I was a child, my father would scrimp and save all year long so that he could take our family to Bolivia for the summer. After several days of packing, more than six hours on a plane, and after suffering a few days of altitude sickness, my siblings and I were ready to enjoy several weeks with our grandparents, aunts, uncles, and many, many cousins.

Every day held a new adventure, a new food, a new game, a trip to the park, the movies, a picnic, a party. One very special memory of mine is captured in a photo of a wooded place, a campfire burning in the background, and several cousins and myself gathered around an uncle with a guitar. I remember the place was called "Mallasa", an hour or so drive from the city of La Paz. We would go there for Dia de campo (a day in the country). Our parents would load up an uncle's truck with baskets of meat, bread, corn, salad, fruit, and sodas, as well as a radio and a guitar. Another truck would carry all the kids in the back (ahhh, those were the days when folks weren't so afraid) and another vehicle would transport the rest of the adults.

It was a glorious time. I love to look at that picture, and all of the others we've saved from our summers in Bolivia. These pictures take me back to a childhood that was, for the most part, wonderful.

Photos are valuable treasures we can share with our children. They are also useful as prompts or inspiration in the classroom. A book that I love to share with my students is Family Pictures/Cuadros de familia, by Carmen Lomas Garza. Please read my review of this great selection over at the LBBC blog.

Speaking of Super Heroes...

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

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

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

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

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

Gentle

She called out twice, no answer and
suddenly annoyed at the lack of consideration
wondered what
the gardener was up to as she
stomped over to the window,
which framed a sight
seen every year around this time...

the top of his silver streaked head
below her on the back step,
his tired back bent over
pots of purple pansies
delicate pink violets
and hearty geraniums
whispering, encouraging
them to grow lasting and lovely
so she'd not complain.

His little friends glanced up, seeing her
and perked up
for him.

¡Qué buena esta vida!

Life is so good.

Can you wake up in the morning and be excited about a new day? Can you go to bed this evening, and think of all the wonderful things in your life, and feel sincerely, that it's all good? Do you have regrets or recollections of bad times? If so, can you move past them, learn from them, and move on?

After reading Life is So Good, by George Dawson and Richard Glaubman, I was reminded again of how fortunate I've been, despite events that could have made me absolutely bitter and hateful for the rest of my life. I've been lucky and... here I am.

I would have liked to have met George Dawson. His life spanned the 20th century. He learned to read at the age of 98! The grandson of a slave, he tells the stories of his life growing up in Texas, and traveling across the United States. At a very early age, Dawson was forced to bear the cruelties of poverty and injustices of racial discrimination. I was struck though, by his ability to remain strong and optimistic. This man worked hard all his life, lived simply, and never allowed hardships to embitter him.

This book integrates real historical events with Dawson's experiences, which are told to Glaubman, an elementary school teacher who "co-writes" this book. This is not a "How-to-live-your-best-life" kind of book, but there are certainly lessons within it. Dawson reminds the reader

1. to treasure your family

2. to maintain a good work ethic

3. that sometimes you must say nothing

4. and sometimes you MUST say something

5. you don't need things to be happy

6. and how reading is a right, a gift, and a pleasure.

Life is indeed good. This evening, I enjoyed a meal with my family. I was able to write. And now to bed with another book...

Walking in Papi's Shoes

I've shared another bilingual book review over at Latin Baby Book Club. Go there to read about The Woman Who Outshone the Sun/La mujer que brillaba aún más que el sol by Alejandro Cruz Martinez.

My father was gracious enough to be a guest reader at my school last week, along with my mom. He read this book to my students. Retired for several years now, Papi taught high school Spanish. I'm sure that reading to a group of 4th graders had to have felt quite different after spending so many years with hormonal teenagers. Papi was the perfect maestro though; he read at the perfect pace, pausing here and there to ask a question or show the illustrations.

My dad, a former teacher, read to my students, in his dress shirt, cardigan sweater, and pressed pants. As I watched and listened, it occurred to me that I too, wear that same outfit to school every day. Papi would carry a book and paper-filled briefcase to and from work; I lug home an about-to-explode book bag. Along with that, I use and reuse the same plastic Barnes & Noble bag to carry extra papers and such; Papi did the same I remember, using a shopping bag until it almost cried for mercy. When he was teaching, he carried so much stress around, and now, I do the same. At the same time, Papi was proud to teach the Spanish language and its rich literature. That is perhaps the most special gift he has given me.

My father took me to school. He led me to teaching. And when he read to my students, I had the pleasure of bringing him back.

Times Like These

Why, when you think you have it together, do you start rethinking everything?

Words fail me tonight. I can't find them when I'd most like to. I'm thinking of do-overs and looking ahead, some kind of change. Maybe I just need to go for a long walk in the sunshine.

Here is Dave Grohl of Foo Fighters singing "Times Like These". I believe he is singing what I'm feeling.

When sins were small

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

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

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

“Father, I have sinned.”

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

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

Diversity Book Review: Stealing Buddha's Dinner

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

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

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

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

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

Upstairs at Douglass

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

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

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

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