tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17204768155784194512024-03-05T17:13:21.929-08:00Brazen Princessbra·zen (adj) brāzən/
1. Bold and without shame.
prin·cess (n) prinsəs/
1. The daughter of a king.Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.comBlogger629125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-38868594293962385572023-12-30T05:35:00.000-08:002024-01-24T17:40:17.008-08:0036<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJRRxsURFMAypNUFD8bYQdBSlTpAHV5ECiWTRswqgJHoFccHmL6lZNd-R_KUyEFAB-iRdziDwToVvINhB_mbS1ooTSZgrOMoysB1lfEwRzSB36Rqz97tPmRW7sdnyNSKLXft48Gc8ijIFMT_O_rFnooYqZy_490xZMVxfpUsawIxScnqIXhlUwsvjt6cqS/s3211/PXL_20231230_132456824~2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3211" data-original-width="2329" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJRRxsURFMAypNUFD8bYQdBSlTpAHV5ECiWTRswqgJHoFccHmL6lZNd-R_KUyEFAB-iRdziDwToVvINhB_mbS1ooTSZgrOMoysB1lfEwRzSB36Rqz97tPmRW7sdnyNSKLXft48Gc8ijIFMT_O_rFnooYqZy_490xZMVxfpUsawIxScnqIXhlUwsvjt6cqS/w290-h400/PXL_20231230_132456824~2.jpg" width="290" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> I fell in love with Mario when I was a 23-year-old single mother, insecure, and afraid of losing everything. I clung to him, even though I knew he would leave me eventually. </p><p>He wasn't like most guys I knew. He respected me, for starters. He suggested I go to counseling, with a licensed professional, and offered to pay. He loved Vince, sincerely, and took him into consideration when we had dinner plans. </p><p>"Let's go to Cindy's," Mario would say, referring to a local coffee shop. "They have high chairs."</p><p>It was odd and beautiful and wonderful to date him. I wanted to believe he was my forever person, but I didn't trust it. Things were too good... So, when we got married, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world, even when I knew it would end. </p><p>Fast-forward to 1992, when Mario and I had been married for five years. We still loved each other, but life was not easy. Kids, pressures of the blended families, work concerns, fights, exhaustion, and expectations for happiness weighed heavy on us. We were on the brink of divorce. Together, we lived with our two (and sometimes four) children, in a beautiful house, somewhat financially stable--but we were both discouraged. Did we really have what it's took to keep a marriage together? We knew that love alone wasn't enough to sustain our relationship, let alone make us happy.</p><p>One day in 1992, Mario came home from work, stood in the kitchen, where I was loading the dishwasher, and told me he had booked a week long 'intensive counseling vacation."</p><p>"We're going," Mario said. "That's it, and that's final." </p><p>As he walked away, I felt relieved. <i>At least we're not getting divorced.</i></p><p>This watershed moment, a mere five years into our marriage, marked the enduring mindset that continues to inform our partnership. When we need help, and we still do, we know where to get it. Good counsel offered us strategies, as well as mindsets, to help us grow stronger together. </p><p>Today, Mario and I went to out to lunch at a coffee shop near us that reminds me of Cindy's, the unpretentious cafe we frequented when we were dating. It serves breakfast all day and Mario loves breakfast. After this, we visited friends in Folsom, who we love and cherish. </p><p>"Someone once told me the secret of a long and happy marriage," one of them said. "It is to accept the fact that you'll have three or four marriages inside of yours over the years." </p><p>I thought about it for a second, then said, "Shoot, that's me in one day." </p><p>The real secret to a happy marriage is that there is no secret. Like everything else, marriage reflects what we put into it. If you and your partner recognize the marriage as a partnership, a contract, a sacred covenant worth preserving, you're already ahead of the game. </p><p>If you have a partner like Mario, it really helps, too. No matter what, he always remembers the source of our strength. Even today, as he heard my friend tell us her secret of a happy marriage, he smiled at me. Just earlier, at the diner, he told me what he thought was the secret of our thirty-six year marriage enduring, even through the horrible trials we've encountered.</p><p>"There's only one reason we're still together," he said. "That's Jesus."</p><p>Even writing this here seems cheap. What Mario said can be seen as religious or reductive, unless you are us. Mario said this with sincerity. It hovered over my head like a hummingbird. It was tender, like a small flower that isn't supposed to survive a hailstorm or a tornado. Our shared faith was not the only thing he was referring to--it was divine intervention. He said this with all humility, and he meant it. And you know what? I believe he's right. </p><p style="text-align: center;">💗💗💗</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjxPNlim_8Q6Al_H-yfwoJXviNIvd_YzzAfd9TjEtSXF-YiMT45uvQ0S5EA8FqRJnGMg6VAvU23n0NlcQAxG_ekyXjZqY3ShvrBAMTv9pkaziMAQ6XrIr5E88RyPGI-qTBHTVRCB7kmXIE-MNhgVw3e4-IPoxD54vdWOeiXMFf21RRaB6_Zhraj9Wo09i/s3648/PXL_20231020_220900010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjxPNlim_8Q6Al_H-yfwoJXviNIvd_YzzAfd9TjEtSXF-YiMT45uvQ0S5EA8FqRJnGMg6VAvU23n0NlcQAxG_ekyXjZqY3ShvrBAMTv9pkaziMAQ6XrIr5E88RyPGI-qTBHTVRCB7kmXIE-MNhgVw3e4-IPoxD54vdWOeiXMFf21RRaB6_Zhraj9Wo09i/w300-h400/PXL_20231020_220900010.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-61876380026554979482023-12-28T10:04:00.000-08:002023-12-28T10:42:37.168-08:0061<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUs_m-qVXN_Zg-ng5qU-EBcaqKIkh9TmSViAEmgCKpMszlhF7aS4JaQyIKfBTCvodje9AxUS_KkEP9roGOKVGYLcAEtDFO-rygTnry8i2Bc7b_vp5Av1l24c2NMXH7VeEg3WuinTNwsSU126MDgcDPkczXPuikTn97mKmzH2t-z6DmQW8aY4GI-tJyz8P/s4080/PXL_20231228_174236141~2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUs_m-qVXN_Zg-ng5qU-EBcaqKIkh9TmSViAEmgCKpMszlhF7aS4JaQyIKfBTCvodje9AxUS_KkEP9roGOKVGYLcAEtDFO-rygTnry8i2Bc7b_vp5Av1l24c2NMXH7VeEg3WuinTNwsSU126MDgcDPkczXPuikTn97mKmzH2t-z6DmQW8aY4GI-tJyz8P/s320/PXL_20231228_174236141~2.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This morning at my desk</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>Today is December 28, 2023, the day I turn 61, and I will love this year.</p><p>In 2023, our newest addition to the family was born: Augustine Mario, the son of Alicia, our daughter. A few days ago, surrounded by family, he opened his first Christmas presents, unpacked his first stocking, and sang his first Christmas carols. Life is beautiful.</p><p>Sometimes I have to remind myself that life is a blessing I'm not entitled to. Today I'm going to a funeral for a man I barely knew and yet owe my life to: Alfred Ruiz Sr. I went to school with his son, a boy I knew as Alfred, who my grandmother called Alfredito. The Ruiz family were Spanish landowners who employed my grandfather when he first came to Tracy, California. Grandma knew something I didn't: without this family, ours would be like so many others: migrant workers who traveled with the harvests. With the help of the Ruiz family, specifically Alfred Sr's father, my grandfather, Ignacio Gonzalez, became a U.S. citizen and a permanent Tracy resident. He bought land and built a house that still stands today. In many ways, the man whose life we will celebrate today is a stranger to me; in many ways, he is a mench, a godfather, a sponsor. Life is impermanent, for the rich and the poor, we all enter and exit this world in the same way. </p><p><br /></p><p>Yesterday, I published my website: <a href="https://JanetRodriguezWriter.com">janetrodriguezwriter.com</a>. Yikes. I'm not wealthy, so I built it myself... Which isn't as easy as it sounds. Today, at least for a writer, a website is like a business card with a fold-out resume. I've never liked writing a resume either. Please check out my new website and let me know what you think... Really. </p><p>In my sixty-first year, I'm still learning how to speak Spanish, write with a sincere voice, be a good wife and mother, and make the world a better place. The greatest challenge is learning how to love others, and how to receive love from others - especially God's love. I want to live a life worthy of the gift of life. I'll never be able to earn His love, but let me be able to receive it without performing. </p><p>In my darkest days, I cry out to God to make sense of this life. Usually, there is no answer (about how to make sense of this life) but there is peace. King David wrote Psalm 61, the one that marks my 61st year, in a very dark time. Let it be a reminder for all of us: our relationship with God is a personal thing, marked by transparency and truth. </p><div class="poetry" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 1em; min-width: 0px; padding-left: 2.6em; position: relative; text-align: left;"><p class="line" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 2.4rem; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-width: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="text Ps-61-1" style="position: relative;">Hear my cry, O God,</span></span><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="font-family: georgia; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-61-1" style="font-family: georgia; position: relative;">listen to my prayer. I </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">call as my heart grows faint;</span><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="font-family: georgia; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-61-2" style="font-family: georgia; position: relative;">lead me to the rock that is higher than I.</span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="text Ps-61-3" id="en-NIV-14823" style="position: relative;">For you have been my refuge, </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-61-3" style="position: relative;">a strong tower against the foe.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="text Ps-61-4" id="en-NIV-14824" style="position: relative;"><span class="versenum" style="display: inline; font-weight: 700; left: -4.4em; line-height: normal; position: absolute; top: auto; vertical-align: text-top;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-61-4" style="position: relative;">and take refuge in the shelter of your wings. F</span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="text Ps-61-5" id="en-NIV-14825" style="position: relative;"><span class="versenum" style="display: inline; font-weight: 700; left: -4.4em; line-height: normal; position: absolute; top: auto; vertical-align: text-top;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="text Ps-61-5" id="en-NIV-14825" style="position: relative;">or you, God, have heard my vows; y</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-61-5" style="position: relative;">ou have given me the heritage of those who fear your name: </span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-61-6" style="position: relative;"> years for many generations. </span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="text Ps-61-7" id="en-NIV-14827" style="position: relative;"><span class="versenum" style="display: inline; font-weight: 700; left: -4.4em; line-height: normal; position: absolute; top: auto; vertical-align: text-top;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="text Ps-61-7" id="en-NIV-14827" style="position: relative;">May he be enthroned in God’s presence forever; a</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-61-7" style="position: relative;">ppoint your love and faithfulness to protect him a</span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="text Ps-61-8" id="en-NIV-14828" style="position: relative;"><span class="versenum" style="display: inline; font-weight: 700; left: -4.4em; line-height: normal; position: absolute; top: auto; vertical-align: text-top;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-61-8" style="position: relative;">nd fulfill my vows day after day.</span></span></span></span></p><p></p><p></p></div><div class="poetry top-05" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 1em; min-width: 0px; padding-left: 2.6em; position: relative; text-align: left;"><p class="line" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 2.4rem; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-width: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="text Ps-61-2" id="en-NIV-14822" style="position: relative;">From the ends of the earth I call to you, I</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> long to dwell</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">in your tent forever</span><span class="text Ps-61-6" id="en-NIV-14826" style="position: relative;">. In<span style="font-family: georgia;">crease the days of the king’s life, T</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">hen I will ever sing in praise of your name</span>. </span></p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-72897718890871838902023-06-19T06:11:00.000-07:002023-06-19T06:11:10.968-07:00Mario<p> This is a <b>pantoum</b>, a form with rhyming, repeating lines. Happy Birthday to my one true love, who is true, true, true ❤️ Happy Birthday, Mario</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uzPzXLIhkSmUq-zr_C6BhAjFXEEX2NXQTJuocrXBecBS5CenZBPv9KIPTM9vCBFKX-u6i1ertI4qLa3-SkA7x_hGvUk1QteLB2gWtB2NnrY0YpejRHwh9FMQfuzrutFoFmr1Cf_JgoEMcUaaCN68aPiCnKYQusQvh9AYIzuwfbjVIlbHnuAtprSogtp8/s1633/Mario%20Eight.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1633" data-original-width="1173" height="409" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uzPzXLIhkSmUq-zr_C6BhAjFXEEX2NXQTJuocrXBecBS5CenZBPv9KIPTM9vCBFKX-u6i1ertI4qLa3-SkA7x_hGvUk1QteLB2gWtB2NnrY0YpejRHwh9FMQfuzrutFoFmr1Cf_JgoEMcUaaCN68aPiCnKYQusQvh9AYIzuwfbjVIlbHnuAtprSogtp8/w294-h409/Mario%20Eight.jpeg" width="294" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mario, school picture, age 8<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pantoum for Mario<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">You’re the boy in the magnet frame, eight years old:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">half-smiling, ready, eyes filled with stars.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">and too much of the beauty and strength to behold—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I run to you, lover, with open arms—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">half-smiling, ready, eyes filled with stars.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I lose my place, dizzy in oceans of doubt, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I run to you, lover, with open arms—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A man I could never be whole without<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I lose my place, dizzy in oceans of doubt, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">You are there, in our language, with shadowless praise<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A man I could never be whole without—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">who aims true, and keeps pure all of his ways<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">You are there, in our language, with shadowless praise
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">and you grew to be purposeful, loving, and bold—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">your tested aim, true, in the truest of ways<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">from the boy in the magnet frame, eight years old—<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-23080992878737087582022-07-28T03:37:00.003-07:002022-07-28T03:44:33.838-07:00Alicia<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0w7D8K-18s9kFBrn9NxsPhDD-NILN3Uj5CWqx5PGovBDXtMD--PxQcYBdfHGLiuK3D3c4A7wqgs10CMqYJ3Mzq-VgpQdOZYIdMNABwOWLJfACUUf1IVSg9Zd7-OYhyor4iojT7E7bxYgWBVcDsGKvoDEOqr_V8WX4_0Og6bL9pjZ8Wm-qVOjA9aH_3A/s1364/Alicia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1107" data-original-width="1364" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0w7D8K-18s9kFBrn9NxsPhDD-NILN3Uj5CWqx5PGovBDXtMD--PxQcYBdfHGLiuK3D3c4A7wqgs10CMqYJ3Mzq-VgpQdOZYIdMNABwOWLJfACUUf1IVSg9Zd7-OYhyor4iojT7E7bxYgWBVcDsGKvoDEOqr_V8WX4_0Og6bL9pjZ8Wm-qVOjA9aH_3A/w400-h325/Alicia.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alicia at Six months old - Arnold, CA</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>After three boys, Mario and I had a daughter—Alicia Robynn.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was born on a Thursday, at 4:45 in the afternoon, after
36 hours of labor. As soon as she came out, she was whisked away from me to be
weighed, cleaned, and dried. As I was being stitched back together, she cried
with such controlled bursts, I thought she sounded like a duck. By the time the
nurses placed her in my arms, she was toasty warm in a fresh blanket. I looked
into her eyes, a deep brown. She was perfect: the living celebration of the
love Mario and I had for one another. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alicia means truth. It’s very hard to describe –with any
kind of earthly truth—the way my life changed with Alicia’s birth. My only
daughter, born to me when I was twenty-six, today turns thirty-four. She is a
fighter, a warrior, a mother, a sister, a daughter. She’s beautiful.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The day after she was born, I thought the thirty-six hours
of labor would be the hardest part of bringing her into the world. Of course, I was
only twenty-six, and my view of the world was very limited. I really didn't trust myself, at twenty-six, to be a good mother, but
I would learn. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I now know that mothers and daughters have a dance that lasts
their whole life. They have an ebb and flow of needing to be near each other and needing a
break from each other. Only a mother can recognize the unique beauty and
strength found in her daughter, but the same mother can also misunderstand this daughter, and distrust the places she wants to explore and even conquer in the world. Sometimes, when I look at my adult daughter, I
think about the times I’ve wounded her without meaning to. Most of this
wounding has been caused by my own sins of omission. For whatever reason, I’ve not
been able to recognize her as the adult she really is—an independent woman
filled with radiant life. Almost against my will, I can still see her as the baby
who was placed in my arms at 4:50 p.m. on July 28, 1988. I can still feel the
warmth of her little body when she woke up with nightmares and moved into our
bed. I still remember drifting off to sleep with her at naptime, after we read
The Teeny Tiny Woman aloud, for the tenth time. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alicia is also a writer. Sometimes, when she writes on her iPad,
I can still see a young girl at her desk, tasked with writing a simple factual news
story about the weather, and instead choosing to write a fictional story about
a disastrous flood that displaced an entire family. Sometimes, Alicia will share
something she’s written with me. I get to workshop pieces she’s written about miraculous,
albeit turbulent experiences. In truth, this is the activity that allows me to
see her clearly as a fully realized woman. I cherish these times.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This year, I want to celebrate and love Alicia like never
before. I want to thank her for being a person who gives so much love to
everyone she knows. I want to thank her for being herself—my baby, my daughter,
a fully realized adult who is often a mirror for me. I don't want to miss the miracle of her, my adult daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love how God gives us so many chances—and we
need them—especially mothers and daughters.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Happy Birthday, Alicia! I love you!<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4QBpvzslXtWqa7iuxhKak9vB8041dCxRRPoGBvuLnpqPd4qSS4r54zN1Xi6KEkvxxvt0QNttWdRR7ygYq3DhtV71Vh1rxmplsDsnypVTFX6J6qhiMSeWL2nkH1K45AlA8DxD6g1phn24JGv67kDjzWvDKf3BDDFaj4Vrt-I2EuppAHdLmo9XMXIisWw/s2354/Chico%20Ice%20cream%202%20cu.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1916" data-original-width="2354" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4QBpvzslXtWqa7iuxhKak9vB8041dCxRRPoGBvuLnpqPd4qSS4r54zN1Xi6KEkvxxvt0QNttWdRR7ygYq3DhtV71Vh1rxmplsDsnypVTFX6J6qhiMSeWL2nkH1K45AlA8DxD6g1phn24JGv67kDjzWvDKf3BDDFaj4Vrt-I2EuppAHdLmo9XMXIisWw/s320/Chico%20Ice%20cream%202%20cu.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having ice cream in Chico - 2022</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-10001180821961389212022-05-05T15:52:00.005-07:002022-05-05T16:04:47.139-07:00Cinco de Mayo<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13QsKd1o4FkdmCUl3bXc6nFRvj7Oso3Dn1w0pkq56AqMuCV2pqSlC1lQHb83dl7ByBhXX_MmepPZTSXQYq0JW5i_H5GT1hny3gHITZp0H3mUzA4MFPvmfIQBMG5ZbXYUnZ5lOZspKN9SNmRsY-mSa3G-fcI3OiLcMR75t6jje2nzlOt3HwRnW3_qnxw/s583/CincoDeMayo-DayTranslationsTraditions.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="583" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13QsKd1o4FkdmCUl3bXc6nFRvj7Oso3Dn1w0pkq56AqMuCV2pqSlC1lQHb83dl7ByBhXX_MmepPZTSXQYq0JW5i_H5GT1hny3gHITZp0H3mUzA4MFPvmfIQBMG5ZbXYUnZ5lOZspKN9SNmRsY-mSa3G-fcI3OiLcMR75t6jje2nzlOt3HwRnW3_qnxw/s320/CincoDeMayo-DayTranslationsTraditions.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Cinco de Mayo folklorico dancers</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I used to teach
elementary school, which colors the way I see most holidays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the classroom, my favorite thing to say
was: "Let me tell you something the other teachers won't tell you..."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and students would pay attention, as if they
were in on a secret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a way they were.
History is full of secret truths.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cinco de Mayo is the most misunderstood holiday,
and one that deserves some light shined on it. Before I go any further, I
should admit, it’s a holiday that has deeply affected my heart, forcing me to
make peace with my own culturally mixed heritage—my mestiza identity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
all starts with my childhood in Tracy, California. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">My Mexican mother, Juana, had her name Americanized
to Jennie when she was entering school. Growing up, I never sensed any conflict
in this, and there was not much discussion about how she felt when it happened.
She grew up happy, eventually finding employment with the U.S. Government and assimilating
into American culture. My Irish-American father, Jack Ryan, blew into the
little cow-town of Tracy from Boston in the late 1950’s. He met my mother, sparks
flew madly, and wedding vows were soon exchanged. Jack and Jennie Ryan had five
stunning little kids, all completely insulated in a very Catholic culture, the
chosen and shared culture of my parents. I inherited Irish soulfulness from my
father, and a beautiful Mexican heritage from my mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">In grade school, all of my friends were Mexican.
The first boy I ever loved—with my fourth-grade heart—was Mexican. As I grew,
my friends became more white and so did I. Soon, my cultural heritage was a stew,
and my life was a myriad of activities: band, guitar, track, writing, speech
and debate.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">In high school, a few days before Tracy's
famous Cinco de Mayo parade (if you've never been to a Cinco de Mayo parade,
you are missing a true slice of Americana) I found out, via the Tracy Press,
that my sister Shari's friend, Melissa, had been crowned Tracy's Cinco de Mayo
queen. She would preside over the parade as she rode on a convertible
surrounded by festive color and flowers. I was livid. What the hell?! I thought
Melissa was like me: an English-speaking girl from an English-speaking family.
What right did she have to be Cinco de Mayo queen? Now she would be adored—like
our Lady of Guadalupe—and called a real Mexican-American.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I threw the paper down and got ready for
school. But as I got my makeup on, tears welled up in my eyes. Why did I care
about a stupid Mexican parade anyway? It was the first time I felt conflicted
about my heritage, and part of me felt orphaned. My perpetually tanned skin and
my straight black hair kind of hinted at a Mexican heritage, but what else about
me did?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">On the way home from school that day, Melissa's
reign as Cinco de Mayo queen was the subject of conversation in our carpool.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">"She definitely was the prettiest one,”
one of our friends said. Everyone agreed. We all knew that Cinco de Mayo queens
were ornamental—no speeches or talent were necessary—the primary job of the
queen was to smile and wave, a beautiful Mexican-American girl.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">"Hey, Janet," one of my other
friends said, "Why didn't you run for Cinco de Mayo queen?" He meant
it as a compliment, really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn't
know how much the whole thing was a thorn in my mestiza heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">"I don't have enough <i>Cinco</i> in my
<i>Mayo</i>," I said. Everyone thought that was funny. Even Mom
laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I tuned the others out, recognizing a
strange, misplaced identity. I didn't know how to do it: be a real
Mexican-American.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At my school, most of
the kids I saw as real Mexican kids were Spanish-speaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some were migrants who got free lunches
because their parents were working in the fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They kept to themselves, and didn't really
seek out my friendship. Real Mexican guys wore cowboy hats and drove trucks. The
Chicanos, who celebrated their Mexican-American heritage, also looked different
from me. The vatos drove low riders; the Chicanas wore eyeliner with wings. I
could count my Spanish-speaking friends on one hand. This disparity was killing
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">***<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cinco de Mayo was a reminder of how
homogenized I had become. It was a Hispanic Pride Day where all of the real
cowboys got out their rhinestone-studded black suits, big sombreros, and carried
Mexican flags as they rode atop horses. Beautiful, traditional folklorico dancers,
dressed in over-sized skirts, made hypnotic circles with their hems, becoming
symbols of culture and skill. While they danced, I stared. The holiday, for
everyone else, seemed to be about drinking. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cinco de Mayo is an American holiday, celebrated
by immigrants who miss their homeland. It’s not Mexican Independence Day. It’s a
celebration of victory and surprise and tenacity of spirit. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The real reason it’s celebrated? Because
dancing in the presence of the enemy is the best feeling in the world. Now I’ll
tell you something the other teachers won’t tell you: why we celebrate.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp9LmIz26EVqR37ktc-vdR8wKK4px6bqciiv9mb3ArKeHHqBXNs5_tEX3qp9BnB8xwsLTdcLm-qAaOHS8HAEpf7F48wSjLkO7ZLnLzTbrEn1KzvdanP2qZP3nIniBnYHpqGb7r3FAVqpGyRBTOcNRGF8xTakSx8VctbtOBqLu1H9N5fvgXcvdpuNusZQ/s610/Cinco%20de%20Mayo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="610" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp9LmIz26EVqR37ktc-vdR8wKK4px6bqciiv9mb3ArKeHHqBXNs5_tEX3qp9BnB8xwsLTdcLm-qAaOHS8HAEpf7F48wSjLkO7ZLnLzTbrEn1KzvdanP2qZP3nIniBnYHpqGb7r3FAVqpGyRBTOcNRGF8xTakSx8VctbtOBqLu1H9N5fvgXcvdpuNusZQ/s320/Cinco%20de%20Mayo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Batalla_del_5_de_mayo_de_1862.jpg#/media/File:Batalla_del_5_de_mayo_de_1862.jpg" target="_blank">Anónimo, Batalla del 5 de mayo de 1862<br />photo credit</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">In 1862, Mexico found itself in terrible
debt to foreign countries—mainly France, Spain and Great Britain—and it was experiencing
a national monetary crisis. After a long war, the Mexican government, led by
Benito Juárez, admitted it could not even pay the interest on the European
loans they had taken. The three countries, all with trained armies, decided to
unite and force Mexico to pay back the money it owed. By the end of the year,
European ships occupied Veracruz, Mexico's largest port. While Great Britain
and Spain were there only to negotiate repayment of loans, or so they said, the
French Army was out to enlarge their foreign empire. Napoleon Bonaparte’s
nephew, Napoleon III, looking to make a name for himself, gave orders to his
army to take Mexico by force. The French army took to the land, and pursued the
Mexican army, hoping to defeat them. </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">After several skirmishes, the French army officers
decided that Napoleon III had officially underestimated the spirit and the
power of the Mexicans. They sent word to their new president, who ignored their
missive. Then... (wait for it) on May 5 1862, in Puebla, a large city between
Mexico City and Veracruz, the French Army faced the Mexican army and were
defeated. Badly. Even after retreat, the French army lost five hundred soldiers.
The Mexican army only lost eighty-three. Benito Juárez declared the victory at
Puebla significant for Mexico, and declared that Cinco de Mayo would be a national
holiday. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">News of the Mexican victory spread to the
western US, where Mexican miners in California were so overjoyed at the news
they celebrated by firing guns and singing patriotic songs. Thus, the first American
Cinco de Mayo party was born.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The Mexican Army's great show of strength on
Cinco de Mayo didn't end the war with the French. It took a lot of time, and
many years of battle, for the French to retreat and leave the country. After
the American Civil War was over, President Johnson, in order to “protect
American interests” dispatched the US Army to the Mexican border. Napoleon III realized
his predicament, and withdrew his troops from Mexico. The real story of Cinco
de Mayo has a moral: never underestimate Mexico or Mexicans! They will do more
with their hearts than most people can do with their heads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">***<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">As an adult, I found a way to reconnect with
my Mexican heritage, all year-round. I am currently writing and reading more
Spanish than I ever have in my whole life. Speaking it involves great
bravery--I am still so nervous as the words of my heart come out of my mouth. Español
es la lengua de mi corazón...<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">In my kitchen I really become Mexican. It
all started when I learned the secrets of a good enchilada sauce from my
grandma, who taught me how to cook all the Mexican staples. I connect with my
heritage when I make masa, and when I roll tortillas. I become Mexican American
when I assemble tamales, or menudo. With taste and smell, I celebrate being Mexican-American.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">On Cinco de Mayo, I can’t dance folklorico,
or braid <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>colorful ribbons in my hair,
but I don't have to be the Cinco de Mayo Queen to know I am a real
Mexican-American. I have what I need, here in my hands. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUip64tdYTWh58I-HtCnRvHbyDH8pQqNrMWJV9rV2R01ULpuZITHhQqfk59Pa6apdde2FziggfiXhZ0sZnDwcGhpD86PfenDrAB3d5JSy98LuylzDGFw6jWUj6dYNzVmd-DTe8dx8-ISH954hiwpQZRmvFEFV_fqqr6jI2Mi_QfnAee91AbYQxO5-NAQ/s4032/20190421_193302.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUip64tdYTWh58I-HtCnRvHbyDH8pQqNrMWJV9rV2R01ULpuZITHhQqfk59Pa6apdde2FziggfiXhZ0sZnDwcGhpD86PfenDrAB3d5JSy98LuylzDGFw6jWUj6dYNzVmd-DTe8dx8-ISH954hiwpQZRmvFEFV_fqqr6jI2Mi_QfnAee91AbYQxO5-NAQ/s320/20190421_193302.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cinco de Mayo with my parents, 2018</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">My new family memoir, which addresses the homogenization of my Mexican culture is <a href="https://www.pricklypearpublishing.com/shop/making-an-american-family-a-recipe-in-five-generations-by-janet-rodriguez" target="_blank">available here, through Prickly Pear Publishing </a></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-48600425861222430862022-02-14T16:00:00.006-08:002022-02-14T23:36:26.591-08:00Daniel<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRcIElwYxfkmZnrTawRBBUOCGFqMO_H8G_WLizfE2Xgkzv_2kB7fsjXfzQ7PpXYdnrG2MBg3kvwURkMO-xFdrcfkGd5xDwHPNGiAZRm2nBRa9NQawlxfiP0uYtrDdq7RSbfgQk8ZIZrM2SUCQE83HZwwhHlwxYGiFOL8aT96NtiA_SmAExlTUbrBNRQA=s2048" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRcIElwYxfkmZnrTawRBBUOCGFqMO_H8G_WLizfE2Xgkzv_2kB7fsjXfzQ7PpXYdnrG2MBg3kvwURkMO-xFdrcfkGd5xDwHPNGiAZRm2nBRa9NQawlxfiP0uYtrDdq7RSbfgQk8ZIZrM2SUCQE83HZwwhHlwxYGiFOL8aT96NtiA_SmAExlTUbrBNRQA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel and Carli, 2013</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Dear Daniel,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Happy Valentine’s Day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I know it’s a particularly sad holiday for you this
year, the first one without Carli. To tell you the truth, I’ve never liked this
holiday anyway because it romanticizes love in a way that cheapens it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">You’ve recently seen how love really is—an unpredictable,
unfair, rollercoaster, with highs and lows you can’t control. It’s a force that
requires everything, and you’ve given everything. At your young age, you’ve
just lost the love of your life, the mother to your young son, Micah—your angelic
Carli. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">If I were callous, I’d give you a bunch of advice, or say
something stupid like, “You’ll love someone again, one day, in God’s timing...”
but shit, I can’t say that. Please, please, please, dear Daniel...forgive the
people who say that to you. They mean well, I promise you.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjDJzRTgxACXqowaSnpkAxFDJZqBjFjUEgCJT9g7WEu8J3xFJDKPGaACz1asi7WLH9pjHCP1QyXLC6LoMBe90yyiIct6U0tS1mZ7NHowWPwz7cRahVngjwCtPo0HG5XNw-8ln4lgu2oMW8nGsS8u-LF1W5WZ465GgoGM2IYJv2xrpHTqDzmS25c23GlQ" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjDJzRTgxACXqowaSnpkAxFDJZqBjFjUEgCJT9g7WEu8J3xFJDKPGaACz1asi7WLH9pjHCP1QyXLC6LoMBe90yyiIct6U0tS1mZ7NHowWPwz7cRahVngjwCtPo0HG5XNw-8ln4lgu2oMW8nGsS8u-LF1W5WZ465GgoGM2IYJv2xrpHTqDzmS25c23GlQ" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel 2008</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I remember the day I met you. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">You were tall and slim,
even back then, a picture of your father. You were tender and felt things deeply,
like your mother. All wrapped up in a wonderful, fun, young man who was so
grateful for everything. Oh my word...you <i>wowed </i>us even then. Our trip
to Bloemfontein involved going to the LTT during the day, and coming back to
the VanAswegen house at night, to be entertained by you amazing kids, with plays,
dances, and live shows. You taught me how to play board games, and you loved my
laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">After a week, when it was time to leave, I was loading
up our suitcases and had a meltdown by our car. Your mom came out to see what
was wrong, and I said, “I can’t go back into that house and say goodbye to your
kids.” In one week, I had bonded with you so much, four of the most dynamic
human beings I had ever met, I was overwhelmed with love for you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Through the years, especially during our time in South
Africa, your family became ours. We loved you with our whole hearts. You kids
continued to grow, play musical instruments, and dance! Do you remember showing
me your rock-and-roll dance with Annie (not Anine)? My jaw was on the floor!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">After we moved back to the States, you and Carli upgraded your status and became serious. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Hearing that you were in love, an intense love relationship, with a girl named Carli, made me both shocked and happy. “Is Daniel that old?” Your mom assured me you were, and she also assured me Carli was wonderful for you.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTXf635IY7VbKEfomOZhakbPsL0f4z7k3doKZqpQNIZErXKnxIkJxBST4mVXpK5bQmfUElUffRpwFNWaM4_v0OIK3X9cbFo0dMI3Rq6HNMvvzbQOuFnkS0kZdu3uCzEdUAIEWYTJOInEDEZARQVA5iKFVSEDqnOkEfxJfg42YwWV1J1X-K7QQFp3gZ2w=s720" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="720" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTXf635IY7VbKEfomOZhakbPsL0f4z7k3doKZqpQNIZErXKnxIkJxBST4mVXpK5bQmfUElUffRpwFNWaM4_v0OIK3X9cbFo0dMI3Rq6HNMvvzbQOuFnkS0kZdu3uCzEdUAIEWYTJOInEDEZARQVA5iKFVSEDqnOkEfxJfg42YwWV1J1X-K7QQFp3gZ2w=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel and Carli, man and wife</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">First came love, then came marriage, then came Micah
in a baby carriage! The children’s song we used to sing while jumping rope didn’t
include what came next: then came sickness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">You, being so musical, can understand what I’m about
to say: it was the scratching needle on the album, the sudden stop of
everything. Nevertheless, we all prayed and hoped. After all, there were a
variety of different treatments and Carli was so YOUNG! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">At first, only her appearance changed. The medicine
used to treat the disease took more as time went on. Little things, like going
to the store, was a big deal. COVID changed even more things, because Carli
could not get it. Ever. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Even after you had tattoos, even after you became a
hard-rocker, even after you married and were sleep deprived with a young son,
you were the same Daniel. After sickness, I saw you change. Something in you
hardened...and we all knew why. Why. Why. Why Carli? Why now? Why. Why. Why. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDFy-3B8eCYu3CGvhVTYbo9iR5XjJDkHBrvDrVLMiOyDO9yn_5L0tCgSTZytuJ1X4orMofbMSolsuJILKYiJsNuoJX8DGCSspcYkv4nf8TpCYf6ZE18Nw8ZZVWo72V3-33gaAssxkaiR-j_VKOrQFSz0Tv1OCr6Hf1w94e9jzOy3w0ydtieMEYku5R8g=s1440" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1072" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDFy-3B8eCYu3CGvhVTYbo9iR5XjJDkHBrvDrVLMiOyDO9yn_5L0tCgSTZytuJ1X4orMofbMSolsuJILKYiJsNuoJX8DGCSspcYkv4nf8TpCYf6ZE18Nw8ZZVWo72V3-33gaAssxkaiR-j_VKOrQFSz0Tv1OCr6Hf1w94e9jzOy3w0ydtieMEYku5R8g=w179-h241" width="179" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carli posted this pic of herself, after she shaved her whole head.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Daniel, you know real love. Not the Valentine’s Day version
of love, not the romance, not the roses and chocolates, but the chemotherapy kind of love, the aching
heart that is powerless to stop your wife from vomiting, or feeling
dizzy, kind </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">of love.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> You know the kind of love that assures your dying wife that her toddler son will be alright if she dies. You know the kind of love that stares death in the face.
That’s the kind of love you know. That’s the dark side of love that no one can prepare
you for. No one likes to admit it exists.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">You know the kind of love that has to listen to
ignorant people, suggesting herbal remedies as your wife fades away. Your love
stays up at night and has to work the next morning. Your love gets your son
dressed, lifts him up to kiss his mother, over the rails of the hospital bed
you had to rent. That’s the kind of love you had at the end—the unfair kind of love that
steals from you, slowly, so you won’t miss one thing about the unfair theft. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Today, in the throng of Cupids and chocolate, I can
tell you that you have seen the kind of love that most people will not ever see. We can
surround you, and tell you how much we love you, but it won’t bring Carli back,
and it won’t ever make any of this whole thing make sense. What it can do, if
you’re lucky, is help you understand the rest of it: the rest of your life that
you now have to do without her. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">There are no maps. There are no right ways. There’s
only you and Micah and God, and all of us, around you, waiting to do something,
even the smallest something, that might help. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Sometimes, I wish I were really wealthy. Not so I can
wear nice clothes or buy great stuff, but sometimes I wish I could charter a
private plane and come over there, just to sit in a chair by you. Here is what
I would say: nothing. I love you. Nothing. I love you. Nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">You know love, Daniel, and today, on Valentine’s Day,
I wish you a day of breathing in and out, and I pray those breaths
would be sweet. I pray that you have the strength to chisel your way through the terrible
marble-like grief that wants to disable you. I want to
say I love you, and then I want to shut up.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I love you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Segoe UI Emoji",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol-ext; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji";">❤</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Auntie Janet<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwIe2YoFuC-9pFRTmavhIbAcuFHmHSqe3wkVeO0PqeozaRnz1AvA5KO7L6W7vRHufiENIE9o2AWVynd-3wKx3G75kTfDN0PVVjozkuOsN253sES4M8oGCGM6BEwopY6YGQEgSglSp60jbimkOIGOuJy3kPivOQ7vsMAIPcysdKDUc2Xa80sl2fYV08lw=s960" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwIe2YoFuC-9pFRTmavhIbAcuFHmHSqe3wkVeO0PqeozaRnz1AvA5KO7L6W7vRHufiENIE9o2AWVynd-3wKx3G75kTfDN0PVVjozkuOsN253sES4M8oGCGM6BEwopY6YGQEgSglSp60jbimkOIGOuJy3kPivOQ7vsMAIPcysdKDUc2Xa80sl2fYV08lw=s320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two weeks before she died, Carli posted this memory of her and Daniel in 2018: <br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;">“</span>Going out with this hunk and Jessica Van Aswegan and company (sorry, I don't have him on Facebook) singing Lose Yourself by Eminem at the top of our lungs.”<br />****<br /><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">You better lose yourself in the music, the moment<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; text-align: start;">You own it, you better never let it go<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; text-align: start;">You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; text-align: start;">This opportunity comes once in a lifetime<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; text-align: start;">You better...</span></span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; text-align: start;"><i>You only get one shot.</i></span></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-55637843956458983502021-12-29T05:14:00.008-08:002021-12-29T05:45:37.037-08:0034<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYnfTAPwU928EwRlTOIL6xNLvQ6_Ek_n0DYZNHDpoYNKcctYXMq4zuMY8xRekyV2vJaPXKhiF-Hyq_jmUxe2Od3bm9kMULPYnp0Ly5iYtxrTcQhmWs9WyOCJ3JSz4yftZO5SoopuLZGlr9SdBmlJ-CuNGJgcclePi9iqal3l4QxZ5lzRjKuHuxZDFt0Q=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYnfTAPwU928EwRlTOIL6xNLvQ6_Ek_n0DYZNHDpoYNKcctYXMq4zuMY8xRekyV2vJaPXKhiF-Hyq_jmUxe2Od3bm9kMULPYnp0Ly5iYtxrTcQhmWs9WyOCJ3JSz4yftZO5SoopuLZGlr9SdBmlJ-CuNGJgcclePi9iqal3l4QxZ5lzRjKuHuxZDFt0Q=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I’ve been given a gift. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Every day, for the last thirty-four
years, I’ve been given a tree-like blessing, which changes and grows, in season.
Like a tree, it produces more than it consumes. It’s lovely. It’s something I
don’t deserve, but it’s mine. Every day. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">My tree makes its home in
the earth, where the roots go down. It holds on to something greater than
itself. It stretches itself upwards, and actually believes it is part of the
unreachable sky on good days. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Everywhere, everywhere, are threats to its happiness, but the tree grows stronger each day it
stands.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">My gift, my tree, has
survived wood-boring insects, periods of drought, and mighty winds that could
have easily toppled it. It’s been threatened by fire, stripped of its bark, and
had words of death spoken about it, in front of it, and to it, by well-meaning
friends who are “just trying to be honest.” They have accused me of destroying
it. Sometimes they’ve been right. Sometimes, after they leave, I lean against it and cry.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This is an organic gift, a
living world, a microcosm of the complicated world around it. It’s in my care, a
responsibility I don’t take lightly. Today, it celebrates a lifespan of
thirty-four years.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m not a great gardener.
In fact, there are days I’m a terrible one, but the tree is a treasure , and I know I'm entrusted with its care. I believe it lives beyond me, so I don’t treat it like my servant; I treat
it like a living thing, in need of me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I grew up watching a tree
like this one grow, in front of me. I have a clear advantage in tending this one just because I know it can be done, it can work, it can survive, against the odds. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I believe it can live, and it deserves to live. I believe in its might.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I believe, I believe, I
believe. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Thank
you, and Happy Anniversary, <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">to
my beautiful Mario, who I don’t deserve...<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">For
the tree-like blessing of marriage these 34 years <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><br /><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-44931815356915651092021-12-28T02:48:00.000-08:002021-12-28T02:48:03.260-08:0059<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAJUoSTmI3zT35SnV9Jl3pUsQwAJ1v-D5K13gECEXNfHkjw6PBP4GPXe-djolfHF4c1pb4Lq72_mhkRmOTWPNh5lXJfRvt6_8d7PWbq5IxYFlTICMspHdwEN2lwOUR0I6o6REdycYDP1MSAT2VFsbrR0pxvarUnkfaj_LXIuCd7Vp_SnPDxKPgVPDLaA=s2592" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAJUoSTmI3zT35SnV9Jl3pUsQwAJ1v-D5K13gECEXNfHkjw6PBP4GPXe-djolfHF4c1pb4Lq72_mhkRmOTWPNh5lXJfRvt6_8d7PWbq5IxYFlTICMspHdwEN2lwOUR0I6o6REdycYDP1MSAT2VFsbrR0pxvarUnkfaj_LXIuCd7Vp_SnPDxKPgVPDLaA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today, December 28, 2021, at my desk</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">T</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">oday I am fifty-nine years old,
and I will love this year. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Despite
what I’d heard, and maybe thought to myself when I was younger, the fifties, as
a decade have been amazing. Tonight, I told Mario, “I feel the same today as I
did when I was thirty-nine.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“And
now, you’re more financially stable,” he said. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I laughed. Mario and I think so differently. In
a gazillion years, I would never have thought of financial stability. Never.
Finances and I don’t mingle or mix, so I don’t even think about them. And yet,
Mario is right. we have finally reached a point in our lives where we can look
ahead. Our kids are on their own, with children of their own, and the joy of grandparenting
dominates our lives. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On
my thirty-ninth birthday, twenty years ago, I had just run my first marathon. I
had read (and finished) Leo Tolstoy’s <i>War and Peace</i>. I was teaching
full-time. Vince and Alicia were teenagers, living at home, and David and Joe
were in college. I couldn’t see the next ten years ahead of us, and I wouldn’t
want to. They would be fraught with disaster, roads so filled with mines, I
would never want to cross them. Today, I can say this: I made it through. I’m
still alive. My family still talks to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes
it’s best if we can’t see the road ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Each
birthday, I look up the corresponding Psalm, just to see what God’s word says
about the number that corresponds with my birthday year. Today, I read Psalm 59,
which begins with these two daunting verses:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="text"><sup><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">1</span></sup></span><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Deliver me from my enemies, O God;</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
</span><span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">be my
fortress against those who are attacking me.</span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span class="text"><sup><span style="background: white;"><span id="en-NIV-14793" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">2 </span></span></sup><span style="background: white;">Deliver
me from evildoers</span></span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">and
save me from those who are after my blood.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh no. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don’t want to think
about anyone who doesn’t like me, let alone admit I could have enemies. I love
most people, even the ones who don’t care for me. I feel pain deeply, rejoice
jubilantly, and I want to talk about friends and promises and a future where I
make good choices. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Reality has proven, for
me, that the world is filled with people who won’t like me, even some who will hate
me. I have a deliverer, and he can deliver me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This year, despite being fully vaccinated, Mario
tested positive for Covid in December. Despite testing negative, and never exhibiting
symptoms, I quarantined right along with him. His negative test, on the 20<sup>th</sup>
was what we were waiting for, and served as a green light for us to host. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><span class="text" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">We just celebrated
Christmas, and we hosted, in our house, a beautiful, noisy, chaotic explosion
of life. We sang Christmas carols as our grandchildren shook jingle bells and
shook maracas. </span></span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Children wandered around with beverages, in cups
with no lids, and ice, sloshing around. It was marvelous. <span class="text">Our fifteen-year-old
fake Christmas tree, pulled from the shed, and fluffed up as much as possible,
made the only laughable imitation of something real. Everything else about our
Christmas was genuine.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mario bought the tree in
South Africa, where I was depressed and told him I couldn’t celebrate Christmas
because it was so damn hot. I wept every time I saw a green Christmas tree. I
couldn’t find a decent tamale in Johannesburg. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t
find <i>any</i> tamales. I asked Mario if he missed home as much as I did.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One day, he bought the Christmas
tree. It was white and pre-lit with little white lights, like the ones I
admired in the States, but could never afford. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s white,” Mario said,
dripping with sweat as he wrestled it from its box. “I know you can’t do green
because it’s too much like home, but we need a tree to celebrate and I figured
we can do white here, and it can be a new tradition.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I loved that white tree.
I loved South Africa. I loved our new home. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I missed real Christmas
trees. I missed our home. I missed our family.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I learned that two
conflicting emotions could live side by side, without hypocrisy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In our Sacramento house,
the white tree was used because we were quarantined. Mario had forgotten about
it being in our backyard garden shed. He looked surprised when I wrestled it
from its box and set it up. It was put in the corner, and looked lonely and
out-of-place. It’s pre-lit branches had to be stripped because the RSA uses 220
and the USA uses 110. We strung our own lights around the branches, and decorated
it with our ornaments, many with the pictures of new grandchildren on them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The tree reminded me that
our life in South Africa came at a cost to us. It reminded me of the longing I
had for tamales and molasses cookies. It reminded me of how the whole country
of South Africa took one miraculous month off to celebrate the holiday, and
genuinely loved their hot, hot Christmases. The white tree reminded me of our
years in Johannesburg, where my heart ached to be near family, especially
during Christmas. Oh, Lord, it is a miracle that we continued on, and loved it.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes we need
reminders of miracles. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m
taking a break to write this blog because I am on a major deadline. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
signed a book contract with Prickly Pear Publishing, and I have to turn the
book in at the beginning of the year. Getting a book ready for the publisher is
like getting a house ready for sale. Getting a daughter ready to be married.
Getting a piece of furniture ready to be refinished. No, it’s harder than all
those things. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's
literally like getting a book ready for the publisher. That’s what it’s like. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> The final two verses of
Psalm 59 are encouraging ones, and I’ve quoted them often: <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="text"><b><sup>16 </sup></b>But I
will sing of your strength,</span><br />
<span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text">in
the morning I will sing of your love;</span><br />
<span class="text">for you are my fortress,</span><br />
<span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text">my
refuge in times of trouble.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span class="text"><span style="font-size: medium;">17You are my strength, I sing praise to you;</span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span class="text"><span style="font-size: medium;"> you, God, are my fortress</span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span class="text"><span style="font-size: medium;"> my God on whom I can rely.</span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Without
the first two, there cannot be the last two. Like a chef planning the perfect
dish, our lives need the balance of salty, sweet, bitter, sour, and umami.</span></span></p><p class="line" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> This
year, I pray for that balance. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-84035733764227267622021-02-16T04:28:00.013-08:002021-09-09T02:19:07.910-07:00measure<p> "Measure" is a poem about my true love, Mario, and an event <u>that actually happened</u>.</p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlOi7ofGZpCMS9uDGXNsGm94PA9VhkriTjY2_CRa4LpfkC9CUuxXF5GEdZcl4ExNz2oNxDuB-_3bfbOJb5ZKDkXDUDeQJ2H4L65tQzNu50qYDXTrJyGAeZfMSUrY4HK_3mqLhTlvyw_tw/s1600/100_1199.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlOi7ofGZpCMS9uDGXNsGm94PA9VhkriTjY2_CRa4LpfkC9CUuxXF5GEdZcl4ExNz2oNxDuB-_3bfbOJb5ZKDkXDUDeQJ2H4L65tQzNu50qYDXTrJyGAeZfMSUrY4HK_3mqLhTlvyw_tw/s320/100_1199.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">At the Cairo Hospital...looking at my true love.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>February is a short month when</span><br /><span>couples measure love</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">in strange ways:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>waterfront </span><span><span>restaurants, candle-lit dinners,</span></span><span> long-stemmed roses,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><span> </span><span>diamonds, </span></span><span>proposals, making love, roaoring fires</span><span>...</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><span>M</span>easures of love, pitted against</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>each other, their spurred talons and </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">greased </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>feathers flying. </span><span>I don't want to play.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>My true love doesn't do waterfront restaurants.</span><br /><span>I once ordered </span><span>Maine lobster </span><span>at market price, a mistake</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>we've never repeated. He would </span><span>never buy diamonds, </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">after seeing the toil of mine labor, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and gives me potted, living roses, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">“</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">not falling</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>for </span><span>overpriced, drying flowers in </span><span>cellophane.</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>His idea of a roaring fire is at the end </span><span>of a good cigar.</span><br /><span>But he puts the seat down, </span><span>does the laundry,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and has strong arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">These arms </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>once supported me</span><span> as I</span><br /><span>tried to act normal, plodding</span><br /><span>up stairs in Cairo—uneven stone</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>steps </span><span>in front of a hospital—littered</span><br /><span>with candy wrappers. Women in </span><span>black</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>wool hijabs looked at me, intense </span><span>eyes </span><span>begging </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>me not to touch </span><span>them. They kept hands </span><span>tucked beneath </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">their dresses, not outstretched to me, their figures leaning</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>away from my shadow </span><span>as we passed. </span><span>W</span><span>ide-eyes, terror </span><span>filled, </span><span>stared </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>at us, and made me think </span><span>I was dying. But as we walked, his arms</span><span> lifted</span><span> me </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>just enough </span><span>for my steps </span><span>to feel easier.</span><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Weak from blood loss, no fluid was staying</span><span> inside</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>my eyes,</span><span> my body, even my blood was sandy. </span><span>We had to </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><i>could we?</i> </span><span>stop </span><span>the bleeding.</span><span> I </span><span>focused everything I </span><span>had </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>to </span><span>lean on him, his p</span><span>rimal </span><span>scent of perspiration, one hand </span><span>clasped </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>over mine</span><span>.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>So </span><span>many stone steps, uneven path to healing, stones</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>between us and </span><span>the surgeon. I had to stop twice, </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>and when I cried, the women hid </span><span>their faces. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p>He kept whispering: “A few more steps, just</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>a few more steps…” And I took one up, and then </span><span>two,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>and neither of us knew the way, </span><span>but he whispered </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">“</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>just </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>a few more steps</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">”</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">anyway. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I pleaded to stop and lie down. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>He shook </span><span>his head, </span><span>and didn't feel sorry for me, and the hospital </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>was there, </span><span>at the end of the steps, </span><span>just like he said it would be.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>My measure of romance will always be this:</span><br /><span>The strength of his arms, and his whispers, leading</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>When my self is a weak, bleeding, staggering</span><br /><span>thing, and the world is a bleak place with</span><br /><span>long, stony paths, all uneven, he steadies me.</span><br /><span>Moreover, he believes I can do it and says so.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>I get there with him, one step at a time.</span><br /><span>He knows me and walks beside me</span><br /><span>anyway.</span><br /><span><br /></span><span>On steps like these,</span><br /><span>too weak and bloodless </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>to stop crying, having</span><span> nothing </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>left to give, he asks me for nothing</span><br /><span>and expects nothing. He never leaves.</span><br /><span>This is the measure of my true love’s heart.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-56803645301794310462021-02-12T05:17:00.004-08:002021-02-12T05:26:12.096-08:00tigerdragon<p> </p><p><br /></p><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlTg1oZLO-eNxtDb0PQ24yAXHLe3EBLZfQ3Uz9SR4NwW9y_R1cMR8jO9kGRFVGauODgeckjODik4lMGFLdkwaNXxenUrfpCOFk2f9gKGNgowWQfjtxAbKnUpwIZSpA61Jt5jXiyy9EssU/s1600/Chinese_Tiger_Versus_Dragon_by_Heatherbeast.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlTg1oZLO-eNxtDb0PQ24yAXHLe3EBLZfQ3Uz9SR4NwW9y_R1cMR8jO9kGRFVGauODgeckjODik4lMGFLdkwaNXxenUrfpCOFk2f9gKGNgowWQfjtxAbKnUpwIZSpA61Jt5jXiyy9EssU/s1600/Chinese_Tiger_Versus_Dragon_by_Heatherbeast.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Chinese Tiger Versus Dragon<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">by Heatherbeast</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://heatherbeast.deviantart.com/art/Chinese-Tiger-Versus-Dragon-141491905" target="_blank">full details here</a></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This afternoon I took Pippi out to her favorite Chinese restaurant for Chinese New Year. I wanted to celebrate with her on one of her rare days off. Even with her three-year-old twin boys in tow, I knew it would be a special mother-daughter luncheon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I was hoping it would be like the old days.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Our family used to live next to Chinatown. Jose and I still laugh, wondering how we raised five kids in that house in such a questionable area. Penelope was our baby, and our only girl. The boys called her </span>Pippi. When all the boys were in school, we would run the errands together. I'd sometimes take her shopping and then out to eat at one of the authentic restaurants for which Chinatown was so famous. Pippi learned how to use chopsticks when she was five. Her favorite thing was showing off to her father and brothers, who still preferred forks.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Did you and Mama eat in Chinatown again?” Jose would ask her, as Pippi dexterously used </span>her bamboo sticks to pick up rice and veggies from her bowl. I’d wink at her, as if our trips were secret and special. In our large family, lunch dates became times of female bonding. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Why does <i>she</i> always get to go with you?” Roberto, my youngest son, asked one night. Like his brothers, he never got to have shopping trips and lunch with me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Because I’m Chinese, and you're not!” she answered. </span>Everyone laughed. Pippi had my grandmother's almond shaped eyes, my straight black hair, and rosy apple-cheeks, like a painting. "God made me Chinese, and all of you are Mexican. Why do you think I'm the only one who can use chopsticks?"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We never corrected Pippa's misconception, thinking it was cute. Part of me thought it did no harm, since she did anything to distinguish herself from among her brothers. It didn't take long before my thinking backfired.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The next week, Jose joined Pippa and I for lunch at Happy Dragon, one of our favorite restaurants. Mrs. Lee, our favorite seating hostess, looked at Jose suspiciously when she first met him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"I thought you were married to an Asian man," she said, pointing to Pippa. "Because of your daughter." </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"We're Mexican," I said. "In some regions of Mexico, the people sometimes have the same physical characteristics as Asians."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"Uh-huh," Mrs. Lee said, handing us our menus. I could tell she didn't trust my explanation.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"I am Chinese, Mama!" Pippa said, loudly. Mrs. Lee looked at her and smiled. As I tried to laugh and explain this outburst, Pippa shouted. "Tell her the truth! Tell the truth about our family!"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I avoided Happy Dragon after that. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Pippa grew, and her eyes became her trademark. They were framed with long lashes, and . Everywhere we went, Pippi was admired. I wasn’t ready for her adolescence, which came too quickly. It was like Pippa was body-snatched in the middle of the night and replaced with someone who wanted to fight about everything.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She never wanted to eat what I made for dinner. She never wanted to sleep or study. She suddenly withheld her affection. She was convinced I nagged and pushed her too hard. I probably did. </span>In high school, she was an honor student and was in band, playing the flute. One day after school I made the mistake of suggesting she branch out into different areas. The remark brought a tearful eruption.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“I’ll never be good enough for you,” she screamed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Why do you say that? Such drama! All I’m saying is…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“I do my best and my best isn’t good enough for you.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“You will always be good enough for me!” Before I could clarify my words, she was running down the hall and then slamming her door.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">What happened to my daughter? Would I ever see my little girl again? The one who loved me and knew I loved her?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Today we had lunch together and our conversation was like the careful, polite exchanges of two people who have only just met each other. We have learned to be civil with each other so we don’t fight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“That was good,” I say, as we finish.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Grandma,” Jacob asks me, looking at the ceiling. “What is your favorite thing here?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Besides you two?” I joke, looking between him and Josh. “I think it is….”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Grandma’s favorite is the eggroll, always.” Pippa smiles, answering for me. The boys agree that it’s their favorite, too. I don’t have the heart to tell them that their Mom is wrong. My favorite is the noodles without dressing. It is a traditional Chinese favorite that Pippi and I have ordered for years. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Mommy, can we play in the kids area now?” Josh asks his mother. Jacob waits closely behind him for her answer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“I guess…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Thank you!” They sing in unison and run toward the slides and swings that flank the restaurant. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Thanks for lunch, Mom,” Pippa yawns. I know it’s been a busy week for her. She and her husband, Greg, have just landed a big account in their business and they’ve both been working a lot of hours. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“When are you going to slow down?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">My daughter rolls her eyes. “Don’t start, Mom.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“You have twin boys, you know.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Really, do I? Because I forgot!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I let it drop and there’s a bit of silence as she reaches in her purse for her phone. After checking her messages our waitress comes over and picks up the check.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“You want to take with you?” She points at the last egg roll, a juicy temptation left between us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Not for me,” I say, raising my eyebrows at Pippi. She shakes her head and the waitress smiles and walks off with the leather check-holder with the cash inside. I forget to tell her to keep the change before she walks off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“The last eggroll,” Pippi smiles as she texts. “You know you’ve been on a diet as long as I can remember? Why don’t you ever give yourself a treat?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The remark stings and she can tell.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Really?” she says. “That offends you? Admit it, you’re always on a diet.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“I guess,” I start to feel her claws against my neck. I feel trapped, unable to say the right thing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Why can’t I say anything to you anymore?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“You can,” I begin. I want to tell her that I feel the same way. I can't say anything to her anymore without offending. Even those words seem barbed, so I say nothin.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Whatever,” she says. She finishes her text and puts her phone down on the table. I can tell she feels misunderstood. I remember a younger version of the same face smiling broadly at me, picking up her bamboo chopsticks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Pippi, let’s not fight,” I say. "We see each other so rarely these days. Let's not waste a day with a fight.</span>”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“You know, Mom,” she says, “every time I’m with you I feel like a child! You’re the only one who still calls me Pippi! My brothers, Dad, my husband, my friends? They all call me Penelope, which is my adult name!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Silence descends again. I'm looking at the placemat in front of me, a paper sheet with a circle in the middle. The Chinese Zodiak is explained in the middle. Pippi sighs. I wonder when we became so distant. How many mothers and daughters, who really do love each other, feel misunderstood or disrespected in their relationship? I want to ask her opinion, but I don’t know how. Instead, I ask her a simple question.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“You want me to call you Penelope?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Yes,” she says.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Alright, I will.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“I’ve heard that before,” she says. I look up at her, and she's watching the boys. They're at the waterfall, an elaborate fish and turtle pond in the middle of the restaurant. A small children's slide and swing set is next to it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Do you want some help getting the boys together?</span>” I ask.<span lang="EN-US"> </span>“I can load one of them in their car seats…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“No, they’re having fun,</span>” she says. “Can we just sit here and have some tea?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I nervously agree. “Alright, I guess.” I want to add: “BUT let’s not start picking each other apart, okay?” but I don’t. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The waitress returns with our change and I tell her to keep it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Thank you,” she says, and smiles. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Can we still order some tea?” I ask.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Actually,” Pippi interjects, smiling broadly. “Since tea comes with our meal, and we didn't have it, can we just have a pot of tea now?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Yes, yes,” the waitress says. “Of course. Oolong tea or Jasmine ?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I say Oolong, Pippi says Jasmine. We look at each other and smile. I start to defer her wishes, but the waitress laughs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“I'll bring you green tea?” she suggests. “Green tea is made with the fresh leaf and costs a little bit more but I won’t charge you.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I look at Pippi, who smiles and nods. As our waitress walks away, and I think of what Pippi has just said. Do I really treat her like a child? Do I really not listen? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In the ten years she has been away from home, she's become a mother and a wife and a business owner. In very many ways she’ll always be my little girl.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“What are you thinking?” she asks, suspiciously.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Nothing, really.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“What is it?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Do you really think I don’t listen to you?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Oh, yeah,” Pippi laughs, as if this is an understatement.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“I’m sorry.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “Just listen to me.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I have to swallow hard to accept her words. I wonder if she knows how much her words hurt. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Here's, your tea!” The waitress lays clean placemats before us and then white cups with no handles. In the middle of the table she places a pot of green tea. Pippi lifts the lid and decides it needs to sit awhile. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“I’m just gonna check on the boys,” she says, leaving her seat. I sigh, looking down at my placemat. The Chinese Zodiac calendar gives an image of each animal, what year it corresponds to, and a brief description of people born under the sign. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">According to the chart, I am a tiger: a creative individual who is optimistic, resilient, and influential. It also says I am sensitive and prone to getting my feeling hurt too easily. Am I?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I quickly scan the chart to find Pippi. It says she's a dragon. It reads: “Proud, strong, and self-assured, Dragons don’t have to ask for things, they demand them. They can be dictatorial and inflexible in their associations with others, but at the same time be the warmest, most gentle individuals you may meet.” I smile and look around for Pippi, my Penelope, just to show her. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She's walking toward me, Joshua following her closely. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m going to have to take a rain check on the tea, Josh wet his pants.” I can tell she frustrated and I start looking around for Jacob, who comes running to her in tears. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Why do we have to go?” he is crying. “Josh wet his pants, not me!” His sobs echo through the restaurant as his mother tries to calm him. Josh, on the other hand, is ready to leave. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Bye, Grandma,” he says, almost too quickly. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Is there anything I can do?” I ask Pippi. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“No, nothing.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I pick up the placemat and follow her as she marches out to the parking lot. The waitress watches us, nonplussed, as we've left the teapot untouched on the table. I follow her to her car, even though </span>Jacob is crying. He still doesn’t want to leave. Josh jumps into the car and buckles himself into his own carseat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Pip… Penelope, do you want to take this placemat home?</span>” I ask. She turns around, and her face is like mine, or like mine was twenty years ago, when I was trying to corral the kids into the car. I numbly lift up the paper placemat, and it flaps in the cold wind. "I thought the kids might like to see it. It's Chinese New Year, after all. I was just reading these descriptions of the dragon and tiger…” I try to show her twhat I'm talking about, but she looks at me like I've lost my mind. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Really, Mom?</span>” she says. She clicks Jacob's car seat buckle and shuts his door. “Are you kidding me? Remember how you used to make the waitresses take that shit off the table? Because it conflicted with out beliefs? You didn’t want me being deceived by the Chinese Zodiac? All that stuff you used to say, and it was so embarrassing. Remember?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Her voice is agitated. It's drowned out only by Jacob's cries. I suddenly recognize my insensitivity. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Sorry, honey,</span>” I say. “I was just trying to lighten the mood, I guess.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Yeah, well,</span>”<span lang="EN-US"> she says, fumbling with her keys. </span>“I can’t understand you, sometimes. I mean, sometimes I wonder why you used to be so… ”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She looks like she's trying to be careful with her words. I really want to know what I used to be, something that might explain why we're not friends.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“So what?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Never mind. Thanks for lunch.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She gives me an obligatory hug and gets into the car. I blow the boys kisses; they manage a weak wave back. Pippi drives off, leaving me in the parking lot, filled with disappointment, and waving at the taillights of her Rav4 . </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">When I return home, I sit at my computer, and start editing a piece for the Sun-Times that is due in eight hours. Instead of giving it my full attention, my mind drifts back to the lunch with my daughter. I start to get tears in my eyes. I decide to draft an email to her. Jose has asked me not to send Pippi emails until he's read them first. I resolve to save it as a draft for him to read later. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Penelope,<o:p></o:p></i><br /><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>I can’t stop thinking of you. <o:p></o:p></i><br /><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>You are my daughter, the beautiful blessing that God decided to give me. Today as we left the restaurant, I wanted to grab you and hold you and scream “I love you! How can I help you receive my love?” Instead, I said nothing and just waved to you like you were any other person I have in my life.</i><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>But you’re not. <o:p></o:p></i><br /><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>You’re not like any other person I have in my life. You are the one who is so close to me that you can hear me purr or growl before the rest of the world does. You can see right through the wall I've built and know me for who I really am. For all the years we have struggled, we have also understood each other. <o:p></o:p></i><br /><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>I thought it would be fun to go out on Chinese New Year for the same reason I thought it would be fun to read you what the placemats said about the tiger (me) and the dragon (you). I don’t put much belief in that stuff, as you inferred earlier, but I thought it brought comic relief to all of the tension we were having at lunch. <o:p></o:p></i><br /><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The truth is, every mother and daughter does this dance that we do. We trade places in frustration, belief, hope and anger. We sometimes believe (falsely) that we don’t understand one another. We think we can’t see the other, but the truth is we do. I should say that I <u>want</u> to understand you; I <u>want</u> to know you; I want to love and be loved by you. <o:p></o:p></i><br /><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Isn’t that better than thinking we already know each other? <o:p></o:p></i><br /><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>I love you and I’m proud of you.<o:p></o:p></i><br /><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Mom<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Instead of saving it to a draft, I hit send.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When Jose comes home, I show him the letter and he rubs his forehead. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I thought we agreed you wouldn't send letters to Penelope without showing me first?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I smile, sheepishly. Then I ask him when he stopped calling her Pippi and started calling her Penelope. He tells me he started when she asked him to, and that was when she was twelve years old. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-70675953315695224702021-01-18T15:22:00.006-08:002021-01-18T19:34:51.187-08:00MLK<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 12pt;">We Americans worship heroes we barely know. We follow athletes because of their sports statistics rather than their character or what they stand for. We elect presidents because they can argue persuasively in debates, even when we don’t know much about their lives or lifestyles.</span></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Martin Luther King is an exception. He is an American hero who wanted to be known. He had incredible family roots and beliefs, which he communicated powerfully through the written and spoken word. While he was known for his letters and speeches, there is still enough about him that remains a mystery. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Today, I celebrate his birthday by re-publishing this blog. These are surprising bits of trivia about Martin Luther King that I hope you enjoy:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><b>1.</b> Martin Luther King was <i>no</i>t his real name.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 16.15pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt;">Michael was born in Atlanta in 1929, named after his father, Michael Sr. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">When he was only two years old, Michael Jr. (our beloved MLK) went with his family to Europe. Michael Senior was so profoundly affected by the person of Martin Luther, the great reformer, that upon his return to the States changed his name to Martin Luther King, Sr. and his son’s to Martin Luther King, Jr.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><b>2.</b> He came from a powerful and spiritual family.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">His father and mother were both ordained ministers. Educated and respected leaders in the Atlanta community, the family lived with his maternal grandparents, the Reverend and Mrs. A.D. Williams. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">While the Kings were known for their virtue, they were also seen as radicals, embracing </span><span style="font-size: 16px;">not only racial, but gender</span><span style="font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">equality. At this point in time, the Christian church preached the submission of women (not much has changed in some churches). The King men were staunch believers in the power of Jesus Christ and the Bible and believed in living according to the word of God, which teaches nothing less. They led Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, right down the street from their home.</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><b>3.</b> His call to stand up for the civil rights of a nation </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">started in childhood.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 16.15pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Martin Jr. grew up in a </span><span style="font-size: 16px;">racially segregated</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> world. It really didn’t matter that his parents were educated; the American south had enforced laws about the separation of blacks and whites. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 16.15pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 16.15pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Etched clearly in King’s memory was a story of his family's outing to buy new shoes. Excited at the prospect, Martin entered the store with his family, only to be immediately ushered to the back exit. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 16.15pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 16.15pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">“No coloreds.” The store owner said. The Kings knew this--they weren't ignorant of the segregation--and the elder Kings called these "daily protests" against segregation. They regularly shopped at "white only" stores just so the owners would be forced to confront their own racist policies. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 16.15pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 16.15pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Martin learned on that day that blacks were not allowed in most restaurants, on public beaches or swimming pools. They couldn’t drink from the same water fountains as white people and couldn’t use the same toilets. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">His father's daily protests started a fire in Martin's heart. This shoe-store event began to shape King's passionate crusade for righteousness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><b>4. </b> He graduated high school at 15. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">MLK skipped both 9<sup>th</sup><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and 12<sup>th</sup><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>grades (some historians have him skipping the 11<sup>th</sup>), and enrolled in Morehouse College, a prestigious<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>private, all-male, black university in Atlanta. He graduated with a Bachelors degree in sociology at age 19. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_JZ0uYi_ZQ8Vxax43JadgSn2dliv6NAFb53j7eoeg97SKP0iGuSNlXXEZ-5FNJXYdrVNU8WsFi38hIw_gK-0BizTxlt0nbp7ZqSMlVyfIjYY2LZ8r9NRyCMwzIiC48pw9q1rbTg7O7XrP/s1600/couple.jpg" style="clear: left; color: #888888; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_JZ0uYi_ZQ8Vxax43JadgSn2dliv6NAFb53j7eoeg97SKP0iGuSNlXXEZ-5FNJXYdrVNU8WsFi38hIw_gK-0BizTxlt0nbp7ZqSMlVyfIjYY2LZ8r9NRyCMwzIiC48pw9q1rbTg7O7XrP/s320/couple.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><b style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">5</b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">He thought his wife was brave for taking him on.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">After Morehouse, King completed seminary<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> and was introduced to Coretta Scott, a woman whose wit and vigor was an incredible match for his. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">As much as Martin is celebrated, Corrie (what he called her) was as well. A brilliant thinker, gorgeous in physical appearance and social graces, Coretta was also known for her voice: a mezzo-soprano. Her voice, Martin said later, was angelic and worshipful. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">On the night they wed, the newlyweds were denied entrance to their hotel (supposedly booked knowing it was a whites-only place). The couple decided to spend their wedding night at a Black-owned funeral home. It was only the beginning of many stands for justice they took together.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><b>6</b>. He’s called “Dr. Martin Luther King” because he was a PhD. This title was not honorary.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">After marriage, King became pastor of the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama, when he was twenty-five years old. He then began doctoral studies in systematic theology at Boston University and received his Ph. D in 1955. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">He was just getting started.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2s2XQcjznFx2Of53pvmlq5kFBVX8ZyY_ZwFVrIfJEB9nEjWu0PaSjGxtzoHh_osRCi7XOORsNY2ZRbu-PLYtIC7zWbESIeb6XtfNpW_0og4TmxPYF1K8QvDOLVmqc-jm3sdL8_oRVJv3/s1600/busboycott.jpg" style="clear: right; color: #888888; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2s2XQcjznFx2Of53pvmlq5kFBVX8ZyY_ZwFVrIfJEB9nEjWu0PaSjGxtzoHh_osRCi7XOORsNY2ZRbu-PLYtIC7zWbESIeb6XtfNpW_0og4TmxPYF1K8QvDOLVmqc-jm3sdL8_oRVJv3/s320/busboycott.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><b>7</b>. Rosa sat down and Martin stood up - in that order.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">On a December,1955 evening in Montgomery, Rosa Parks rode the bus home seated in the fifth row, which was permissible. It was, after all, the first row of the "colored section".<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">It was standard practice that when the bus became full, the seats nearer the front were given to white passengers. This happened and the bus driver asked Parks and three other African-Americans seated nearby to move: “Move y'all, I want those two seats!"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Three riders complied, but Parks did not.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">The bus driver threatened to have her arrested, and Ms. Parks said he had every freedom to do that. She wasn’t breaking any written law; she was just uppity and he called her bluff. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Upon hearing of the arrest, King and his colleague (Ralph Abernathy) organized a city-wide boycott intended to cripple the financial legs of the bus companies. A staunch devotee of nonviolence, the men were adamant that no one should lose their cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Martin wrote to the city with the organized plan of protest: Black passengers should be treated with courtesy. Seating should be allotted on a first-come-first-serve basis, with white passengers sitting from front to back and black passengers sitting from back to front. Negro drivers should drive routes that primarily serviced Negroes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">On Monday, December 5, 1955 the boycott went into effect – it was the beginning of organized non-violent protests across the south. Martin was at the forefront of a revolution. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><b>8. </b> He was a man determined to be seen and heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">From 1957 until his death in 1968, King gave over 2,500 speeches; he traveled more than 6 million miles; and he wrote five books and countless articles published in newspapers and magazines.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Upon seeing him deliver his “I Have a Dream” speech, John F. Kennedy, amazed and open-mouthed, turned to his chief of staff and said, “Damn, he’s good!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">My favorite writing of his (besides the PERFECT “I have a Dream” speech) is the letter he wrote from an Alabama jail to the surrounding clergymen. This portion resonates the most in my soul:</span></div><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">“We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse and buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, "Wait." But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can't go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five year old son who is asking: "Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?"; when you take a cross county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading "white" and "colored"; when your first name becomes "nigger," your middle name becomes "boy" (however old you are) and your last name becomes "John," and your wife and mother are never given the respected title "Mrs."; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of "nobodiness"--then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience…”</span></i></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><b>9</b>. MLK set his face towards Jerusalem.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Martin had two heroes: Jesus Christ and Martin Luther. Both men were killed in the middle of their ministry, for their beliefs. Martin seemed to recognize the same would be true for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">After many, many death threats and his own people warning him to “go underground for awhile” Martin eventually made peace with the destiny he had – to die for the cause worth dying for. On April 3, 1968 (the day before he was assassinated), he preached at the at Mason Temple in Memphis, Tennessee:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">“Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about a thing. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”</span></i></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTemheMutpxcgBIKGnYVbQV9fK2ERN6uPCGoEthGUEn-lplkZE2k4iBWTwrQUZyMOg1KLSQBaDvbxDwGxIOhiz5xcOrSCxix0DneLIFOmXVpB1_vQpggK2WfcwLJW-nBQ5g6nNj_gXY5y-/s1600/dr-martin-luther-king-640_s640x427-1.jpg" style="clear: left; color: #888888; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTemheMutpxcgBIKGnYVbQV9fK2ERN6uPCGoEthGUEn-lplkZE2k4iBWTwrQUZyMOg1KLSQBaDvbxDwGxIOhiz5xcOrSCxix0DneLIFOmXVpB1_vQpggK2WfcwLJW-nBQ5g6nNj_gXY5y-/s320/dr-martin-luther-king-640_s640x427-1.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></div><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;" /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><b>10.</b> Martin’s heart betrayed a life lived at full speed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">King was assassinated in Memphis when he was 39, after two other attempts on his life. The details of the assassination are sketchy, but all evidence shows it was a conspiracy, not the act of a lone gunman.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"> At the hospital, one of the attending doctors noted during his autopsy that King “had the heart of a 60-year-old." A heart that was tired; overworked and stressed – beating in the man that championed respect and nonviolence.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;" /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Martin, we hardly knew ye…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="line-height: 18.4px;"><a href="https://thekingcenter.org/" style="color: #888888; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">A special thanks to The King Center for their online history of MLK and their ongoing work. Click here to donate or get involved.</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-88083780163934533512020-12-29T05:30:00.015-08:002021-01-12T01:06:58.545-08:0033<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfu3GbTCRqPuHeHJGOpgH-p1oHtchIgUDx4cDvagQlFKfEHFP3_KgqaVhqdsteLjj98GrJklGy2zI9HnxpwAF1dCVrjSbr8HmviTVCzWLxwEaaTNyTn6LC1gNW23nBILMoo1JGvpZs4jEF/s2048/Me+amd+Mario+2020.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2022" data-original-width="2048" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfu3GbTCRqPuHeHJGOpgH-p1oHtchIgUDx4cDvagQlFKfEHFP3_KgqaVhqdsteLjj98GrJklGy2zI9HnxpwAF1dCVrjSbr8HmviTVCzWLxwEaaTNyTn6LC1gNW23nBILMoo1JGvpZs4jEF/w400-h395/Me+amd+Mario+2020.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Today, Mario and I have been married for 33 years, it's our Jesus year, so to speak. Every year, I write a blog about our marriage, and I ask
Mario what I should write about. Today, when I asked, he leaned against the door frame and thought.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Wow,” he said. “It’s been a tough
year. Maybe you should write about endurance.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I nodded, and began.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">In the old days, I swear this would have
felt like a slap in the face. If I ask Mario what especially stands
out in our marriage, I'm not really wanting to hear how both of us are good
at sticking it out. <span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">This year is different. This year, 2020, I appreciate him saying this. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">First of all, most of you know what I’m
talking about when I write about this year. Most who are reading are family and
friends, and most have partners or romantic relationships. You know what this
year has been like, right? It’s been tough for all of us. It’s been a year of
quarantine, diminished salaries, being trapped in closed spaces together. You
know...<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">This year, on top of all this COVID quarantine
stuff, Mario and I had major life changes which took place inside our family. Where family is concerned, I don’t like change.
I understand how family stuff can be emotionally supercharged, so I like it to
remain <i>predictably</i> emotionally supercharged. This year has been filled
with so many family changes, that it’s caused disturbing outbursts, challenges,
discussions, and decisions. It’s sucked a lot of life out of me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Usually, Mario and I agree about the important
stuff, but this year? We felt like Oscar and Felix, Samson and Delilah, <a href="https://www.usnews.com/opinion/articles/2014/02/11/james-carville-and-mary-matalin-dish-on-politics-and-marriage" target="_blank">MaryMatalin and James Carville</a>. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I love Mario and Janet. Mario and
Janet disagree on a boatload of issues, but are genuinely together on critical
ones, and always remain each other’s best friend. This
year? Challenged that. The issue of family is tender, and if we don’t agree on
the direction we’re supposed to take, we fight. We’ve fought a lot this year. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">A week ago, Mario and I were in one of these
terrible fights. It was at the point of a tailspin, telling the other something
like, “If only you would listen, then you’d understand...” or something like
that. I don’t remember the specifics, but I do remember being <i>exhausted</i>.
<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">There comes a time in most couple’s lives
when they get tired of fighting about the same thing, over and over again. This
exhaustion sometimes supersedes what they’re fighting about. The disagreement
gets old, and the mountain looks familiar, blah, blah, blah... and they arrive
at the inevitable fork in the road, where they have to ask themselves: “Do I
pursue this later?” or “Do I drop it?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">(I have to give a disclaimer here—I’ve said
this before—this doesn’t apply to addictions. Addictions are equivalent to ACID
on a relationship. Relationships can’t survive addictions unless the addict
<a href="https://www.samhsa.gov/" target="_blank">gets help</a>).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">No one gets to the fork in the road unless they are fighting. No one arrives at this fork in the road unless they’ve traveled the lonely
road of disagreement with their partner. We usually arrive at the fork fatigued,
stinky, gross, and angry. Sometimes the fork is complicated,
with more than two ways to end it. Either way, the fork in the road involves <i>surrender</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">This year, Mario and I have had to agree to compromise a lot. In order to move on, couples surrender their way and make a deal that's acceptable to both, if they expect to remain friends. Some of us take longer to reach a compromise. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Mario and I are accomplished swordfighters by this time in our marriage—we’ve
even learned how to duel without drawing blood—and no one would ever guess we
were capable of inflicting such emotional wounds on one another. I’m ashamed to
say this, but we’ve survived a lot of wounds this year. Tonight, as I type
this, I promise you, that we have survived the battles, the wounds, the
surrenders, because we share a deep love for one another and a shared faith. At
the end of day, I have to remember that this man is the best guy I know—the man
who understands me like no other human on the planet.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">So, why would I ever battle with him, you
may ask? It’s because I’m human and I like being right. Sometimes I wish
everyone in the whole damn world would listen to me, and just do what I say. If
they would, things would work a lot better. Sure, some people disagree with me,
but those people are idiots. When my husband
numbers himself with the idiots, my happiness is suddenly threatened, and <i>I hate</i>
it when my happiness is threatened. If there’s change happening all around me,
I object—loudly. I don’t like change unless I orchestrate it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That last paragraph? I hope it made you
laugh...even if it feels true. We humans are selfish beings by nature, and usually we're good at masking this, until our happiness is threatened.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">This year, the man who is my husband, my favorite
human being in the whole world, disagreed with me more than he normally does,
because he has the inconvenient job of bringing me back to earth and showing me
how change is inevitable. He is the one who shows me our bank balance, and reminds
me to stay on a budget. He encourages me to tell the truth, but with less
brutal language. He explains how our children are adults, and need our support
even when we disagree with their decisions. Mario brings me to the window of a
reality that I often ignore, and encourages me to see that I’m not an obstacle
to change—it will happen anyway. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">This year I’ve disagreed with Mario more
than I normally do, because I have the inconvenient job of reminding him that some
things in our family are too important to lose, and there are some hills I am
willing to defend with my life. Sometimes, when I’m grieving hard, I want him
to grieve with me, and this year the grieving has even threatened <i>his</i>
happiness. The explosive life
and joy I bring to our marriage also comes with occasional dips into depression. I feel things strongly, love
people with my whole heart, and usually can't hide what I'm thinking. I ask Mario to dream higher things for us, believe the best about most people, and encourage
a life of creating beauty. I bring warmth and color and
life, and Mario values these things so much that he accepts the cost. Thank God.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Mario and I both know we’re still together
only because of God. Even the best lovers, the best friends, the best team can
be split apart by a world that champions self-promotion and individualism. As
different as we are, Mario and I have a shared faith, which inspires love,
which in turn inspires life, which inspires others, and so on. Anything
that’s good in us as people or as a couple has been forged by a refining fire
that we know is God. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">When Mario and I trained for the only marathon
we ever ran together, a seasoned veteran told us, “You can split the race into two
parts: the first twenty miles, and the last six.” Not until you run a marathon
do you realize that an endurance race is toughest near the end. The body isn’t built to run long distances all the time. The
best runners have a training schedule and work up to the distance—this is called endurance training. It's both brutal and critical. <o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Mario and I have endured so much this year,
and we’re still friends. We're still lovers. We still see each other as life-partners. I am more determined, in our thirty-third year of our
marriage, to love him and respect him. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">This year has been tough,
but we’re tougher. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-30104537650033765432020-12-28T03:03:00.005-08:002020-12-28T03:22:24.528-08:0058<p> </p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePXOFVO5K8xueB0_9Qeolv42OOzRjY2nf9pOdXV_b-xACNRq8UU85dR3Ng4e5ENc_YOtWRdytpUzSz8aO2Yg46A1JxU1FgElXmYu-rdm5rHBxUt5Iy9nZ2rqKEifzwSB7VpKlxuCGKW12/s2048/58R.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="1423" data-original-width="2048" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePXOFVO5K8xueB0_9Qeolv42OOzRjY2nf9pOdXV_b-xACNRq8UU85dR3Ng4e5ENc_YOtWRdytpUzSz8aO2Yg46A1JxU1FgElXmYu-rdm5rHBxUt5Iy9nZ2rqKEifzwSB7VpKlxuCGKW12/w400-h278/58R.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Today
I’m 58, and I will love this year.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">That’s how I’ve started every one of
my birthday blogs, including the one I wrote last year. Who would have known
that 2020 was waiting to pounce, that COVID19 was winding up and getting ready
to take us down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For my 57<sup>th</sup>
year picture, I sat behind my desk, smiling and clueless, ready for another
good year. Today, I type this blog in a state of exhaustion. My family had a beautiful
holiday season, albeit pain-filled, including a threat of exposure. I’m
guessing ours was a lot like everyone’s holiday season. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">This year, we’ve all gone through the
same time of shared isolation. We’ve seen each other on Zoom, covered our mouths
and noses with cloth masks, and continued to use social media like everything
was normal. Halfway around the world, friends wrote to me from lockdown, just
like ours. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">This year, I went to COVID funerals,
including my beloved Auntie Molly’s. I went to COVID weddings, including my niece,
Selena. I celebrated my Virtual graduation from Antioch University Los Angeles MFA
program on Zoom, remotely whooping it up with my fellow Cardinals. My son and
his family bought their first house and moved out of ours, all of this done with
COVID restrictions. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8FScWk8qRUh2Y91JE8HFw5IzhGpYaJAIZIiEDsdD75YVDnMzd5YjPfGhs8auZCCYOUd9DU6-c1ZeJMeTmUGRqLHeInD3zhipKpCM8-v5j4dL1hYy9d7XkBcJqIr5h8tTF6ng3qooAgkZr/s2048/Time+2020+cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1542" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8FScWk8qRUh2Y91JE8HFw5IzhGpYaJAIZIiEDsdD75YVDnMzd5YjPfGhs8auZCCYOUd9DU6-c1ZeJMeTmUGRqLHeInD3zhipKpCM8-v5j4dL1hYy9d7XkBcJqIr5h8tTF6ng3qooAgkZr/s320/Time+2020+cover.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Time Magazine had a cover, which declared
2020 to be “the worst year ever,” and no one disputed this. Even in wartime, a
year so fraught with violence, moratoriums, and political upheaval
has not been equaled. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">In each blog, I end with my birthday
Psalm. This year, Psalm 58 is as brutal as the past year. It ends, however with
a promise for the righteous—we’ll all live through this. Not only live through
it, but we’ll conquer. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Mankind will say, ‘Surely there
is a reward for the righteous;</span></i></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> surely there is a God who judges on earth.’” ~</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Psalm
58:11</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I pray this coming year be filled with hope and love for all of you. Tonight, as I go to bed, I pray the same thing for my own family. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Janet </i></span></div></span><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-70369471124063112712020-09-27T02:14:00.001-07:002020-09-27T02:14:03.957-07:00Harmony<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvS_hL4ooZ6tNKxoXJ6Uwuyay9pkkjj6caffs3tyArjcf9rWoCp8DS_a2flRL3gB_Q0mLBhbKErPPqBuYxNtsO0vTsN-g__17bz0z6ZByaDmUp2sAH56Ay3PZnCS69AHVwHzT3cn-ypKZh/s2048/Harmony+birth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1301" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvS_hL4ooZ6tNKxoXJ6Uwuyay9pkkjj6caffs3tyArjcf9rWoCp8DS_a2flRL3gB_Q0mLBhbKErPPqBuYxNtsO0vTsN-g__17bz0z6ZByaDmUp2sAH56Ay3PZnCS69AHVwHzT3cn-ypKZh/s320/Harmony+birth.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Harmony Janet-Suzanne Vosburg was born on this day 11 years ago, to my only daughter, Alicia. Her birth came after a long and complicated labor, and for the first minutes of her life, Harmony didn't breathe without help. In the delivery room, I vacillated between praying for my daughter in bed, and the unresponsive baby with terminal meconium on the lighted bassinet, surrounded by doctors and nurses.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhICzw_jwTUhoaNUd7l71p-xm8j2PAAjqVKfY1ma5ijkMlJs6Khl2AhcJA3C7XbLRmccaRSPYm8IpN9GpAwlA5pCiRXGiLb8sb50lgW1489rthq20VuhHXBMWJ8XLX3T3Zy955IE7NEwy/s2048/3+Gens+Harmony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1856" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhICzw_jwTUhoaNUd7l71p-xm8j2PAAjqVKfY1ma5ijkMlJs6Khl2AhcJA3C7XbLRmccaRSPYm8IpN9GpAwlA5pCiRXGiLb8sb50lgW1489rthq20VuhHXBMWJ8XLX3T3Zy955IE7NEwy/s320/3+Gens+Harmony.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>In the end, Harmony got better, and so did Alicia. It was a time of miracles. That night, I battled sleep as I held her against my chest. Her beautiful rosy face reassured me she was a healthy baby and the worst was behind us. </p><p>Today Harmony is one of my favorite people in the whole world. I listen as she sings, watch her as she reads, and often play games in her space-themed room with planets hanging from her bunk bed. This year has sucked for everyone, but I think 2020 has affected children the most.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw1Ams3EdsZMo6KP_QPpw6uGama9UjzOg2DRFyNNf5DAAsIKdGpEe9ZdsxtsKuFBX0Hd6gnYJiWCfe9Iam1GQqN1wl72GbLhx69JPMsSFw2H0ZFWT3byML7PmqUXIncfn8KTPsZgA2Hdee/s2048/20200821_172958.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw1Ams3EdsZMo6KP_QPpw6uGama9UjzOg2DRFyNNf5DAAsIKdGpEe9ZdsxtsKuFBX0Hd6gnYJiWCfe9Iam1GQqN1wl72GbLhx69JPMsSFw2H0ZFWT3byML7PmqUXIncfn8KTPsZgA2Hdee/s320/20200821_172958.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>"I can't see my friends," Harmony says. "Schools are closed." </p><p>Both she and her sister, Alannah, are among the scores of children who have taken distance learning as part of their new routine. Homework used to be something they did without friends around, and now it's school. TV School. As an educator, I know the stakes are higher for children than anyone else. Nevertheless, Harmony remains positive. She loves going out with her family, and really appreciates more time at home with her mom. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1KwVSld71E5fBj0N_safNoqNiDEFZUyWWL7bV3hEXUY3AM0sxbIAgtHU2dy2VLdxnWOQJjl22NVcOaNpDZtcX9smngY5ZYPNDthDDxKQnvHdmYr8pNapadpHV5hstm5oeW9jCSpR9vSU7/s2048/20200821_175121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1KwVSld71E5fBj0N_safNoqNiDEFZUyWWL7bV3hEXUY3AM0sxbIAgtHU2dy2VLdxnWOQJjl22NVcOaNpDZtcX9smngY5ZYPNDthDDxKQnvHdmYr8pNapadpHV5hstm5oeW9jCSpR9vSU7/s320/20200821_175121.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Every Friday, without fail, I travel to Chico to see Harmony, her sister, Alannah, and their mother, my daughter, Alicia. Lately, we've been bound by for social distancing and travel that the rest of the country has dealt with, COVID19 restrictions in place. The days once spent finding the most exciting destinations, restaurants, books, or science experiments are now very limited. We invent our own fun inside. This year, Harmony has introduced me to Percy Jackson, the Olympians, the art of "Let's Dance" and all its fineries, jigsaw puzzles, and different kinds of music I would have never listened to. This week, I found out she's a Zelda fan--even blowing out her candles with a Zelda sword in hand! </p><p>Beyond her beautiful mind, Harmony has a heart of gold. She loves her family, and rarely complains about things. I can't imagine my life without her. </p><p>Happy birthday, Harmony! I know you have some idea how much I love you...but I wish you could see my heart! Even that would surprise you!</p><p>Grandma.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7YbhBnqwAtw1C7duFJ-wrwwkDc1BdDUJ7hc6l66rExF7QcweKfG32Assr5V2niC8DiFZ26rBQY7e5MMayeFKwMm4JNyN5ipRqy1Jri_XQfmlpJIrbqOu7ZzhR8BHVTNinBagL5xJvpQj/s2048/Grandma+and+Harmony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1835" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7YbhBnqwAtw1C7duFJ-wrwwkDc1BdDUJ7hc6l66rExF7QcweKfG32Assr5V2niC8DiFZ26rBQY7e5MMayeFKwMm4JNyN5ipRqy1Jri_XQfmlpJIrbqOu7ZzhR8BHVTNinBagL5xJvpQj/s320/Grandma+and+Harmony.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-74703595559673051152020-08-08T03:49:00.005-07:002020-08-09T15:21:57.799-07:00Alannah<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6yJouqus0rbjyKG6LgWBwDqdIo0Q6Agj9eyFuAQlLvEUsoYBPyuBmgbcVpFAh3jtiQe-C9IJzHnGQmJQR2LK0idCnf9XnYK7aMt0h3Yv3pOCQp1WiAlb_8f6yhGlmQ2yBAsGBnuPn4c7/s1318/mama+and+baby.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1318" data-original-width="1000" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6yJouqus0rbjyKG6LgWBwDqdIo0Q6Agj9eyFuAQlLvEUsoYBPyuBmgbcVpFAh3jtiQe-C9IJzHnGQmJQR2LK0idCnf9XnYK7aMt0h3Yv3pOCQp1WiAlb_8f6yhGlmQ2yBAsGBnuPn4c7/w389-h512/mama+and+baby.jpg" width="389" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alannah and Alicia--three days after birth<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">For her birthday, I told Alannah the miraculous story of her
birth. She and her sister, Harmony, were sitting at the kitchen table, eating
chicken strips, grapes, salad and sandwiches—a birthday fun party with their
cousin, Scarlett, and her baby sister, Violet. As Violet munched a chicken
strip on my lap, I revisited the “being born story”—Alannah’s name for the
story of August 8, 2011 told her over lunch<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We were all a little worried,” I said. “Harmony was born two
years earlier, and she didn’t breathe for the first seven minutes of her life. With
Mama’s type-1 diabetes, childbirth is complicated and her new doctor wanted to
be very careful.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The story brought back a flood of memories: Mario and I were
living in South Africa at the time. We regularly SKYPE called Alicia, and at
the beginning of July, she informed us that her doctor moved up the due date. When
the baby positioned herself in place, the August 10<sup>th</sup> due date would
be more like August 1<sup>st</sup>. I changed my flights and came to the United
States early—arriving in late July for a two week stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mario stayed home—because at the time, a
round-trip airfare was about a thousand dollars (unless you changed it, and
then it was more) and we were (for lack of a better description) missionaries
living very simply.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitLWw5XwdxI85JYbDoE34ZICX0N5SCn-N0cpYVWM8l-_e5UGJjOeBCovsD73xrhgIX7GwG988H8lSlwcu7ZMdavDbAfXYACIJmiYsaXopOyNvtZj4vHGb8FSJk-fTqrG95AXBxWErtWC08/s2048/100_4851.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitLWw5XwdxI85JYbDoE34ZICX0N5SCn-N0cpYVWM8l-_e5UGJjOeBCovsD73xrhgIX7GwG988H8lSlwcu7ZMdavDbAfXYACIJmiYsaXopOyNvtZj4vHGb8FSJk-fTqrG95AXBxWErtWC08/w512-h384/100_4851.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three Generations--Me, Alicia and Harmony, one week before delivery<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Mama and Daddy let me come to the last doctor appointment,
so I met the doctor,” I told the girls, as they ate lunch. “I was worried that
I had a flight out of San Francisco on August tenth, and he told me he couldn’t
guarantee that the baby would be born by then.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I was born on the eighth,”
Alannah said. “So there!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We laughed. “What he really said,” I whispered, causing all
of the girls to lean forward and listen. “Is this: ‘I can’t do anything about your
travel schedule.’”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“WHAT?” Alannah said, indignant. “What did you say?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I promised Mama I wouldn’t say anything, so I looked at him
like this....” I put on my glare-face and all the girls laughed. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The mom face,” Harmony said. “Moms do that face.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“When you were born,” I said to Alannah. “Mama was weak and
took a long time to recover. I had to leave Chico the day after you were born.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m silent, thinking of the hellish separation we had for
seven years. I had to leave my daughter, who had just had a baby—and it was no
one’s “fault”—it was our lives back then. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alannah broke the silence. “What did I look like?” she
asked. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YCEBdYaROXQA2fPB_pAIxcpRCGkmu2oiDuo-0zOIeuA99ppYLGBJlktZbLyXoc0zHCgSgYDtMC33iFYdc9_uG_hyphenhyphenoVLEZegZhGGXOitk4ji7Y1U0F77XJGtc4lFcQY-vhphivWe49cC1/s987/Alannah.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="987" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YCEBdYaROXQA2fPB_pAIxcpRCGkmu2oiDuo-0zOIeuA99ppYLGBJlktZbLyXoc0zHCgSgYDtMC33iFYdc9_uG_hyphenhyphenoVLEZegZhGGXOitk4ji7Y1U0F77XJGtc4lFcQY-vhphivWe49cC1/s640/Alannah.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You were the fattest baby I’d ever seen,” I said. We all
laughed. “You were so fat! You came out and cried, and we were all so happy!
You were so healthy!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today, reliving that story still makes me remember the
emotional pain of separation. As much as I loved our life in South Africa, it
was so hard to be separated from family. In reality, we’re family people, and
the hardest ones to say goodbye to was the grandchildren. <o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWspJHOkv12iZlGrzT3QlW1el0X3_76CX_ciR3e26h3xBvHNRYp0DIDJ00XEdQmTGdO9w1Fg273jRiqbGjJTQU7mxe-LmP1Fg0OBoWdkh4EeZmTiJKXc5cRqXx2IId_TPty6wCcMMOR5w/s1114/100_5106.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1114" data-original-width="1000" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWspJHOkv12iZlGrzT3QlW1el0X3_76CX_ciR3e26h3xBvHNRYp0DIDJ00XEdQmTGdO9w1Fg273jRiqbGjJTQU7mxe-LmP1Fg0OBoWdkh4EeZmTiJKXc5cRqXx2IId_TPty6wCcMMOR5w/w368-h410/100_5106.jpg" width="368" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alicia, Alannah, and me--just before I said goodbye. <br />August 2011<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today, I can see them on any given day—maybe just by Zoom, Skype,
or facetime, but still—we’re here. This is one of the greatest blessings of my life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today, Alannah is nine years old. She's curious, talented, and loves to learn about so many
things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Science is fascinating, cooking
is fun, but art is where she excels. She loves to put on plays, watch ballet, and she's wonderful at singing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She paints, draws, and writes
poetry. Like her sister, she loves reading and being read aloud to. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lately, she's been really getting into American Girl dolls, and she treasures her collection. She also loves to dress up in costumes. Her birthday party
was a flurry of American Girl dolls and costumes, one after another!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzQBLXzVCV-JBLkA0PkwluQuxgX38znqF4SabIRFrS1GihzVt9KahVf4X-WqMnTO4IYTLWC8x0AeTxJukTOh5oNFQiC47h80HGFLRdgKobTyGXQ7Vl3UMTcUMPY6sZa4AdxHR3HtRyUSz/s2048/20200807_152514.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzQBLXzVCV-JBLkA0PkwluQuxgX38znqF4SabIRFrS1GihzVt9KahVf4X-WqMnTO4IYTLWC8x0AeTxJukTOh5oNFQiC47h80HGFLRdgKobTyGXQ7Vl3UMTcUMPY6sZa4AdxHR3HtRyUSz/w307-h410/20200807_152514.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rfuQ6QLezUQT61j9hyphenhyphenHG4UwYkIfFpZmWnPztbd7C40scqaj1c920IbqMd-xvjdMeZktNiFdFwwIiTcSNEwIgqiuTdz9xnQPVSh3yA8NrJkmI_IxNyH5kFLYABERd0lqwYBo9yKrtyDFD/s2048/20200807_172144.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rfuQ6QLezUQT61j9hyphenhyphenHG4UwYkIfFpZmWnPztbd7C40scqaj1c920IbqMd-xvjdMeZktNiFdFwwIiTcSNEwIgqiuTdz9xnQPVSh3yA8NrJkmI_IxNyH5kFLYABERd0lqwYBo9yKrtyDFD/w307-h410/20200807_172144.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdyw2FzgvbxN-R_5j-e0XZA9yF0YfEiem5WRvVSzeRzRSOjGE5c2y-f00FwP5r4Ip0nHZCclMkMV8xPD111s08tZ8ZQYK9fDrRe8ilCpoERVLlEGxgeJ_7NZm6YT_UcahTPiETlDfajbxK/s2048/Butterfly.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2032" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdyw2FzgvbxN-R_5j-e0XZA9yF0YfEiem5WRvVSzeRzRSOjGE5c2y-f00FwP5r4Ip0nHZCclMkMV8xPD111s08tZ8ZQYK9fDrRe8ilCpoERVLlEGxgeJ_7NZm6YT_UcahTPiETlDfajbxK/w325-h328/Butterfly.jpg" width="325" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To say that Alannah is a joy is an understatement. She is
love personified, and expects almost nothing from everyone. She enjoys people,
loves her friends and family, and loves laughing. She is the beautiful,
adorable granddaughter I treasure. I am so grateful she’s geographically closer
to me. I need her in my life!<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBrwk_NAPeoAaq0ImSlW96jSU90h3FnONOoFBzod4uj3_j1Xt0iHj7R_pHxydYRzzFBlR2O-h_8qNxQd6FtpQuJ048xA-dGSmN8lAGsl-7_qU6Y1jxcSsySz8kteF7PBTMb9YaC8uFtgKB/s1333/grandma+selfie.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBrwk_NAPeoAaq0ImSlW96jSU90h3FnONOoFBzod4uj3_j1Xt0iHj7R_pHxydYRzzFBlR2O-h_8qNxQd6FtpQuJ048xA-dGSmN8lAGsl-7_qU6Y1jxcSsySz8kteF7PBTMb9YaC8uFtgKB/s640/grandma+selfie.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Alannah, me, Scarlett and Violet selfie</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Happy Birthday, Alannah! You are the best, most imaginative
nine-year-old this world has ever seen!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I love you!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Grandma<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40Y0GeSNjajVoBeEBY4M5UDBpd5CbtWSF1Kkibg7x9Lb0Ld0QSBW8a-eugCcI8rhgxeB9QzOlbXhf4xGB98aBz9cScWgvNVbfQql-MJUdBMgnssy3059nD8Hs8-frt4E9k-7FYkLQ-fXd/s2048/goofy.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40Y0GeSNjajVoBeEBY4M5UDBpd5CbtWSF1Kkibg7x9Lb0Ld0QSBW8a-eugCcI8rhgxeB9QzOlbXhf4xGB98aBz9cScWgvNVbfQql-MJUdBMgnssy3059nD8Hs8-frt4E9k-7FYkLQ-fXd/w240-h320/goofy.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-27351210226140136032020-07-28T06:51:00.003-07:002020-07-28T14:56:38.633-07:00Alicia<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinxrAwC3ux1PY-ap3zNwEGj-VrD96I8wh7Ftrxp6UEDm5vW0YmQZ4EyPgm0rfZKlLc3GTMTSaMkVkzFXbnXvlq2CmjzubG5jKvdhJuCj63xKeTUlhzOUxQpsSdpQRMJCjr6YuAHHTU-7K-/s1800/Mother%2527s+Day+2017.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1799" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinxrAwC3ux1PY-ap3zNwEGj-VrD96I8wh7Ftrxp6UEDm5vW0YmQZ4EyPgm0rfZKlLc3GTMTSaMkVkzFXbnXvlq2CmjzubG5jKvdhJuCj63xKeTUlhzOUxQpsSdpQRMJCjr6YuAHHTU-7K-/s320/Mother%2527s+Day+2017.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Seven years ago, one summer night in Johannesburg, I was
packing up my jewelry box, and sorting through what I was going to keep or give
away. We were scheduled to put everything in a moving container the following
day, one that would meet us in Sacramento in two months. I found my bauble
bracelet at the bottom, a string of large green beads, the color of a Granny
Smith apple. I kept the bracelet because Alicia gave it to me the year we left
the USA, on Mother’s Day. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“This is how I see you,” she said. “And I got an employee’s
discount.” We laughed together about this. It was on sale at Claire’s, where
she worked, so an employee discount made this a great deal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At first, I didn’t like the bracelet, maybe because it bothered
me that Alicia, my only daughter, saw me as an apple-green-colored-bauble-wearing
woman. Did I snap my gum and wear pants that were too tight, as well? In
fairness, I probably would have bought my only daughter a gold necklace with a
locket on the end, where she could put tiny pictures and keep them by her
heart. I would have loved to receive that kind of present at her age, but I know
now the gift would not be her at all. <o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwehd4khCVa2D2iYB1yJQ0YxKXzKsWyDvo_9t8iqFnMJrS4BPfIzLzIc6xh1U4KsmYLsJY-fKCabK-ShlT1hswaz5jUkLfnqs4_AjZXaT-mxSNtlvJ8gDtrwB_xRmhhGA3UaYoLfkYO1bj/s1460/AliciaAnimals.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwehd4khCVa2D2iYB1yJQ0YxKXzKsWyDvo_9t8iqFnMJrS4BPfIzLzIc6xh1U4KsmYLsJY-fKCabK-ShlT1hswaz5jUkLfnqs4_AjZXaT-mxSNtlvJ8gDtrwB_xRmhhGA3UaYoLfkYO1bj/s320/AliciaAnimals.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Alicia, as a daughter is a gift from God. When she was born,
she represented the union I had with Mario—a beautiful baby girl we loved and
treasured. She was genuinely the most beautiful baby girl, and easy to have
around. As she grew, she clung to me, especially when she was sick. She
learned to color inside the lines, identify the alphabet, read, write, do long
division, and put puzzles together, all at our kitchen table. She cooked meals
that were beautiful, including lasagna that tasted better than an Italian
restaurant. She learned how to play the piano and sing harmonies. In her teens,
she fell in and out of love. She made friends with the wrong people, and then
the best people I had ever met. She had a habit of accidentally breaking my
heart; she had a habit of breaking my heart on purpose. She was a magnet for
friends, and traveled everywhere with her own posse. By the time we moved to
South Africa, she was independent, headstrong, and vibrantly filled with every
kind of life. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Even with all of her magnetic beauty, Alicia and I often struggled
to feel understood by each other. I saw Alicia as a beautiful, wild unicorn, glittering
but unreachable. I was the mother she ran from. I wanted a close relationship, one where
she came to me for advice. Once she reached adulthood, I longed to have the
friendship I had with my own mother, or at least our version of it. I wanted us
to have deep conversations over coffee, or to join a book club together. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In actuality, Alicia and I were good with each other until
something set us off. Both of us had so many hidden trip wires, so many
unresolved issues, and we often fought more than either of us wanted. When it was
time to build relationship and friendship, there were always plenty of friends around,
and events they attended together. I was admittedly jealous of the fact that
her friends were the ones who she would seek out first for advice, direction, and
comfort—especially during heartbreak. I yearned to be needed this way.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After years of ups and downs, I stopped trying to convince my daughter how our relationship should be and started listening to her more,
without offering advice. It was clear she didn’t want advice from me—she just
wanted...me. About seven years ago, I made a conscious decision to take better care
of my own physical, emotional, and spiritual needs. Alicia and I started
relating to each other as adults—still mother and daughter, but adults—and maintained
open communication. If I showed up, loved her and was proud of her, that was
enough for Alicia. It was easy to do, especially after she became a mother. She
easily interacted with her children in a way that made them feel confident and
loved. She was warm, affectionate, organized, and nurturing. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSeMrawELuJ_AvCeR3GvVtlerhu0jDxKpFEqqNnBHVLcUMKQqxdDjHBhIYzzUiFfjuBo2yx6Az0a-0cMmTamMmXSAHcTaPsI5gCKPnbLNlWEE34T-dx4sfPyAtixnUjnPPhTA2MZcMkFlR/s2045/Alicia+and+Harmony.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1936" data-original-width="2045" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSeMrawELuJ_AvCeR3GvVtlerhu0jDxKpFEqqNnBHVLcUMKQqxdDjHBhIYzzUiFfjuBo2yx6Az0a-0cMmTamMmXSAHcTaPsI5gCKPnbLNlWEE34T-dx4sfPyAtixnUjnPPhTA2MZcMkFlR/s320/Alicia+and+Harmony.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Soon, I started to see what the rest of the world saw:
Alicia has genuinely one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever known. She’s able to
do so many things. Clearly organized and gifted, she started her own business—something
I didn’t know the first thing about—and earned a reputation as a conscientious,
energetic, motivated, and well-liked business owner. When the Camp Fire hit
Paradise, Alicia shared her house with several displaced friends, and
volunteered her cleaning services to the Benevolent Elks in Chico—who later contracted
her company. She’s a strong member of her community and family.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I look at this synopsis, a five-minute read that I wrote to
sum up the most complicated, intricate relationship that any woman can have:
one between mother and daughter. Alicia is thirty-two years old today, and I
can still feel the warmth of her head on my shoulder when she was an infant. In
our mother-daughter dance, we’ve always tried to connect, even if we miss a
beat or two. Through the years, with our history of ups and downs, we’ve
reached a place where we know each other’s rhythms. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, that summer night in Johannesburg, when I was packing up
my things, I held the apple-green-baubled bracelet in my hands and thought of
Alicia. I knew that soon (very, very soon) I would move back to California be
near my baby who gave this to me. I never, ever considered throwing the
bracelet away, because it came from my only daughter—the girl who sees me in
bright colors. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I love you, Alicia. You are truly my treasured only
daughter. Thank you for being you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI4EvtS8k6VdRkxxiGq1MVrQOqoXSDbSH4HFAvelUGIw93Tlankq1yRhjmPNOXeMLNhnP3AP-yC4l1-z4izvyx6VOeJ_jKjFo0EW481q6UMGwgh8qW0qLbgqhxS2HDa0NMjLkr3MJgVrdf/s2048/Christmas+Alicia.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1747" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI4EvtS8k6VdRkxxiGq1MVrQOqoXSDbSH4HFAvelUGIw93Tlankq1yRhjmPNOXeMLNhnP3AP-yC4l1-z4izvyx6VOeJ_jKjFo0EW481q6UMGwgh8qW0qLbgqhxS2HDa0NMjLkr3MJgVrdf/s320/Christmas+Alicia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-73725672680970824072020-06-23T00:06:00.001-07:002020-06-23T00:06:15.021-07:00proper"Your Proper Name" is the result of an exercise, led by Tommy Pico at the June 2020 residency for Antioch MFA. We read different trade magazines and harvested a word bank to be used to create a new poem. The crazy results were intoxicating. Here's mine: <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7KEUq0mS1bVw4rA1qAvH8OqMyJntubp8bpIlqdW9jkxK2Pd-owCaaUUu8Z9nkHNE9sRwXuXJwoJkNSH8WtCdMsN_HC4ZROsM89Hiokug8qUYAkIBfVbkm6XPnNq6x3urLUbGjP4WniwN/s3264/kissing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7KEUq0mS1bVw4rA1qAvH8OqMyJntubp8bpIlqdW9jkxK2Pd-owCaaUUu8Z9nkHNE9sRwXuXJwoJkNSH8WtCdMsN_HC4ZROsM89Hiokug8qUYAkIBfVbkm6XPnNq6x3urLUbGjP4WniwN/s320/kissing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal">The brain is a splendid instrument<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">with a lilac tail that winds around <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">a kale clock, stopping in places to say<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">your proper name and drip ancestor<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">fury. Come a little bit closer<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and help me look for the stash<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">of boxtops in the kitchen drawer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s been so long since I saved<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">anything at all.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Coming home to you, the hearty<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">love which glows and shoots <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">this intensity, this fetch, which<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">blossoms on plumb wine. Your <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">proper name won’t matter, only <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">your desire to be eaten, your <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">crisp yet soft texture, the light <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">that stretches from one part<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">of you to the other—the JOY of you—<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">where I’ve craved salt and fat. <o:p></o:p></p><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-90370150787419437582020-05-24T20:27:00.007-07:002020-05-24T20:47:12.817-07:00Memorial<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 5px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmi0wj7sD1xxbnRlIjq5t8EQmxiZYaPMpDpEW0xMTJHNFjfOmtHY0whal3itiQ3C1wA0aVhVlYkJTmFX_1bmSPUGkOIRFcM6G5iYludgUgBds0R_UGuSez2ReMcfdwVbaXFsnybWruKyV/s1600/Jay-D.jpg" style="color: #888888; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmi0wj7sD1xxbnRlIjq5t8EQmxiZYaPMpDpEW0xMTJHNFjfOmtHY0whal3itiQ3C1wA0aVhVlYkJTmFX_1bmSPUGkOIRFcM6G5iYludgUgBds0R_UGuSez2ReMcfdwVbaXFsnybWruKyV/s320/Jay-D.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.32px;">R.I.P. PFC JAY-D ORNSBY ADKINS<br />December 9, 1985 - April 28, 2007</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Every year on Memorial Day, I remember one soldier—his name was Jay-D Ornsby-Adkins. He was handsome, funny, compassionate, kind to strangers, and enlisted in the US Army. I think of him to remember what Memorial Day is all about—to honor the soldiers and sailors who have paid the ultimate price while serving their country in the armed services. Jay-D was<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> born on </span>December 9, 1985 and was killed in Iraq on April 28, 2007, making him only twenty-one years old when he died.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The reason I know of Jay-D in the first place is because of Morgan, a girl who has been Alicia’s best friend since high school.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was not long after I met her that I found out her brother was killed in action.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">It has made me see this holiday, Memorial Day, much differently.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Jay-D’s mother, Robyn, is a beautiful woman who now bears the dubious distinction of being a Gold-Star Mom.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I have a hair salon,” she once told me, “and every year I ask people if they know what Memorial Day is.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Only one or two will know exactly what the holiday is for—only a few know who we are remembering.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">She’s not exaggerating. According to a recent Gallup poll, only 28% of Americans know that Memorial Day is specifically to honor those who died in war. Veteran’s Day is to honor those who served—Memorial Day is to honor those who have died in battle.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">These fallen soldiers leave behind families. These families are given a folded flag and a thank you from the U.S. Government. We, as a nation, also grieve on this day, with them. We remember them as more than bodies on a field—we remember the people that they were. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1UqZjnAnVfiiyLEkmW6zKubC9QrJ-NzYnsse_F3-EKsLcC6cctkfR32-NX0cV6QmFc7FrbPvasxAMnHOdshJmWQc3Mi8QC_JBolGEvWnxgR6wGwoth1hnudU1nZT7Iai6PTpWiKC4WTdv/s1600/Jay-D+baby.jpeg" style="color: #888888; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="589" data-original-width="430" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1UqZjnAnVfiiyLEkmW6zKubC9QrJ-NzYnsse_F3-EKsLcC6cctkfR32-NX0cV6QmFc7FrbPvasxAMnHOdshJmWQc3Mi8QC_JBolGEvWnxgR6wGwoth1hnudU1nZT7Iai6PTpWiKC4WTdv/s320/Jay-D+baby.jpeg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="233" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;" /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">“My Jay-D was born a mischievous little monkey,” Robyn told me, laughing. “Honestly, he was a little character who found joy in challenging me!” Her laughter faded and she sighed. “I would give anything to have him here challenging me now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Jay-D grew up dearly loved, an active boy who loved to play. He was fearless and mighty, never running from any fight. “He wouldn’t tolerate anyone bullying him,” Robyn told me. “He’d give them a good fight, for sure.” Robyn stopped to explain how hard it was to teach Jay-D the delicate balance of sticking up for himself and having self-control. As soon as she felt he learned this lesson, he started sticking up for others. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">“I would get a call from the principal's office, and they'd tell me that Jay-D was in there for fighting a boy who was bullying someone else,” Robyn laughed. “When he got home, I asked him why he would fight other people’s battles, and he answered me straight: ‘Well, it just didn’t seem right!’”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Jay-D's anti-bullying campaign was in place long before any even existed. “At a time when it was not cool for anyone to help the Down Syndrome kid in school, he did,” Robyn said. “He would defend an underdog, stand up for the new kids, and even helped others when no one else would.” </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The same guy who fought also learned how to express his own tender interior. “He taught himself how to play guitar, he loved ‘Sweet Home Alabama,’ which he played very well.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">After high school, Jay-D chose to enlist in the US Army, since career opportunities seemed more promising after finishing school. “Jay-D wanted to get his life started,” Robyn said. “He knew that if he enlisted he would be able to earn money for college and get other opportunities.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiROfq7wiQ55PO3LIkKfvh2YytL98k3wPpI1UrMDYDh4YYLAEiTkOwtE58g5m4Ff48d7OWa04M7fff0LIA1-uf5Iw35ZGbDOMUFRWJDhk5-Pa-KWbOq-u08Z0iUYrfKlaomzqvVGo5LdCIn/s1600/Jay-D+balck+and+white.jpg" style="color: #888888; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="714" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiROfq7wiQ55PO3LIkKfvh2YytL98k3wPpI1UrMDYDh4YYLAEiTkOwtE58g5m4Ff48d7OWa04M7fff0LIA1-uf5Iw35ZGbDOMUFRWJDhk5-Pa-KWbOq-u08Z0iUYrfKlaomzqvVGo5LdCIn/s320/Jay-D+balck+and+white.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jay-D in his dress Uniform<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">At twenty years old, he was enlisted, sworn in and enrolled in boot camp. It was there that he became a soldier. “Once boot camp was over,” Robyn told me. “Everything changed. He was very focused on fighting for his country. Shortly after, he was deployed to Bagdad, Iraq, where he served as a tanker gunner. While the main gun is what most people think of when it comes to tanks, Jay D was part of the crew that operated the machine guns mounted outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Through tears, Robyn told me about the day her son was killed: “It was actually supposed to be his day off. He wasn’t supposed to work that day, but his team needed him. He agreed to go, not only because he was part of a team, but also he could apply that day to his next leave.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Instead of their usual tank, the team took a Hummer as part of a convoy and made their way through the streets. On the side of the road someone was waiting: the enemy. As soon as the company’s Hummer was in range, the enemy exploded an IED – an Improvised Explosive Device-- and killed three of the four soldiers in Jay-D’s Hummer. The enemy was fired upon by the surviving convoy, but their deaths did not bring justice. War really is hell.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Robyn was able to bury Jay-D’s remains in Sunset View Cemetery, a place in Jackson. “It is a beautiful and peaceful place.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Every Memorial Day, Jay-D’s family usually celebrate his memory with friends and close family. One year, Robyn decorated a wine barrel and burned a special candle, signifying how the light of love will always burn bright in her heart. She takes special delight in having her grandson close by, a little boy named after his Uncle Jay-D. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 5px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQhUaZo7Zf4vDV2WpxNceoUO2PigMNk2nHjnm4poSjXC6GavkBqHBXJeMb8fDgU9It3Cd44GyuFTushyphenhyphenPyDTsxE3RurHdyLn_HWbAiMhwPAX4gjtPOdpzK6OHjp5tgyiwZzLdFRLz4YLIC/s1600/Jay-D+Collage.jpg" style="color: #888888; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1600" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQhUaZo7Zf4vDV2WpxNceoUO2PigMNk2nHjnm4poSjXC6GavkBqHBXJeMb8fDgU9It3Cd44GyuFTushyphenhyphenPyDTsxE3RurHdyLn_HWbAiMhwPAX4gjtPOdpzK6OHjp5tgyiwZzLdFRLz4YLIC/s320/Jay-D+Collage.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.32px;">Robyn's Jay-D (1985) and Morgan's Jay-D (2015)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">For Memorial Day, please take a deep breath and remember at least ONE fallen hero. If your family has not lost a human being in war, remember Jay-D, his heart of gold, and his Gold Star Mom, Robyn. Remember his sister, Morgan, who honors her family and her brother's memory any chance she gets. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Resolve to be part of the minority of Americans that remember what this day really is all about. “I see the advertisements for the Auto Malls, the shopping centers, and the grocery stores,” Robyn told me once. “All of them say ‘Memorial Day Sale!’ I wonder if they will honor any fallen veterans there? I think not. It’s all a money-making opportunity to them.”<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Our soldiers are more than men and women in uniform. They are someone's baby, someone's spouse, someone's uncle or aunt. Today, I will grieve the fallen. I will celebrate the freedom that I have because of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">I will grieve with the families who have lost loved ones on Memorial Day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 5px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIrYFo4_zzbMZWQRHoVRTsK4bijs4u34h3qBPK9C_co4kZIBwyWbOrJalNT9lytm3MRMIxm_dhMxgaEfhQ35HK8AVG7vHiYW6dVMJAWhlKNNR9433PCgYuZlMog2YyxdEAxhdNeAKwZPb4/s1600/sis+pics.jpg" style="color: #888888; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIrYFo4_zzbMZWQRHoVRTsK4bijs4u34h3qBPK9C_co4kZIBwyWbOrJalNT9lytm3MRMIxm_dhMxgaEfhQ35HK8AVG7vHiYW6dVMJAWhlKNNR9433PCgYuZlMog2YyxdEAxhdNeAKwZPb4/s320/sis+pics.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">The Gang at Kynan's Birthday Party<br />LtoR: Harmony, Alannah, Scarlett, Alicia,<br />Alannah, Kynan, Baby Raimey, Morgan and Jay-D (in socks)</td></tr></tbody></table></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Morgan, Alicia, and Alannah—the Three Musketeers from high school were together the other day for Kynan’s birthday. There in the mix was Morgan’s oldest son, a beautiful blue-eyed boy named Jay-D, who bears a striking resemblance to his uncle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></div><h2 style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">R.I.P. PFC JAY-D ORNSBY ADKINS</span></h2></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-57360180297929449142020-04-06T01:05:00.000-07:002020-04-06T01:44:58.328-07:00palms<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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For the quarantine, my parents (who are devoutly Catholic) found
out that their church has decided not to distribute palms on Palm Sunday. They heard
this news with sadness, and appeared to be more disappointed than they
have been with any piece of news surrounding the Coronavirus or the
shelter-in-place edict. To them, these palms mean a lot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYeHvGqSURrPZESDMCJtn3eFBLAAsBp4Wvhu1t0xQKj9bQyT2Ebga8JH3_juO-3jUOOzNM9VZ06yV28Jn24uwrKype06wkoCorvIG-AqbIJ2GnVXdGwTMCKXgaIuTJswIuR2NZXxuJroMo/s1600/Palm+behind+crucifix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="918" data-original-width="722" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYeHvGqSURrPZESDMCJtn3eFBLAAsBp4Wvhu1t0xQKj9bQyT2Ebga8JH3_juO-3jUOOzNM9VZ06yV28Jn24uwrKype06wkoCorvIG-AqbIJ2GnVXdGwTMCKXgaIuTJswIuR2NZXxuJroMo/s320/Palm+behind+crucifix.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
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They look like nothing: a single, dried out
palm branch from a lowly palm tree. The only difference was that these palms had been blessed and given to the people by a priest.
Things that were blessed by a priest were important in our house. My parents
used to tuck their palms behind one of the many wooden and pewter crucifixes in our house.
I grew up looking at dried out palm leaves behind crucifixes. I knew these
would be replaced in a year by another one that looked just like it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I used to joke that we were more Catholic than the Pope.<o:p></o:p></div>
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***<o:p></o:p></div>
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Palm Sunday kicks off the most sacred week of the year for
Christians. We call it Holy Week. Like Easter, the feast day of Palm Sunday moves around, based
on the Liturgical calendar and the Jewish feast of Passover, because those two events are
related, like cousins. </div>
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On Palm Sunday, Jesus started his journey to the holy city
of Jerusalem on a donkey colt, one that his disciples retrieved for him—an
event that had been prophesied by the Old Testament prophet, Zechariah. A crowd
of ordinary people went out to greet him, while he was still on the road
approaching the gates of the city, waving fallen branches of palms and shouting
in celebration for his triumphant entry. Some people lined the road with palm branches,
like a carpet, laid down for a king.</div>
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There was so much noise and celebration, that
some of the religious leaders in the crowd said to Him, “Teacher, rebuke Your
disciples!” Jesus only answered: “If they remain silent, the very stones will
cry out.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I always liked that Jesus said this. Even as a child, I knew
this day, this event, was a huge, big deal. What I didn’t understand was that
as soon as he saw Jerusalem, he wept. He talked to it, like a father and said
things that I never fully understood as a child: "If you had only known
today what would bring you peace! But now it is hidden, so you cannot see it. The
time will come when enemy armies will build a wall to surround you and close
you in on every side. They will level you to the ground and kill your people.
One stone will not be left on top of another, because you didn't recognize the
time when God came to help you."<o:p></o:p></div>
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Less than a week later, Jesus would leave Jerusalem, but
this time, he’d be carrying a cross to a hill, just outside of the city. He’d
be scarred, beaten and barely alive, wearing a crown of thorns around his head—mocking
his alleged kingship. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We human beings are fickle people who have the power to crucify
our heroes on any given day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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***<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the Catholic Church, Palm Sunday is celebrated by the
blessing and distribution of palm branches, representing the palm branches the
crowd scattered in front of Christ as he rode into Jerusalem. Some people use
them as bookmarks in their Bibles or prayer books. Some of these palms are
later surrendered to the church, ceremonially burned, and the ashes kept (and
blessed) to make ashes for Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On Ash Wednesday, a Catholic person will kneel down in front
of a celebrant (Priest) and receive the ashes on their forehead. The priest
will say: “Remember, thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s a sobering reminder.<o:p></o:p></div>
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***<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIAmwzWZYEJkzoYuiy8ZxHyeYOTuS3ATfrOGiFtEt3yfPfG9um05zuSea9rw-o07Cwa8pPvXqeTMZcnBHXoIp7D0patO-pVt9AXReCeH76njg1I-9unsa6_E-L92-oFX43DPoi2OHAs_3u/s1600/Palm+Sunday+covid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIAmwzWZYEJkzoYuiy8ZxHyeYOTuS3ATfrOGiFtEt3yfPfG9um05zuSea9rw-o07Cwa8pPvXqeTMZcnBHXoIp7D0patO-pVt9AXReCeH76njg1I-9unsa6_E-L92-oFX43DPoi2OHAs_3u/s320/Palm+Sunday+covid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Because of the COVID19, most churches aren’t meeting until
further notice, determined to break the cycle of infection to its people. Most
of us agree that the human body isn’t above infection—even athletic youths are
reminded of this on Ash Wednesday.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I no longer go to the Catholic Church, but I’ve always missed
the celebration of the liturgical calendar and the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>deep traditions that bring its members
together. It’s the calendar that remind us to number our days, to remember we’re
mortal, to understand the limitations of our body as opposed to the greatness
of God.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This year (like any other year) I don’t need palms to remind
me of my faith in Christ, or remind me what he did for humankind this week so
many years ago. My parents, however, treasure their palms, so for them, I
grieve. <o:p></o:p></div>
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***<o:p></o:p></div>
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This virus will end, and this season will come to a halt as
quickly as it began. Because we are human beings, we disagree when and how this
will happen. In truth, the way and truth are found in a person for me, and
today I remember Him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our Holy Week ends with us declaring “He is risen!” and
whoever hears this, calls back, “He is risen, indeed!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>He is risen, indeed.</i> Those beautiful words...<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-57893911971038296132020-04-05T04:02:00.001-07:002020-04-05T04:05:48.317-07:00pens<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvbgcIGWf7QH_L3VpI0VMpbPZCdOEjIhU8n1BVGXGS_yuNAG1xq7DbQJvng0IQ0A5dQene9CsSiWj62L_8LJoQMYKUDdOzYVU4fJccAORWF6pDpQTVEa8HpMOnaFBI4YIOQheGW0J-jH_R/s1600/20200405_034729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvbgcIGWf7QH_L3VpI0VMpbPZCdOEjIhU8n1BVGXGS_yuNAG1xq7DbQJvng0IQ0A5dQene9CsSiWj62L_8LJoQMYKUDdOzYVU4fJccAORWF6pDpQTVEa8HpMOnaFBI4YIOQheGW0J-jH_R/s400/20200405_034729.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Today, a box of pens came in the mail--stick pens, nothing special--and there are no excuses for not writing. There is now plenty of pens and plenty of paper, and there always was, I just have to put one to the other. On the side of the pen is this inscription: "mightier than the sword..." I got this whole box for three dollars and fifty cents, instead of the normal price of seven dollars for the box of fifty. They were on sale as "misprint pens," misprinted for a customer who wanted something else. I am buying someone else's mistake. Someone else's disappointment. They work just fine.<br />
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"Come on, pens," I say to them. "Let's write! One person's misprint is another person's bargain."<br />
They love me for this.<br />
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And we begin a beautiful relationship.<br />
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<i>True story. I wrote this poem with one of those pens!</i></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-21538736923145638012020-04-03T18:37:00.000-07:002020-04-04T03:21:26.811-07:00ancestors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Carved<br />
elaborate order from start to finish,<br />
twenty-three noses, P'urhepechan<br />
slopes, interrupted by hills before<br />
finishing in royal flares where<br />
nostrils trumpet greatness.<br />
<br />
You show yourselves able to endure<br />
and never leave us; faces carved<br />
and breathing the same twenty-three<br />
collective atoms that I do.<br />
<br />
Your blood is in my blood,<br />
your mother is my mother,<br />
the same twenty-three<br />
chromosomes shared,<br />
invisible threads, stretched tight<br />
across life and death~too tender<br />
to move and too strong to break.<br />
And yet...<br />
when people ask me<br />
what I am, I've never<br />
ever told them<br />
I am you.<br />
<br />
Days unfolded, twenty-three<br />
white roses bloom in our garden,<br />
robots mow our lawns,<br />
pipes bring water from<br />
deep inside twenty-three<br />
underground wells. We live<br />
on borrowed soil, in a land<br />
prone to drought. Its face,<br />
once barren, now with lawns<br />
exploding dandelion stalks.<br />
<br />
<br />
All of you who walked<br />
before me, please<br />
do not turn your noses,<br />
do not be ashamed,<br />
do not think I've forgotten.<br />
We assumed this culture<br />
assigned to us<br />
from glossy magazines.<br />
It came with everything:<br />
a place to sit,<br />
a place to stand,<br />
a language to speak,<br />
a way to live.<br />
<br />
Marie Antoinette, from her foreign<br />
land, journeyed to France at twenty-three.<br />
Her carriage was met by twenty-three<br />
members of its monarchy, who made<br />
Marie strip down to nothing<br />
before she entered France.<br />
"You are in our country now,"<br />
her captors told her.<br />
Twenty three years<br />
later, she lost her head for sins<br />
of ancestors she never met.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-8571592431087284322020-03-30T00:59:00.004-07:002021-02-16T04:26:26.955-08:00measure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Measure" is a poem about my true love, Mario.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlOi7ofGZpCMS9uDGXNsGm94PA9VhkriTjY2_CRa4LpfkC9CUuxXF5GEdZcl4ExNz2oNxDuB-_3bfbOJb5ZKDkXDUDeQJ2H4L65tQzNu50qYDXTrJyGAeZfMSUrY4HK_3mqLhTlvyw_tw/s1600/100_1199.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlOi7ofGZpCMS9uDGXNsGm94PA9VhkriTjY2_CRa4LpfkC9CUuxXF5GEdZcl4ExNz2oNxDuB-_3bfbOJb5ZKDkXDUDeQJ2H4L65tQzNu50qYDXTrJyGAeZfMSUrY4HK_3mqLhTlvyw_tw/s320/100_1199.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">At the Cairo Hospital...looking at my true love.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">February is a short month, when</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">couples choose to measure love:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“He took me to that waterfront </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">restaurant with candle-light and violins!<o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He gave me long stemmed roses!</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">”</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“...a </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">two-carat diamond!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“</span>He knelt when he proposed...</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">”</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We made love in front of a roaring fire...</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>easures of love, compared and pitted,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">spurred talons sharpened,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">greased feathers glittering.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don't want to play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My true love doesn't like waterfront restaurants,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">not after a messy incident, when </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I ordered</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maine lobster at market price. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He doesn't do diamonds, not after seeing the mines.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He gives me potted, living roses, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and says he's "not gonna fall for that</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">overpriced crap that'll be dead in a week,"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and he really means it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">His idea of a roaring fire is at the end</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">of a good cigar.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, he puts the seat down,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">replaces light bulbs,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and has strong arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">These arms </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">once supported me,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">all my dead weight, as I</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">tried to act normal, plodding</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">up stairs in Cairo—uneven stone</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">steps </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">in front of the hospital—littered</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">with candy wrappers. Women in </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">black</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">wool hijabs looked up at me, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">their eyes </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">begging me not to touch </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">them, their hands </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">tucked beneath </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">their dresses, not outstretched</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>too afraid? too wise? did they think I was cursed?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">leaning away from my shadow </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">as we passed, and his</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">arms around me, lifting my </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">weight so my feet </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">would be </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">lighter, and I couldn't help seeing the women, with big eyes</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">filled with terror and something else. They </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">made made me believe</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was dying.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Weak from blood loss, no fluid</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">would stay, no water in my eyes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">or my body. It took everything I</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">had, whatever strength </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">in me to </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">hold on to my true love, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">whose</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">arms were around me, supporting</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">me, a </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">primal scent of perspiration,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">his one hand clasped over mine, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">holding me up as I stepped up so</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">many stone steps between us and</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">the surgeon. We had to stop twice</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and when I cried, the women hid</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">their faces. We had to (could we?) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">stop </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">the bleeding,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">any way.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He kept whispering: “A few more steps, just</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">a few more steps…” And it was one up, and</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">two up. Neither one of us had ever </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">been to</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">that particular hospital or country before, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">but he whispered, "Just a few more steps,"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">anyway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I pleaded to stop and lie down. He shook</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">his head and didn't feel sorry for me. And</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">the </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">hospital was there, at the end of the steps,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">just like he said it would be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My measure of romance will always be this.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The strength of his arms and his whispers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When the self is a weak, bleeding, staggering</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">thing, and the world is a bleak place with</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">long, stony paths, all uneven, he steadies me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even more, he believes I can do it and tells me,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and I get there with him, one step at a time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He knows my pain and walks beside me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On steps like these,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">too weak and bloodless </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">to stop crying, having</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> nothing </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">left to give, he asks me for nothing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and expects nothing. He never leaves.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is the measure of my true love’s heart.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-19362692627752330982019-12-29T02:22:00.001-08:002019-12-29T03:42:56.709-08:0032<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy0iMzYeW5_tPfzhY3L4Zvwascu9ZN3SxuGjytH1kf9jxNkAdGeIDuqlUpdTkLgrmO1SBQhH_MXxNGCfiUjg7O3-d_jSvhmw8Ua7IJ6LQKrqVxqCj3j__GdnUYHyqxkwQjg8fWTzYW8SpD/s1600/32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1529" data-original-width="1600" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy0iMzYeW5_tPfzhY3L4Zvwascu9ZN3SxuGjytH1kf9jxNkAdGeIDuqlUpdTkLgrmO1SBQhH_MXxNGCfiUjg7O3-d_jSvhmw8Ua7IJ6LQKrqVxqCj3j__GdnUYHyqxkwQjg8fWTzYW8SpD/s320/32.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mario and I have been married thirty-two years today. When
we met, he had two young sons—David and Joe—and I had a toddler, Vince. Less
than a year after our wedding, we had Alicia. The family we had together was
wonderful and I love our kids (and now our Grandchildren) but the early years
of marriage were also the early years of parenting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight, over dinner, Mario said, “It seems to have all flown
by.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you have children—especially when you have a blended
family—the rules of marriage are constantly changing. As a couple, you have no
choice but to change with them. We’ve been lucky because we have been
surrounded by friends and family who strengthened us when we needed it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People often ask us for marriage advice and we RARELY give
it. The reason why? Most couples don’t want marriage advice. They want to know
they’re going to be alright. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivTu0G9DuE9rXNyhLkSPGLws6vgbYPmaoH9_eBpmi3v0dNTULunI8Ly_BPVFRMmESaR1YbF6CAzu4cjx1qoVmE7IUlJRNWKhbBmaz2Nsqp4ecxB2bq3IAW64QjtOMtZCFH87OThpn-Oun_/s1600/Engagement.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="721" data-original-width="854" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivTu0G9DuE9rXNyhLkSPGLws6vgbYPmaoH9_eBpmi3v0dNTULunI8Ly_BPVFRMmESaR1YbF6CAzu4cjx1qoVmE7IUlJRNWKhbBmaz2Nsqp4ecxB2bq3IAW64QjtOMtZCFH87OThpn-Oun_/s320/Engagement.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Engagement Party - November 1987</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve decided to list three pieces of humorous marriage
advice. It’s all going to sound ridiculous, but this is actual advice we’ve
received, and it worked. Have fun reading...and remember, you’re
going to be alright. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYeF-6NV2wg59jZVbFL9Xtd48FCSSQmePX-_vrL3a4xC03FFO4YYSJ69jwlRNELWddX_tk_7kMcJ8Gm9RDSgwqb9rh4BCfa5ippIeOY5Yhjp0-qIhAfCUb4u4aw5il7_zvdxI6-SieOP0O/s1600/wedding2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1021" data-original-width="734" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYeF-6NV2wg59jZVbFL9Xtd48FCSSQmePX-_vrL3a4xC03FFO4YYSJ69jwlRNELWddX_tk_7kMcJ8Gm9RDSgwqb9rh4BCfa5ippIeOY5Yhjp0-qIhAfCUb4u4aw5il7_zvdxI6-SieOP0O/s400/wedding2.jpg" width="287" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Wedding Day--December 29, 1987</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. <b>“Trust you’re okay.”</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was raised in a culture that sold romantic ideas about marriage: If you married the right person, you would sing duets in gazebos as it rained outside. If you keep up your appearance, your husband will chase you around the bedroom. If you share good ideas, you could both spread your passion to others and change the world. Anything less was a ho-hum marriage. I wanted to be the physical,
intellectual, and emotional partner of Mario's dreams. I did my best to be like a bride in a movie,
and often felt rejected when Mario was tired or working. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I think Mario and I need help,” I once confessed to my
friend, Hilary. “We have no real time together and when we do, he says there’s
a lot of pressure to be romantic.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hilary didn’t even blink. She asked, “What would you like to
have happen?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know,” I said. “I want to be together more. I want
to feel like a priority to him. Sometimes I think he cares more about his work
than he does about me. I don’t even know if we’re okay.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hilary shrugged. “Marriage is a partnership, and you’re working
together. Most of the time you have to trust you’re okay with each other, especially
since the kids commandeer so much of your time.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>TRUST we’re okay?</i> I thought. That sounded like a pat
answer. How was I supposed to <i>trust</i> we’re okay if I didn’t <i>feel</i>
okay?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Looking back, Hilary gave me the best marriage advice for that
day. I wasn’t in the middle of a crisis, or being threatened by anything more
than our hectic schedule. The truth is, Mario and I <u>were </u>okay during
that season. Hilary, one of my close friends, could probably see this. She also
could see that I thrived on attention—especially Mario’s—and demanded quite a bit
from my husband. I had to trust that Mario and I were alright and stop demanding more than he could give, just so I could feel like the bride the media had portrayed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even though Hilary's simplistic answer didn’t satisfy then—if
I am being honest, it still doesn’t satisfy—I now know it's one of the greatest truths of maintaining marriage<i>. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Here we are, husband, you and I. We love each other, even
though we don’t get a lot of time alone. We don’t tell each other “I love you
madly!” several times a day. You and I are here, walking toward the goal of
raising our children into adulthood and being part of a functional community.
Today I will trust that you and I are alright</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There have been times when we were facing a battle that was
too much for us—and for those times we have definitely taken action by getting
formal counseling. We’ve somehow been able to save our overturned canoe on more
than one occasion, with a little help from our friends. We’ve been able to
cling to each other during terrible times. I also had to get over my
unrealistic picture of what a healthy marriage should look like. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">~</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYD78uUkZ3XozLCjYuVjfqrCKCJIU4RKMzjaDOmNmFrJpRnMBNO4o1ChDqK3JPCKmJtdso3UYrViWlt6Y_FAa3EUzsvY9W4hA8Uw572csM_3S48pZSmHdaByW353hooeWPOXuuAKZm-wcS/s1600/portrait+1987.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1191" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYD78uUkZ3XozLCjYuVjfqrCKCJIU4RKMzjaDOmNmFrJpRnMBNO4o1ChDqK3JPCKmJtdso3UYrViWlt6Y_FAa3EUzsvY9W4hA8Uw572csM_3S48pZSmHdaByW353hooeWPOXuuAKZm-wcS/s320/portrait+1987.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family Portrait just after we got married</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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2. <b>“Don’t Fight.”</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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As a young married couple with a blended family, Mario and I
would sometimes argue when we should have been working together. For some
reason, the fights were more intense when we were supposed to be somewhere at a
certain time. If we were expected at a family dinner, a holiday, and (most
commonly) for church on Sunday mornings, Mario and I would sometimes arrive looking
like two cats that had been through a car wash. We might have looked fairly put
together on the outside, but we really struggled with the other person when we were under pressure to perform. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Most often, the behavior would surface on Sunday mornings. We would fight over seemingly trivial things:
<i>Which clothes should the kids wear? What should they eat? Why aren’t you
helping? Who opened the peanut butter and spread it on the cat? Where is the baby’s
new car seat?</i> Once we were all in the car, Mario (who hated being late)
would speed off to the destination, while I (who didn’t like to be rushed) would
sit in the passenger seat, looking out the window. The kids knew better than to
talk.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Other people pulled into the church parking lot in shiny
vehicles, unloaded their children (who always seemed to be wearing matching
outfits), and entered the building, ready to be happy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“How are you guys doing?” our pastor, Rick, greeted us one
day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I was ready to say some bullshit thing—like <i>Great!</i> —but
my face wasn’t cooperating. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mario
blurted out: “We’re fighting again!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Not just, <i>We’re fighting</i>, but <i>again</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Rick looked sympathetic. “Oh, guys. Don’t fight.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was the most absurd thing to say. I looked at Mario, just
to see if he thought the same thing. Instead, Mario looked at me and shrugged.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Okay,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, we dropped it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I didn’t bring up later how I couldn’t just forgive him like
that. I didn’t point out how I did most of the work, even though he was more
alert in the morning. Nope. I just dropped it. Maybe it was a miracle, but I
did.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ox5TfD0zrugIxMd7_zl2RPpB25CyEmSuYstr58jcpwfLn3oCXFVXTyPcesN3JMfsht1Ex3zhDrvIfSTBgy2xO1F5jcV8wakSb1wC6aKPY4y7LTzx5ynBOwrrzl5w4CxUmK2PBPsdGpn5/s1600/olan+mills+19942.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1193" data-original-width="1600" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ox5TfD0zrugIxMd7_zl2RPpB25CyEmSuYstr58jcpwfLn3oCXFVXTyPcesN3JMfsht1Ex3zhDrvIfSTBgy2xO1F5jcV8wakSb1wC6aKPY4y7LTzx5ynBOwrrzl5w4CxUmK2PBPsdGpn5/s320/olan+mills+19942.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Despite some really complicated personality differences,
Mario and I rarely fight. I think we have moments of severe disagreements, but
we’ve stopped attacking each other and speaking our mind without a filter. I
have to remember that this is my guy, and he’s on my side. I also have to
remember that he likes knowing what he’s supposed to do long before I want him
to do it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So, “Don’t fight” is actually pretty good advice. Disagree, yes.
Fight, no.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> ~</span></b></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislt3zFk9QRtD3EbjEJhROFhkbBdSPkacgDM1F4t6uB296IY2bNZUlQ_5RND1lZfzYrlNuz-OqJJWmk4SpQbXw69uH9Y2XtiA6taXCm-clM4SQOuZAmNfBePXgmKKwDk4-BtQjqNZYZuV4/s1600/Yosemite+30+Years.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislt3zFk9QRtD3EbjEJhROFhkbBdSPkacgDM1F4t6uB296IY2bNZUlQ_5RND1lZfzYrlNuz-OqJJWmk4SpQbXw69uH9Y2XtiA6taXCm-clM4SQOuZAmNfBePXgmKKwDk4-BtQjqNZYZuV4/s320/Yosemite+30+Years.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">January 2018</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></o:p></div>
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3.<b> Share Your Dreams </b> (BTW, I have
permission to tell this story 😁)</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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A friend of mine (Cindy) told me, at a BBQ, that she wasn’t
talking to her boyfriend (Jake) because he’d taken apart the engine of his old
Indian motorcycle that he was restoring, and spread it out on newspapers in the
living room. She was almost crying, and I felt like clobbering Jake myself. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Later, Jake explained how he was only doing this because they had no garage, and
he had chosen a spot in the house they never used (their pristine living room).
He had taken great care to sort out the engine parts and lay down cardboard
boxes and newspapers underneath them, so the grease wouldn’t stain the carpet—and
it was only until the replacement engine parts were delivered. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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What Cindy didn’t tell me is this: the Indian used to belong
to Jake’s father, who had died the year before. It was Jake’s dream to restore
the bike, so he could take a trip to the coast and spread his father’s ashes.
What Jake didn’t tell me is this: he used the money he saved to take Cindy on a
vacation to restore the bike. Now, without a vacation, and feeling less
important than the Indian, Cindy had to look at the disassembled bike every day
until the parts came. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Mario and I didn’t offer any advice to Jake and Cindy. They
never asked us what to do, but I remember asking if the Indian restoration was
a dream project. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Cindy answered, quickly: “Restoring that motorcycle is his
dream. Not mine.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Jake (a huge man with a full beard) suddenly looked five
years old. “But I want you to support this dream,” he said. “That’s what you promised
to do.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Cindy looked at him and shook her head. “I will,” she said. “But
the motorcycle is lying in parts all over our house. I wasn’t planning on that.
That wasn’t part of this dream.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Jake moved the parts to a friend’s garage until the parts
came (which, btw, had to be flown in from the States and took three months to
be delivered). After that, everything was better, kind of. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUPRhfXG23FiuGrYZmDkTPuMpB-m34dWLxnqrU-ep6Pum6WHIl5u-G1ACur3TLwZF2nIdJC-dVgCnFFSqgR5f0gjoW4iOi_q25_PKNJA_Bo_X_cDODjq7ITacXbxr-iE9Xg0x0k5Nez2Jo/s1600/us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1477" data-original-width="1600" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUPRhfXG23FiuGrYZmDkTPuMpB-m34dWLxnqrU-ep6Pum6WHIl5u-G1ACur3TLwZF2nIdJC-dVgCnFFSqgR5f0gjoW4iOi_q25_PKNJA_Bo_X_cDODjq7ITacXbxr-iE9Xg0x0k5Nez2Jo/s200/us.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ARC Graduation- June 2016</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwgxduQeslG3MiCrQG8_3FpeNMKx7BIOFK3qpjFw5tGeVriqwItUHLjfnSbscyJnHqZib8WhaW22LY_GacXZ8ELxwiAcrC0GOdLZX83JgTttQB1JQdoASHUL9GoWAVDVIlSoNJnEFb0TN0/s1600/20171216_114745.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwgxduQeslG3MiCrQG8_3FpeNMKx7BIOFK3qpjFw5tGeVriqwItUHLjfnSbscyJnHqZib8WhaW22LY_GacXZ8ELxwiAcrC0GOdLZX83JgTttQB1JQdoASHUL9GoWAVDVIlSoNJnEFb0TN0/s320/20171216_114745.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sac State Graduation December 2017</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided to go back to college when I was fifty-two, for a
variety of different reasons, but mainly because I always wanted to get an MFA
(a Masters in Fine Arts). This meant I had to get an AA and a BA first. Mario and I agreed
it would be a good time to go back to school. He supported me one hundred per
cent and loved me at every turn. I had to work twice as hard as my younger classmates,
whose brains were all beautifully elastic. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s what Mario wasn’t planning on: the speed at which I
attacked these degrees. I had seen (at 52) what interest-bearing student loans did
to our children and I knew the faster I got the whole thing done, the better
off we’d be. The pace of the combined degrees commandeered much of my energy,
and it shows. The house is not exactly littered with greasy motorcycle parts,
but our relationship, our social life, and life in general, has definitely changed.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight, as we were eating tapas at a reserved table at Aïoli
Bodega Española, a Spanish restaurant in midtown Sacramento, Mario said so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t wait until this is all over,” he said. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The next six months are going to be critical.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I agreed. We enjoyed our evening, but as I was writing this
blog, I decided to go out and ask him if he feels like my dream has taken too
much out of our family, our relationship, our lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s not just your dream,” he said. “It’s <i>our </i>dream.
We decided to do this together, and we’re doing it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, you don’t you feel cheated out of my time?” I asked
him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” he said. “But there are days where you’re exhausted. There
are days you don’t feel good about yourself. Those are the days I don’t like.
Those are the days we need to pray harder.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I agreed. I kissed him—and took a puff on his cigar—and came
in to finish this.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There have been times when Mario has decided to go after a
dream, and I’ve supported him. There’s something rewarding about the process,
something that is key to happiness in a partnership. In his mind, this MFA is our
shared dream. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It makes sense. Mario is wonderfully diligent in achieving the
things we call dreams, so much so that he’s inspired me to realize my own. I
feel blessed to share my life with him. I feel grateful that our time of
dreaming has been clear and realized. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">~</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, there it is. Mario and I are in our 32<sup>nd</sup> year
being married on this earth, and this is the advice I’ve listed: <i>Trust you’re
okay. Don’t fight. Share your dreams</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shoot. That’s pretty good advice...but it looks like
nothing. In fact, it looks so simple, it’s almost irritating.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg76MvndJ-XPZF4y4JnDVXy8scNf6HLck9wrK2tktN4GG37XB-aUEo2pOA-yOUo4J8GRY_8wSfNtu5mz3wWYZ0rvHhZ1laojAq1ACwE_peVttMHF8aya3wGO3hiT0rN0HdMmeSEf0LC69S2/s1600/Skype+call.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg76MvndJ-XPZF4y4JnDVXy8scNf6HLck9wrK2tktN4GG37XB-aUEo2pOA-yOUo4J8GRY_8wSfNtu5mz3wWYZ0rvHhZ1laojAq1ACwE_peVttMHF8aya3wGO3hiT0rN0HdMmeSEf0LC69S2/s320/Skype+call.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-58456087905280836962019-12-28T02:53:00.000-08:002019-12-28T02:53:15.011-08:0057<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHaAJpI3xrVl01kcSb-IPqmsAv9kRXE-XGfsZYOHnjbzQ3Q8qoKxUavmwUdsD327-Q-GqQIImD0wUDrnn-8svCuD-uO8sOqyWeNOPyu6CVDH8qUhqRQ_RoSdt0XjN5TKDQT-x_WYdbnGZq/s1600/57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1592" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHaAJpI3xrVl01kcSb-IPqmsAv9kRXE-XGfsZYOHnjbzQ3Q8qoKxUavmwUdsD327-Q-GqQIImD0wUDrnn-8svCuD-uO8sOqyWeNOPyu6CVDH8qUhqRQ_RoSdt0XjN5TKDQT-x_WYdbnGZq/s320/57.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tonight, at my desk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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Today I’m 57 and I will love this year.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because my birthday comes so near the end of the year, I
take stock of my life the same way all of us do at the year’s end. Because this
coming year also represents the beginning of a new decade, it’s easy to reflect
on the last TEN years. A lot of us are comparing pictures of ourselves—pictures
taken in 2009 and others taken in 2019—and we see time is seldom kind,
especially after a certain age. I admit that I love comparing pictures of me in
2009 to one of me in 2019.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten years ago, Mario and I were living in Johannesburg, but
travelling all over the continent of Africa. Our beautiful dream of working
with a network of churches spread out all over the world had come true, and we
were becoming more and more familiar with existing churches all over the continent
of Africa. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I found a picture today of me in 2009. I was part of a team
that was visiting an orphanage in Upper Egypt. I remember that I felt fortunate
to be part of the team, but it was sweltering that day, and I had just had
surgery, only one day before. Here I was, fresh out of the hospital, and I was
back to work because I didn’t want to miss anything. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The work we were involved in was lovely, as were the people
we worked with. I often missed my family, I often felt stifled, and I
desperately wanted my life to matter—and I really wanted God to be proud of me.
My dissatisfaction started to show—I was thirty pounds overweight in this
picture. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQo-yF9mZyaLqwaxC4DWYMjidLnq6Rh0QGZN3z4Fa9IaOe3E_QwfCcxwHjR3VUQwFzxNhBHkp0G4ZPkdIolvV2tXJco5jjqze98ikaCTQG_sqinCUrLUmg2blEvUbLj3gUlQWjGQ7QpBI/s1600/2009-2019+Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQo-yF9mZyaLqwaxC4DWYMjidLnq6Rh0QGZN3z4Fa9IaOe3E_QwfCcxwHjR3VUQwFzxNhBHkp0G4ZPkdIolvV2tXJco5jjqze98ikaCTQG_sqinCUrLUmg2blEvUbLj3gUlQWjGQ7QpBI/s400/2009-2019+Collage.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Looking back, I want to hug this girl. I want to tell her to
take it easy and maybe reconsider her definition of living for God. The woman I
am today is truer, less guarded, more surrendered and less tense.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Shortly after Mario and I returned to Sacramento, I
collapsed. I slept for a year, I tell people. I re-evaluated my life and my
purpose. I visited family, and I wrote like crazy. I toyed with the idea of
going back to school and getting my college degree. I finally took a deep
breath and started in January of 2015. In June of 2020 I am scheduled to
graduate with a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. I really look forward to the
completion--I've done seven years of college in five years. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Who knows? Maybe you’ll read a similar blog, written by me
ten years from now, about wanting to hug the 57-year-old me and tell her
everything is going to be okay.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Every year, I read the corresponding Psalm with the year I am turning. Today I am 57 years old, and Psalm
57 encourages me that God has steadfast love, and faithfulness
that reaches to the clouds. With this assurance, I can rest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And I will love this year. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">~</span></h2>
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Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>for in you my soul
takes refuge;<o:p></o:p></div>
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in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>till the storms of
destruction pass by.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I cry out to God Most High,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to God who
fulfills his purpose for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He will send from heaven and save me;<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he will put to
shame him who tramples on me. Selah<o:p></o:p></div>
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God will send out his steadfast love and his faithfulness!<o:p></o:p></div>
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My soul is in the midst of lions;<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lie down amid
fiery beasts—<o:p></o:p></div>
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the children of man, whose teeth are spears and arrows,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>whose tongues are
sharp swords.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let your glory be
over all the earth!<o:p></o:p></div>
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They set a net for my steps;<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my soul was bowed
down.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They dug a pit in my way,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but they have
fallen into it themselves. Selah<o:p></o:p></div>
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My heart is steadfast, O God,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my heart is
steadfast!<o:p></o:p></div>
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I will sing and make melody!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Awake, my glory!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Awake, O harp and lyre!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will awake the
dawn!<o:p></o:p></div>
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I will give thanks to you, O Lord, among the peoples;<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will sing
praises to you among the nations.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For your steadfast love is great to the heavens,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>your faithfulness
to the clouds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let your glory be
over all the earth!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
Psalm 57 English Standard Version (ESV)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1720476815578419451.post-52809611523099599772019-10-04T03:50:00.002-07:002019-10-04T03:51:42.157-07:00David<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpg7MPYGlDsQC3ac8Ia_ErKYmmqoFms1oFm_eHi0Coy0aOytmkRybcYJmgnRn0WLdCBFRzfaV1mNxAXXb5sKpAd4QAIHYejDEfWHzpx2Ch26wqnEgJ1W1SPDs7G07e6CT4_XtxLAAvhgvc/s1600/David+birth2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="392" data-original-width="692" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpg7MPYGlDsQC3ac8Ia_ErKYmmqoFms1oFm_eHi0Coy0aOytmkRybcYJmgnRn0WLdCBFRzfaV1mNxAXXb5sKpAd4QAIHYejDEfWHzpx2Ch26wqnEgJ1W1SPDs7G07e6CT4_XtxLAAvhgvc/s400/David+birth2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David's 1st Picture--October 4, 1979</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Today I got an invitation from Mensa. Okay, it wasn’t a real
invitation, it was one of those mass-emails that organizations send out to
people, and I got one. They invited me to take the test to see if I were one of
the people who can meet and mingle with others in the upper 1% of thinkers
(actually the upper 1% of scores on IQ tests). I didn’t respond, mainly because I’m not Mensa material and I'm smart enough to know
it. I have a wickedly precise memory and a mind for languages, but I’m
“challenged” when it comes to directions, patterns, maps, statistics, and
numbers. In other words, I am a right-brained person. The left side of my brain
is carried by the right.<o:p></o:p></div>
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David—my step-son—could be in Mensa. </div>
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David is one of the smartest people I know, understanding patterns and equations into the fourth dimension. Before becoming a programmer/web designer/ hardware systems expert, David majored in astrophysics.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I used to smash protons together in these closet-sized labs at school,” he once told me. “Until I had enough of it.” He was smart enough to study astrophysics, and smart enough to leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFS-0A3MjZfpYCb6IdmBRi0QmqDAVqisVb6KXNIyaKx60fnRfhSVFck8xCjb_nPI1tpswe1rCVd7WMrTOSZVV_Itn9rtxVfmnxChDoUKwXluTlwI8K7mjpOOToE-w1aCU18YKf_ipJCgJq/s1600/carnegie1kp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="893" data-original-width="1218" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFS-0A3MjZfpYCb6IdmBRi0QmqDAVqisVb6KXNIyaKx60fnRfhSVFck8xCjb_nPI1tpswe1rCVd7WMrTOSZVV_Itn9rtxVfmnxChDoUKwXluTlwI8K7mjpOOToE-w1aCU18YKf_ipJCgJq/s320/carnegie1kp.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David on his first computer--a Kaypro--telling Joe his turn will be in about two hours</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When I met him, he was six years old, and he loved everything. I used to tell him (and his brother, Joe) that he was the best step-son in the world, and I didn’t deserve him. I deserved a step-son who hated me, one who stormed out of the house and called me a bitch under his breath...but David never said one unkind thing to me—ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRA9RnCfv0lhzkWwrn4AFU2W1owQLpbCbO2SFQRJtfFAXeAJlKEwwdHPkqq-1jMbvyNbooP9lSDEJwAF80tH02Sx4vPWho96l-fCc5Q0Do4aKPdl2QB5g78GOBi02pc3-sGuFUlWXftdAd/s1600/Library.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="933" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRA9RnCfv0lhzkWwrn4AFU2W1owQLpbCbO2SFQRJtfFAXeAJlKEwwdHPkqq-1jMbvyNbooP9lSDEJwAF80tH02Sx4vPWho96l-fCc5Q0Do4aKPdl2QB5g78GOBi02pc3-sGuFUlWXftdAd/s320/Library.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the New York Public Library 1987</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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As he grew, David reminded me more and more of his
Dad—especially his weird and obscure sense of humor, followed by a funny,
squeaking puppy laugh—which is a good thing.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He grew and grew and grew. Eventually, he got married and
had children. Just the other day, Mario told me that David was going to be
turning forty and I had a heart attack from the realization (I’m not good with math).
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnINZF1mlknTsHcVRrm_K1adrMcsXRv2jCiG0TWfCqLSE5_ZVPStBNQx2B4WLpzB9xSu6WIKjKhyniEEufUKSBoxTXEuGo1OmwhkttE4H6BfFPZMF95G5Nr0ohtzHJSg2w1uTeG6mLuAH_/s1600/portrait+1994.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1165" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnINZF1mlknTsHcVRrm_K1adrMcsXRv2jCiG0TWfCqLSE5_ZVPStBNQx2B4WLpzB9xSu6WIKjKhyniEEufUKSBoxTXEuGo1OmwhkttE4H6BfFPZMF95G5Nr0ohtzHJSg2w1uTeG6mLuAH_/s320/portrait+1994.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family Portrait 1994</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I still remember him dancing around the living room in his
new karate pajamas, playing the slide trombone, and singing “Kiss the Girl”
with his friends. I remember him holding Alicia when she was born. I remember
him holding his firstborn child, then his second born child, and then, his
baby. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitWR5uY8Eq-0HvrIRiAwrzHauiDbuJpA1iPVmpNGkefpJM9WS_Laed6FH4wbLU64QG5jfGLXqNvnPln_V_qJnQPYnNl9qx4w2YzjqVudK6AiQeJHFfj4xzNbI79AmUGJMMs9-9eo9iO9bO/s1600/DSC00682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitWR5uY8Eq-0HvrIRiAwrzHauiDbuJpA1iPVmpNGkefpJM9WS_Laed6FH4wbLU64QG5jfGLXqNvnPln_V_qJnQPYnNl9qx4w2YzjqVudK6AiQeJHFfj4xzNbI79AmUGJMMs9-9eo9iO9bO/s320/DSC00682.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David, holding baby Lauren (Lilli looking at camera)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I remember the night he showed me what an Irish Car Bomb was, and I remember
drinking it, and laughing my head off. I remember all the love, all the love.
All the love I don’t deserve and never could deserve.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLoT2voEQdOsbYftwBbIs-IUtzDM6nDyIBJ3Bjd1zhGLC81mGDAQtDif4mObO61FyYy6fzDQuuhgEvviNPTTdeHhI3AOasQCbg95nFp8KuTFgi2tVILuhS7peKSnr5OaycboC7YGQf8GQH/s1600/20181204_114920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLoT2voEQdOsbYftwBbIs-IUtzDM6nDyIBJ3Bjd1zhGLC81mGDAQtDif4mObO61FyYy6fzDQuuhgEvviNPTTdeHhI3AOasQCbg95nFp8KuTFgi2tVILuhS7peKSnr5OaycboC7YGQf8GQH/s400/20181204_114920.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite recent pic--Grand Master Samarai Jedi Master Rodriguez (with his bride, Lennae)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David, in every phase of your life, I remember you. I
remember you smart. I remember you funny. I remember you being so kind to
everyone—especially me. Because you are such a wonderful man, I am filled with
love for you. I refuse to remember that 2019-1979=40. BUT on October fourth,
your birthday, please remember that I love you!</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbNUAJ424lvobU3AUA7UKZFNC9w0PEHwHwqO_43LAEyACw6Lag4oJ2-ZplZqxk9gZ37HROP6jJC9ImnTiV9h7NlJzQoQ0Jt1EfvLoGkeB1AS0e5eR_EuUYqJWLXNpwvhazcq2cwr2MROeZ/s1600/20181210_185028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbNUAJ424lvobU3AUA7UKZFNC9w0PEHwHwqO_43LAEyACw6Lag4oJ2-ZplZqxk9gZ37HROP6jJC9ImnTiV9h7NlJzQoQ0Jt1EfvLoGkeB1AS0e5eR_EuUYqJWLXNpwvhazcq2cwr2MROeZ/s320/20181210_185028.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David met us in L.A. at my December 2018 Residency</td></tr>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Posts and pictures property and © Janet Rodriguez unless otherwise noted. NO PUBLIC DOMAIN.</div>Brazen Princesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09331819298013144732noreply@blogger.com6