Alicia

Alicia, Harmony, Alannah and I in June 2019

You Are.../I am...

A song whose melody is light—

the best there is—singing

with outstretched hands, my love

inspired by the sparks of joy

reach out and take my hand

I wasted precious time, forgetting

of you in my arms, my house, then

wandering, looking for something I lost

sleep—those nights drowned in red

darker than blood wine, the secret

fear that I wouldn’t find the thing—

if there was a thing—that kept you from me

I once held expectations, now only hope—

broken and glued-together hope,

for the reasons mothers understand—with

my hands. I named you 

seeking truth, the gold you might find in

everything.  My girl, always shining,

as you lift your arms to be carried, lifting

away from tender wounds, look

for your heart, unveiled. Look

this way, see me reaching now

by the mercy of God, to bring you back

to me—a mother who loves you

This poem is for my daughter, Alicia, a woman in constant motion, who turns thirty-one today! If you read it line-by line from the top down, it is about Alicia and my constant search to understand her as she grew. If you read it, line-by-line, from the bottom to the top, it is about me seeking understanding for today--to love her for the woman she is.  

All by the grace of God--all by the grace of God...

numbers

My stole and cord--Ready and waiting

I am supposed to be working on a final paper that I will turn in on Monday—the date of my last final exam.  Instead, I am flipping through the web—random searches for news, Christmas gifts, homes in the area that are for sale….  I am putting off the paper.  Why?  I just arrived home from Chico and I am feeling a little dreamy.  There is nothing else for me to do but to write and write and write and write….

I am scheduled to graduate on the 16^th of this month, at the Golden One Center downtown where I will wear a black mortarboard and gown and a gold tassel. Monday is officially my last day of school at Sac State (CSU Sacramento) and I am feeling a little exhausted—and sad that I am leaving such an incredible place.  Tonight, I found myself writing this—a blog about random numbers that relate to graduating with a bachelor’s degree at 54. 

Number:

120:   Academic Units required to graduate with a Bachelor of Arts in English degree—

                              I have 122.

19:   Maximum Number of units I have taken in one semester—

In my final semester at American River, I powered through five classes—one of them was six units, another was four (the average class is 3 units).  Three of these classes were honors classes, which meant more writing and a greater demand for class participation.  For every unit, the student is advised to reserve two hours of independent study per week.  21 units=42 hours per week of study.  You can see why students are considered to have a full-time job.  This semester I had a pleasant 18 units—all English classes with the best professors.

3: Years of my life it has taken to do this—

At 52 I returned to college.  I completed one semester of college when I was eighteen—right out of high school (1981).  I hated college back then.  It was lonely and hard work.  No one knew who I was—or cared.  When I returned at 52, I found the same loneliness on campus.  Don’t misunderstand me—there are plenty of people and I have made plenty of friends, but it became obvious very quickly that each student is on a separate journey. Unless you belong to a club or involved in a group project, students don’t really have a sense of shared purpose.  I had to remind myself that I was part of a family, a church, a marriage that valued what I was doing.  This way, I did not lose hope in the journey, which can be very lonely at times.

3: Average hours per day spent in the library or Learning Resource Center

Best place to study at ARC?  The Learning Resource Center.  Best place at Sac State?  The library.  I grew attached to the community of nerds that hung out in both places, typing away or researching on the AMAZING databases we got access to with the price of tuition.  Sac State’s library is so amazing—I have never seen its equal—and I’ve been all over the world and visited many libraries.  I like the NYC Public Library in Manhattan, but I like Sac State’s even more…

2 and 2: Number of Analytical Math and Science Classes I had to take—

I am an ENGLISH MAJOR—a writer who knows how to BS her way through most subjects—until it comes to math and science.  I took Geology (which loved) and then I took Biology (which I thought was the study of life but turned out to be the study of life systems and microbiology)—both in the summer where I got to sweat it out in summer classrooms for at least three hours a day.  The focus helped.  I had to pass Statistics –but ARC had a wonderful class called STATway—which is the hardest class I have ever taken in my whole life! Yikes! Thank God for my gifted, talented, and very sympathetic professors.  They genuinely wanted to help me—I genuinely wanted to learn. Every single student who graduates with a bachelor’s degree has to satisfy the compulsory general education requirement to show you have at least a working knowledge of science and math.   Ask me the odds that most students will forget what they learned.

550: Dollars I spent on parking passes—

Forget books and tuition, parking is expensive for students—and a pain in the butt.  Everybody complains about parking; everyone has to do it.  In my last semester at Sac State, the campus was at sixes and sevens because they were building two additional parking garages.  Just in time for me to leave.

4: Number of rolling backpacks I bought—

Take my advice, if you return to school and plan to lug around books for as many classes as I took (I averaged 15 units per semester), INVEST in a good rolling backpack.  My first two were actually rolling computer bags, but those things are meant for business people carrying a computer from the car to the office.  I went through those wheels like a 14-year-old acne-faced skateboarder—and found that a rolling backpack was the ticket.  My latest one is on its last legs, but it was a trooper: a black JWorld New York.

5:  Average number of times I cried my eyes out in total frustration per semester—

This can’t be due tomorrow!  I didn’t get published in Lit Mag again!  I won’t be able to attend a friend’s wedding because I can’t dig myself out of my massive amounts of homework!  This professor hates me! I talk too much! 

You get it.  Three weeks before the end of the semester is high stress, and I –like many of my fellow students—panic with the amount of work that has to be done in those last crucial weeks.  I think this semester has been the calmest—maybe because I expected the overload. 

1 guy who got me through this—my husband.

Without a doubt, I could not have done this without Mario.  Then again, that goes for most of my endeavors.  I cannot imagine anyone doing this while working full time or with a partner that does not support them.  It is a hard business that requires intense focus.  If your partner is not on board, it is virtually impossible to succeed.  I had all the support in the world from Mario—and it shows.

Alicia

Mario's Mother took this Polaroid picture on the day she "met" Alicia

Alicia was born 29 years ago, our only girl. Tonight, on the back porch, Mario and I shook our heads in disbelief…the time really does go by so fast. 

Alicia's One-year birthday Party --Arnold, CA

Alicia was born after Mario and I married--David was 8, Joe was 6, and Vince was 2.  Alicia’s birth in July of 1988 “sealed the deal and made us real” –we had ourselves a genuine “blended family.”  

Alicia did not come into the world softly and gently—she was born in living color, vibrant from a young age.  She grew up fast, right before my eyes, developing a genuine love for animals and people.  She jumped into everything that life had to offer and devoured it, always drawing a friends to herself.  She was a tomboy.  She loved to read.  She broke every rule that boxed her in.  

It all went by so fast.  

Sometimes I still wonder where the time with my little daughter went.

Today I looked back on the pictures I have of us—some in various stages of play, some posed, most candid shots where one of us is looking away.  Some are taken in the USA; others are taken in Africa; many on planes; some in amusement parks.  She is surrounded by friends, family, love, teams, her array of collections.  They show how Alicia did not ever settle down.  

And then…I came upon my favorite—one she took with my phone this year. 

I think she took this the day before Mother’s Day, when she held the camera away from us and clicked before I knew to smile. I look at it now, and realize that this is us. Alicia has a smile that illuminates the world –and the film that captures her. It also shows me, trying to be peaceful as the time ticks away.  Like most mothers, I feel like my baby is moving at the speed of light.  I wish I could slow down time, just for the sake of having more special times together. 

Today, on her birthday, I take a deep breath and remind myself to be grateful.  Kahlil Gibran writes:

 “Your children are not your children—they are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself.  They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you,  yet they belong not to you.…”  

Alicia has two beautiful girls of her own, children that remind her of the heartbreaking truth that we cannot hold on to them forever, even if we want to.  On this day, I want her to know that she belongs to God--and that is why I can relax.  He created her unique and special –and truly beautiful.

Happy Birthday, Alicia.  I can never tell you how much I love, but I can try.  

Love to you now more than ever,

Mama

retirement

L to R:  Jeff, Mario, Ralph and Jim smoke a nice cigar to celebrate Mario's Retirement last week -- at lunch break

This year, on December 29, Mario and I will celebrate twenty-nine years of marriage.  The only relationship that Mario has sustained longer than this one is with the State of California – for which he has worked 35 years.  Now this relationship is about to change – Mario is retiring.

Saturday was the day to clean out his office, since Monday will officially be his last day at California’s Commission on Peace Officer Standards and Training.   This morning, he texted me to say that everything that belonged to him was now cleaned out of his office space and that he was on his way home.  Knowing that he would be driving into the garage and unloading a car-full of personal items, I scrambled to make space.  In my head, I  knew what he would be bringing home: his painting of a South African winery, an assortment of snacks, a table-top fan, freshly laundered shirts, framed photographs, etc. I still remember him packing up those personal items to take to POST when he re-entered the workplace three-and-a-half years ago.

After we found places to store the personal boxes in our garage, we hugged.

“I don’t know how to feel,” Mario sighed.  “I have so many mixed emotions.”

I nodded.  When others would be jumping up and fist pumping the sky, Mario is entering retirement more than a little conflicted.  On one hand, retiring makes perfect financial sense and provides Mario with the freedom to teach in a police academy or community college.  He can serve as a subject matter expert without a conflict of interest or bias.  Yet, on the other hand, Mario will miss POST.  Changes in life bring all kinds of unanswered questions.  

Saturday morning brought an unlikely one: “What am I going to do now?”

I almost laughed.  Mario does not exactly sit still.  He is purposeful and driven in everything he does. He has worked hard to achieve the level of mastery and expertise that he has now. He has pioneered new things, developed as an employee and as an employer, and learned how to lead during turbulent times. 

When we left for South Africa in 2007, he really thought he was retired for good.  We were blessed enough to have a chance at fulfilling a dream to move to South Africa and work for God, joining a team that supported existing churches all over Africa.  We also joined forces with a local church in Johannesburg that became our church home for seven years. 

Preaching in Mozambique - 2008

When we realized that we were returning to the United States in 2013, Mario was asked to return to POST and serve as a retired annuitant. He appreciated the return, especially in the aftermath of a life change, transitioning from one continent to another; moving from full-time ministry back into his chosen profession of law enforcement.  After some thought, he officially “un-retired” and continued on as if he never left.

Mario with the "Road Warriors" from the TDC Bureau 

For the last eighteen months, Mario has worked as a Bureau Chief for Learning Technology Resources at POST, a job he takes very seriously.  Supervising the bureau that develops and applies technology to law enforcement training, Mario comes home raving about his employees.  Much of his work has been building teams, or supporting existing ones.  Even when he’s working by himself he strives to bring people together –or recognize their talents.  What has made him successful in ministry has also made him successful in the workplace.  It is also what has made him successful as a person. 

LTR celebrates 90,000 on the Learning Portal
L to R:  Jan M., Mario, Catherine, Jan B., Larry, Trish, Rich, and Ron.

 Mario actually  started as a State Park Ranger, straight out of the police academy when he was twenty-two years old. Last Monday he celebrated 35 years of service to the people of the State of California, working 17 years with State Parks and 18 more with POST.

Ranger Rodriguez - After Graduation 1977

 In this climate of political uncertainty, and with a public perception of police being so mixed, leadership is incredibly important.  Mario is an exceptional leader –and I’m not saying this just because I’m his wife. I actually used to work for him, when he was the supervising Ranger of Carnegie SVRA and I was a lowly Park Aid.  I remember feeling safe with him.  His leadership was solid and authoritative, but contained a humility that was extremely comforting. 

Mario's Fist POST Portrait.  Handsome!

To this day, I still see Mario as my boss – my leader. I am an avowed feminist, but there is nothing that makes me feel better than the leadership of a man who knows what he is doing.   Today, when he came home, I looked in his eyes and felt such pride and so much sympathy for his conflicted heart – at the same time.

“Why don’t you lay down?” I answered, after he asked me his question. “Rest first and then later you can sort all this stuff out.” 

I sometimes I say pretty wise things without even meaning to. 

I love you, Babe!  xoxo

The Commission on Peace Officer Standards and Training(POST) leads the nation in Training and Development.  It was established by the Legislature in 1959 to set minimum selection and training standards for California law enforcement. The POST organization, with more than 130 staff members, functions under the direction of an Executive Director appointed by the Commission.  Click here to see their website.  If you look  you will find him as a Bureau Chief -until October 18^th, when he will be removed.  

Alicia

Alicia Robynn 2 days old

Alicia was born 28 years ago, our only girl. She came after three boys, Mario had David and Joe and I had Vince when we married.  Blending our family together was sealed with Alicia’s birth in July of 1988.   

She was born in living color, vibrant from a young age.  Her love of the natural world that either burst with joy and sunshine or raged with discontent.  She jumped into life and devoured it, always drawing a friends to herself.  She was a tomboy who loved to read.  As a result, school and the sports that went with it came naturally. It all went by so fast that I  still wonder where the time with my little daughter went.

I have oodles of pictures of us, in various stages of play and through various ages.  Her smile illuminates the film that captures her.

 She is surrounded by friends, family, love, teams, her array of collections.  They show our girl who rarely settled down for anything!  

Alicia is now a small-business owner and mother of two girls, Harmony and Alannah, that are the joy and fabric of her life.   To see her with them is incredible, the way that she mothers in a no-nonsense style, showing incredible instincts and love for her girls.  I am grateful that I get to help her every Friday.

Malawi 2004

My Fridays are spent driving to Chico, seeing her off, playing with the girls, and celebrating with them, whatever kind of day we decide to make it.  Harmony and Alannah are joy-filled and ready for any adventure that their small town can open up for them.  They remind me so much of their mother at that age that it is frightening.

Chico Downtown Plaza - Last Week

I was raised by a mother who had four daughters, and each of us have the symbiotic relationship with Mom that she had with my Grandma.  Alicia is my only daughter, and we haven’t exactly had the traditional mother-daughter relationship.  There have been misunderstandings, seasons of them.  We always manage to plow through and continue on, probably because both of us have a great deal of determination.

Today, on her birthday, I pray for breakthrough.  I want us to arrive at a place where she understands how much I love her and I understand how much she loves me.  I want the easy connection that she seems to have with her daughters, and that I have with my Mom.  On this day, I want us both to understand that I am me and she is herself and God created us both this way and everything is alright.  This would be the greatest gift I could ever give her.   So today, my prayer is for true communication.

There is a movie called Brainstorm, starring Christopher Walken and Natalie Wood that I thought about today when I thought about Alicia.  In it, a man and wife are going through a painful divorce.  The husband is a scientist who is part of inventing a brain tape-recorder, communication technology that would allow people to feel the same feelings another person  does.  This inventor records his own brainwaves, thinking of his wife, and goes to her.  After giving her the headset, she is able to “feel his heart” for her.  After years of misunderstandings, walls being built, and terrible communication, she sees that her husband genuinely loves her and they reunite.

If only life were that easy.  If only I could make a tape of my brain and hand it to my daughter.  Here I am, here is what I really feel.  Now you can see the depths of my heart -- how much I love you and how genuine my love is. 

Happy Birthday, Alicia.  My words are the closest things to a futuristic brain wave recorder.  I hope that in them you can hear my heart of love for you.  Today I celebrate who you are and all of the many things that are coming alive in your heart.  

Cisneros

“He said that he would love me like a revolution, like a religion.  Abuelita burned the pushcart and sent me here, miles from home, in this town of dust, with one wrinkled witch woman who rubs my belly with jade, and sixteen nosy cousins.”

~from “One Holy Night” by Sandra Cisneros

Sandra Cisneros

photo by Jessica Fuentes

Sandra Cisneros was born on a Monday – December 20, 1954 in Chicago.  Her father, Alfredo Cisneros de Moral was born in Mexico and met his wife, Elvira Cordero Anguiano in America, where they married . Sandra was the third of seven children, the only daughter in the family. She moved frequently during her childhood and visited Mexico often.  Cisneros found a creative outlet in writing, later earning a BA in English from Loyola University of Chicago and an MFA from the prestigious Iowa Writers Workshop in the late 1970's.  Her unique voice, a working-class, Mexican-American woman with artistic sexuality, was different from everyone else’s at Iowa and writer's workshops were often painful.

The experience of celebrating how she was different, not only from other students at Iowa but with any author in print, eventually led to her book, The House on Mango Street, which was published in 1984.  It won the Columbus Foundation's American Book Award in in 1985, and instantly became an American favorite.  Also an accomplished poet, Cisneros published two full-length books of poetry: My Wicked Wicked Ways and Loose Woman.   Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories (my personal favorite) was released in 1991 and Caramelo in 2002.  Her latest work, A House of my Own:Stories From My Life, is a memoir of collected, interlocking essays of  personal stories about family, travels, moving, and the challenges (and delights) of a single woman journeying solo. "So often you have to run away from home and visit other homes first before you can clearly see your own," she told the Los Angeles Times in October of 2015.  

When We Met:  Believe it or not, I just started reading Sandra last winter.  I was at the Sacramento Poetry Center, doing a public reading of one of my short stories, “The Puzzle” when a girl came up to me afterward and remarked how much my story reminded her of The House on Mango Street.  I was nonplussed, and told her I’d never heard of the book. She nearly fell over.  She told me that I had to RUN to buy it and read it.  After that meeting, I vowed to start reading Cisneros and did.  I was moved, on more than one occasion, to tears as I read her well-constructed stories of lives leaning against one another, struggling to find a true identity that s somewhere between Mexico and America.  She has a deep and true voice of a Latina – and she makes me think she is related to me as she tells tells a story.  "You know the one," she says.   "I'm not like the Allport Street girls who stand in doorways and go with men into alleys..." she tells me, and I agree, nodding my head.  "I know, mi amiga, we are not like those girls.  But we have made some bad decisions about love, verdad?" 

Why She’s Good:  Being Latina-American, I can say that there is a piece of myself that lies just below the surface of who I am – and never comes out.  It is too polite.  It has been taught to be subservient.  Sandra gives that piece of myself permission to surface and dance with her as I read.  For a Latina reader, Sandra Cisneros es no apenas escritor, pero ella es mi hermana!  In other words, she expresses my heart in its fullness and makes me feel like I am right there with her.  The moment I started reading Sandra Cisneros I wanted to go hug my Mom.  I wanted to reunite with my Grandma.  I wanted to celebrate being Latina, Latina, Latina - with no apologies!

Plot Variations:  A sister and her loud, noisy brothers take a yearly journey with their parents from Chicago to the "Little Grandfather’s and Awful Grandmother's" house in Mexico City for the summer.  A girl who wants to find significance falls in love with a man who turns out to be a serial killer.  Emiliano Zapata’s girlfriend tells a story of loneliness, understanding, and being constantly abandoned by her lover, who is off “revolutionizing the country.”  A girl living in a poor Chicago suburb seeks out a meaningful life and freedom as she learns to appreciate her neighbors.

Buy One:  While others will try to persuade you to buy The House on Mango Street, I believe that there is greater depth in Woman Hollering Creek, the book that made me howl at the moon and declare Cisneros a sister.  I’m going to recommend Audible for the first time here.  Woman Hollering Creek is actually paired with Loose Woman, a book of amazing poetry, both read by Sandra herself.  You will get to hear the familiar stories in her own voice, and for the way she writes, it is best this way.   If you haven’t used audible yet, now is the time!  It’s awesome! Available here.

Favorite Quote:  "Perhaps all memory is a chance at storytelling and every story brings us closer to revealing ourselves to ourselves."

Trivia:  Cisneros' books have been translated into over a dozen languages, including Spanish, Galician, French, German, Dutch, Italian, Norwegian, Japanese, Chinese, Turkish, Greek, Iranian, Thai, and Serbo-Croatian.

Pain in Motion: Great writers find their voice in deep-seated insecurity or rejection.  Cisneros remembers many childhood moves, which involved changing residences, not only in the USA, but also back to Mexico to be near her paternal grandmother.  She admits that her family’s impermanence affected the way she viewed her life.  “We moved like the tides," Cisneros told Publishers Weekly in 1991.  “From Mexico back to another barrio of Chicago that looked like France after World War II—empty lots and burned-out buildings."  The moving continued for many years. Cisneros noted that her grandmother's Mexican home was the only constant in a series of traumatic upheavals.

Mario

Mario - Northern Kenya 2008

As I tapped my foot impatiently for the right man to come, I held several low-paying, dead-end jobs, including a park-aid for an OHV park where the visitors flirted with me shamelessly.  My boss, a Chuck Norris type, had just the right amount of concern and protection.  “You’re pretty friendly,” he’d say to me when I complained about the unsolicited attention.  “They might think you’re interested.”

Mario about the time I met him - 1987

My boss was a divorced man, older and wiser.  He also ran the place and I was obliged to listen to him.  He gave advice only when I asked him for it, unless he was telling me how to do my job better.  I knew him only a little.  He was a friend of Lisa, one of my mentors,  respected as a leader in his department and worked tirelessly for the State Park Peace Officer’s Association, even though he was a Republican.  Tall, handsome, and muscular, Mario was seen by many women as an extremely eligible bachelor. 

Even in the workplace, women seemed to become softer  around him. I used to tease him about this, and he brushed me off.  I was not one of the swooners. Nine years older than me, Mario was not my type.  I was attracted to younger bad boys, usually Democrat musicians who were between jobs.  Mario was so clean-cut, a definite square -- and my boss.  Nevertheless, we became friends and I trusted and respected him.  I could tell he appreciated me as an employee and the symbiotic relationship worked in our office.  

One day, after a complicated series of events, I sought his advice on a personal issue.  He listened to my story and then offered his advice with humility and sincerity.  I sensed a deep ache in his words, a vulnerability that I had not seen before. 

Walking me out to my car, Mario and I said goodbye –and then we hugged.

As I hugged him, I melted into the firm, stable contours of his body.  I felt heaven open and the earth move.  There were angels singing, accompanied by harp music.  Doves bearing long silver ribbons descended from the sky and draped us in the destiny that was now irrevocable: we were meant for each other.   

That’s how Mario and I began.

Togetherness was inevitable, but entering a future together was another story.  Instead of sailing off into the sunset and living happily ever after, we were immediately navigating a rock-filled, rushing river in a two-person kayak, using nothing but foam paddles.  We eventually figured out that love, no matter how powerful, was not going to be enough to get us through the life we wanted together, so we developed skills together.  Not just how to navigate the river in our kayak, but how to make it out of the rapids without drowning after it crashed on the rocks.  Through the years, we learned how to seek help when we were miserably stuck, find hope in darkness, and press through tragedy.  We learned how to do all of these things with four children – four beautiful, wonderful and forgiving children.  God and our many friends helped us through the places that were miserable and dark.

Mario, through it all, was a fearless leader.  Together we have weathered many unpredictable storms and come out of them still friends.

My husband is unusually strong and likewise tender.  He is a marathon runner who never accepts defeat and works tirelessly.  Above all of this, Mario is a faith-filled man who loves and understands me deeply. He cares more about the inside of people, their hearts and minds, than any external label anyone can place on another human being.  He’s taught me patience, perseverance and humility.  I love him more than ever—with the kind of love that grows.

All of Us- Father's Day 1993

This year, as if to challenge himself even further, Mario was part of  Davis Musical Theater's production of Man of LaMancha.  Taking part in the 50th anniversary production of his father's signature play was a huge step out of his comfort zone, but he loved it.

He also just finished writing a tribute biography for his brother, Stephen.  He asked me to edit the text, but it was so touching and beautiful that I couldn't touch it.  This week we took it to the printers and when it showed up, I got tears in my eyes.   What a genuine labor of love for his family!

Today is Mario’s birthday—and Father’s Day!  On this day Mario will “uncelebrate” – hunker down and do what he loves to do best: relax.  For a man who never stops growing and challenging himself, he understands the need for peace and rest!  I can plan a party for him and invite our friends and family – fill the house with celebration and laughter, but that would be for me, not him.

Sometimes I remember the day after the hug – the day when Mario confronted me and asked me what happened.

“I’ve never had a hug like that before.  What did you do?”

I smiled, shyly (I am not shy).  I wanted to tell him that I loved him, that I loved who he was inside and out.  I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t like all the other girls.  I was designed for him as he was for me.  Instead, I just said, “I don’t know.”

He didn’t know what to say, but he looked at me suspiciously.  As a cop, he might have thought that I could be hiding something.  I swear I’m not hiding anything, babe –but feel free to search me!

I love you, Mario.  Happy Father’s Day and Happy Birthday.  How did I ever get so lucky?

US!  

words

The Alleys of Khan el Khalili

I remember the day I almost met Naguib Mahfouz.  I was a mess, cramping with excitement.  I had admired his writing, especially Midaq Alley, a book that both enchanted and horrified me.  On our first trip to Cairo, I begged Mario to take me to Khan el-Khalili, the Islamic marketplace that Mahfouz haunted, writing in coffee-houses with a pen and paper, drinking coffee like he was ordinary.  I knew he breathed atoms there; perhaps I could breathe the same ones.  I wanted to understand the hold that his words had on me. 

“Do you want me to take you to his coffee house?” Our eavesdropping taxi driver spoke perfect English, and I was surprised. “He should still be there.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, turning my attention toward him.  “Do you know him?”  I suddenly felt naked and exposed.  I sounded like some literary groupie, but Mario laughed. 

“This is perfect.  You know where he has coffee?”

The driver looked at his watch.  “If we hurry we can make it before one o’clock.  He goes home for lunch.”

We made it to the bazaar in record speed and parked.  I was shaking.  I was suddenly aware of how western I was.  My hair hung, black and uncovered, all the way to my shoulders.  My white skirt, in proper missionary fashion, covered my knees, but not my ankles.  

I followed our driver through the narrow alleys, passing hanging chandeliers and brass candlesticks to a doorway with an ornate carved entrance.  As soon as we stepped inside, an oil painting of Mahfouz greeted us; his books lined the walls.  Here, Mahfouz penned the entire history of modern Egypt in a series of books. 

My knees shook; I held Mario’s hand too tightly.

Naguib Mahfouz's nook at his coffee shop, Khan Khalili

The taxi driver took it upon himself to speak to the maître D, a man in a dishdasha and fez.  He looked over at me as our driver explained what an insane fan I was, and sized me up.  

Then. Turning to our taxi driver, he shook his head slowly and whispered something.  I knew I had been rejected.  Perhaps the master liked to write undisturbed- after all, I did.

Our driver returned to us with a sad look on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, in a low voice.  “But he died last year.”

The moment makes me laugh now.  What was I thinking? I was going to meet a writer, a fellow author who wrote about his corner of the world.  What would I have said?  What would I have asked him?  

The truth is, it didn’t matter.  I loved the WORDS that Mahfouz gave me; I loved them, ate them, digested them.  They became part of me and I adored him for that.

Like all readers, I have the propensity to write.  I love words and find God in the detail of them.  Whispers of civilizations, friends I will never meet, cultures I will become temporarily attached to, are all in the safe pages of a book that I can buy and own and curl up with somewhere.

Michael Spurgeon, Josh Weil, Christian Keifer,
and Bich Minh Nguyen after the Friday Evening Reading

This year, I heard that Luis Urrea was coming to Summer Words, American River College’s event for writers and readers.  Summer Words is the brain child of two creative writing professors at ARC – Christian Keifer and Michael Spurgeon.  Both authors themselves, Spurgeon and Keifer are master networkers, and model the arts of researching, developing projects, and editing with fellow writers for their students. 

I had managed to power through ARC and graduate with an AAT without taking either one of these professors.  This was not purposeful, but as I wrapped up my time at ARC, it was one of my chief regrets. Going to the Summer Words conference meant so much to me.  I applied for a scholarship to Summer Words and was granted one, graciously, by the beautiful (and generous) English Department at ARC.

 Urrea is a Latino author and poet who somehow brings issues of identity—especially Latino identity—to the fore in order for us to realize similarities in our human condition.  His blunt expression of what is going on along the Mexican border in The Devil’s Highway earned him a Pulitzer nomination.  His newest collection of stories, The Water Museum earned him a Pen/Faulkner nomination.  NPR called him a “literary badass”, which makes me laugh.

Then. My knees started shaking when I thought about it.  Not only was Urrea coming, but I might possibly get to meet him.  Other notable authors were on the schedule, including those two writing professors who I had managed to elude in my rigorous schedule at ARC.

 I chastised myself.  Hadn’t I gotten over this starry admiration of fellow writers?  Hadn’t I realized (by the ripe age of 53) that we are all writers, seeking to connect with readers?  We were all seeking to impart secrets from the corners of our hearts to a readership.  We writers seek the same thing: connection with our readers.  Some of us have made it into that fragile thing we call notoriety; others have not.

Joshua Mohr explains "Plaracterization"
 to our full classroom.

Attending the conference was amazing.  Summer Words covered a broad range of topics, including “Morality in Fiction” “Writing from Your Gut” “Plaracterization: The Kiss between Plot and Character” and “The Organic Outline.”  And there I was, in the center of it all, with words swirling around me like spun sugar.  The presenters were amazing (three of whom signed their books and gave me advice); some were ARC professors. 

By the time Urrea showed up (on Saturday) I was busy having a ball.  I saw him in the hallway and had the shaky knee thing again, but I tried to ignore it.  

His keynote address on Saturday night reminded me why I needed to read him more. Writing about the USA and Mexican border is one thing; writing about the border in our identity is another.  These subjects are not light, they are necessary.  We don’t prohibit them in our country –this is the 21st century and we combine intellectual and cultural influences in everything we call Literary Fiction.  BUT what he is writing is unusual.  It is time-capsule stuff that we deem important and part of our country's identity.  “There is no ‘us’ and ‘them,’” he told us, solemnly.  “There is only us.”

Summer Words 2016 presenters

I knew there was a scheduled Q and A on Sunday morning.  The night before I wondered. If I were to ask one question -what would it be? It was then that I realized I would ask the same question of Naguib Mahfouz.  It is the same question that I would ask any writer: how can I be better?  What is it about the craft of writing that you can impart to me?  I knew I would be “Shaky Knee Janet” on Sunday morning during Q and A, so I wrote the question down on my program.

I asked it, poised and ready to hear the answer.  Urrea raised his eyebrows and casually leaned against the wall as he answered.  “I would tell you that if you’re not going to fill your pen with love, don’t even bother picking it up.”

I began to weep. The answer was the cherry on top of the whole conference.

That’s why I loved Mahfouz.  That’s why I love Austen, Faulkner, Joyce, Urrea, Burroughs, Tan, Cisneroz, O’Brien, Lahiri, McBride, Morrison, Colson, Kingsolver, and Dickens.  Not only do they tell a story well, they love me and show me how they see things.  They respect that I have bought their book and that I want to be taken away.  I want to be loved and shown the corners of the heart…and they do it.

Time and again, they do it.

At the end of the conference, I managed to have Urrea sign the  stack of books he had written that I brought from home.  I even gave him an expired Zimbabwean dollar "A present from another border," I told him.  He was genuinely appreciative.  

Me and the "literary badass"

I managed to hold it together long enough to take my picture with Urrea, which was cool.  I am grateful that he didn't see me as a Kathy Bates kind of fan, which I really am not.  I know that one day I will get over my thing with meeting my literary heroes.  

One day.

resolve

This year -  2016 – began ten days ago.  Do you have any resolutions?

According to the US Bureau of statistics, 45% of all adults will decide to make 2016 a better year by changing one habit.  They RESOLVE to do ONE THING differently in the New Year.  Only 10% will keep these resolutions.  Most people, in discouraged frustration, will abandon their resolve by March.  More than half of all people in the United States do not make New Year’s resolutions because they cannot face this familiar pattern again.  They resolve not to make New Year’s resolutions, citing that they either don’t trust themselves or they don’t have time to change.

2016 promises to be fresh and new and filled with promise.  On the evening of December 31^st, Mario and I arrived in Kansas City, happy to see David and Lennae, Joe and Ariel and their families.  As the New Year rang out, I raised a glass of Fanta Zero and said “Cheers” to 2016.  I kissed the love of my life and thanked God that I had actually fulfilled my New Year’s Resolution for 2015.

I am the most blessed woman I know. 

I say this with humility.  I am not that girl with a perfect, easy life.  I have only recently decided to take my life back. I used to be part of that discouraged, frustrated group when it came to New Year’s resolutions.  Mine had their own private graveyard, hidden in the dark recesses of my soul.  I tried not to be disappointed with myself, but I hated the fact that I couldn’t stick to any fitness, academic, or personal goals. 

Then, two and a half years ago, I got sober and stopped eating compulsively.  My life changed. 

Last year I made a New Year’s resolution to take a few classes at my local community college.  I took a deep breath, enrolled in school and started attending classes at 52 years of age.  I was swept up in a passion and love for it.  I learned how to write academic papers, read closely and compete academically.  As I type this, I am four classes shy of an AA degree – one that I plan to achieve by the end of May. 

Bam!

I say all of this to say this next thing:  If I can do it, YOU can do it.

You can make a New Year’s Resolution and fulfill it – especially if you really want to.  All you have to do is want to. 

The truth is, I am extremely ordinary and am living proof that if I can stop my compulsive patterns anyone can. I ran a marathon just before I turned forty – and my friends started running after they saw I did.  “Shoot, if you can do it, I figured I could!” They told me – and that made me laugh. 

You know what the marathon taught me?  All I had to do was keep running.  If you can run in pain, you can finish the race.  If you can run while others start dropping out like flies, you can cross that finish line. 

Don’t fall for the deception that resolutions are all balderdash.  They give us a chance to take stock of our lives and see what needs to change.  Give yourself permission to achieve; don't live with an assortment of dead excuses of why you can’t be the person you always wanted to be.   Don’t let fear, doubt, excuses, distractions and addictions dictate who you are.

Live 2016. 

Live it and be victorious.

secrets

In that day there will be inscribed on the bells of the horses, "HOLY TO THE LORD " Zech. 14:20

Breathe deeply. 

You have now prepared for Christmas and are now ready to receive, and participate in, the celebration of it.  Christmas is not only an event, it is the spirit of generosity and deep, abiding joy. 

No matter where you are in the world, Christmas is a special time.  I have been in the Dubai airport in United Arab Emirates and enjoyed the decorative red and gold lights whispering of the coming Savior. There are beautiful surprises that are hidden our traditions; they explain this holiday’s meaning.  Even the pagan celebrations involve an element of a hidden treasure inside of an obvious gift – but we Christians hold the truth.  

It is an amazing privilege entrusted to us - to be bearers of so great a  secret.  

I will keep you and will make you to be a covenant for the people and a light for the Gentiles,
Isaiah 42:6

All year long we can whisper of it, but Christmas is the time we can sing it out loud.

He is here, He is here…

The Messiah that we have been waiting for has arrived!  He was promised from the beginning of time and He is the perfect plan of God.  Jesus was born because everyone needed a Savior from our condition of sin.  

Here’s the secret: He is the perfect representation of God.  God invested himself into us, into mankind.

Because of Christ Jesus, the Messiah, we are reconciled to God, our heavenly Father.  He was born in lowly and humble circumstances, and gave us an example of how we should live.  No matter how much wealth we can accumulate it is nothing compared to heavenly glory, which is what He left to become incarnate. 

Love. Humility. Adoration. Joy.

The life we are now living is lit up by a Redeemer who came to us to fulfill a promise.  All other gifts are nothing in comparison to this one; all other joy is dependent on this. 

Merry Christmas!!

Stephen

Stephen Rodriguez - NYC 2006

When you love someone, really love someone, every piece of them is precious and important.  You begin to examine each piece and love it as much as the total person – you might even reason that these pieces have chiseled this person into the one who you love.

When I met Mario he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.  What made him especially breathtaking was that he didn’t know it.  Later, when we became friends, I discovered he was among those who are gorgeous now, but grew up homely. 

“I used to have ears that stuck out like this,” he told me, pushing his lobes straight out.  “I was skinny and scared and wouldn’t talk to anyone.”  It was hard for me to believe that this confident (and buff) man could ever be this way.  Then he’d cap off the story by saying, “My brother Stephen was the outgoing one.  He was the one everyone noticed.”

I had never met Stephen.  Mario and I have now been married for twenty-seven years and I have never met Stephen.  I, who actively sought to know every piece of Mario -the one who dug through his old journals, his old pictures, his high school yearbooks- had never met his older brother.

Stephen (standing)
Anthony and Mario
Not long after Chev left for New York

Stephen, Mario and Anthony were born (in that order) to Angelo and Cynthia Rodriguez, one right after the other.  By the time Anthony was two, Angelo decided enough was enough with the nine-to-five jobs and pursued his career as a stage actor.  He was successful enough to live in New York City and travel the world.  While he lived his dream (and changed his name to Chev Rogers), he met Alice, his soul-mate.  

Cynthia remained in California and began the task of raising three boys on her own.  After meeting a man named Al Warias at her work, Cynthia decided to remarry in 1964; Al became the German step-father who came in and “whipped the boys into shape” as Mario told me. 

It didn’t work for the eldest son, Stephen.

Stephen had a will of iron and refused to be disciplined.  Even worse, nothing seemed to motivate Stephen to play by the rules.  He was always the kid jumping the fence, taking the illegal shortcuts, getting in fights, and cutting school.

Learning about Stephen was like watching a documentary.  I had only stories, told to me by Cynthia, Mario, and Anthony.  I had pictures, but they weren’t Stephen.  I longed to hear his side of the story.  I longed to meet him and see the man who was the missing piece of my husband’s puzzle.  In truth, there was also another something: the more I knew of Stephen, the more he reminded me of myself. 

The most memorable and longest-lasting reminder of Stephen is the scars on Mario’s hands and face from being burned by a floor grate.  On impulse, Stephen had pushed a nine-year-old Mario against a floor heater and held him down, searing the mesh into his skin.  It was Cynthia who heard the scuffle – then smelled the flesh burning.  She came running and literally pulled Stephen off Mario.  Cynthia told me the story of her horror – not about the fight, but that Stephen showed no remorse.  He didn’t understand why his brother was “being such a baby”.  It took two weeks for Mario's wounds to heal - the scars are still there.

The more Al and Cynthia tried to rein Stephen in, the more he rebelled.  In an effort to recruit Mario over to his side, Stephen invited him to go and “burgle the school” one night.  Stephen’s sense of excitement matched Mario’s complete fear. 

“I told him no,” Mario said.  “I asked him not to go.  I told him he’d get caught – but he went anyway.”

The next morning, Al woke Mario up and told him that Stephen had been arrested and was in Juvenile Hall.  In an attempt at tough love, Al left him in there for two days.  Mario and Anthony were horrified and worried; after all, Stephen was their brother.

After this, Stephen was sent to live with Chev and Alice in New York.  Two years later, Stephen left them to live with a family in Portugal.  As the boys grew, so did the ocean of separation between them.  By the time I came along, it was all stories.  Memories.  Old pictures. 

Chev (in costume), Stephen and Alice 1968

Stephen was the missing puzzle piece. 

Fast forward several years ahead.  As Chev lay dying in a VA hospital just outside of New York City, he reminded Alice that he had THREE sons, not just two; he charged Anthony, the detective, to find Stephen.  Chev died a few days later.  

After thorough searching, Anthony found Stephen in the Midwest.  He was divorced, but had two daughters.  He seemed glad to be found and agreed to come and meet Mario and Anthony – at Alice’s apartment in New York City. 

“I’m coming with you,” I told Mario, completely determined to meet this enigmatic part of the family. 

Mario’s face told me another story: “It’s just us, babe,” he said.  “It’s a time for us to reconnect as brothers.”

He flew to NYC to meet up with his brothers to discuss Chev, their Mom, the family... and where Stephen has been for the last thirty years.  

Anthony, Mario and Stephen
New York City, 2006

Mario called me from Alice’s apartment and I became green with envy the moment he told me that Stephen brought his daughter, Anita.

“I thought you said it was a time for just you brothers!”

“Babe…”

“Why does she get to be there and not me?”

Mario took a deep breath.  “She says she came because she doesn’t know her father.  She wants to know him, and this is the only way she could do it.”  My envy dissolved into sympathy.  The same could be said for me, but Stephen was not my father.  How much longing did she have in her own heart to know him?

“You won’t believe this,” Mario told me.  “She looks just like my mom.” 

In a few minutes, Anita’s picture was in my inbox – and she was glowing with the same kind of translucent blonde beauty that Cynthia used to have.  Later, she and Alice called me.

Alice with Anita
(who bears a striking resemblance to Cynthia, her grandmother)

A few months after Chev’s death, Stephen “went underground” again.  Our contact with him became less and less, mainly facebook messaging.  Once, when I posted a picture of a young Mario sitting on a split-rail fence, I captioned it: “Mario 1964.  Just two years after Janet was born.”

Stephen commented: “Hey Mario.  I recognize that fence.  Who is Janet.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It was Anita who inboxed me last week, congratulating me on the birth of Harvey, our newest grandson.  She also informed us that Stephen had just gone through a multiple bypass surgery on his heart and his kidneys were failing.  Things did not look good, but she was hopeful that her father would get better.

Yesterday morning, Anita’s husband, John, called Mario to tell him that Stephen had died.  Anita was too broken to come to the phone.  It was a terrible feeling to lose Stephen.  My first thought was that I would never meet him.

Alice and (our daughter) Alicia cried upon hearing the news.  They had a connection with him that I never did – for that I was envious.  Shirley called from vacation in China; we reconnected with nieces and nephews on Mario’s side of the family.  Who were we?  How can we grieve as a family?

Stephen was a private person and didn’t want a memorial service.  Because of this, we are left to grieve in a disjointed and separate fashion; much like we related to Stephen. 

My brother-in-law was an enigmatic man who I knew felt misunderstood by his family.  I loved him for helping making Mario who he is today; but any more than that I did not know him. 

For this I grieve; for him I grieve.  

Stephen and Mario on the split rail fence
1956