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.

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.

ninth

In “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, our TRUE LOVE gives us live gifts from days one through four for new life.  On day five, our TRUE LOVE seals it with a sign of covenant – FIVE GOLD RINGS.  From day six until the day twelve, our TRUE LOVE sends a series of action gifts.   

On the NINTH DAY of Christmas, my TRUE LOVE gave to me…NINE LADIES DANCING!

There is nothing – and I mean nothing- that livens up a party more than dancing.  Music, movement, and joy signifies celebration!  Tradition holds that NINE LADIES DANCING symbolizes the nine FRUITS OF THE HOLY SPIRIT:

 “…the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.”  (Galatians 5:22,23)

Take a look at that!  The fruit of the Holy Spirit is what comes out of us – if God is alive in us!

I used to see the FRUITS OF THE SPIRIT as a list: “This is what I need to have in order for me to be a good Christian girl.”  I strived for years to have love (which was kind of easy, until I came across someone I didn't like at all…), joy (also easy - if I was in a good mood), peace (almost impossible as a mother of 4 children), patience (I’d have more if everyone else would move their ass), kindness (telemarketers didn’t count, I had permission to be horrid to them), goodness (*cricket, cricket*), faithfulness (I was pretty good with that one…until I wasn't), gentleness (I have never been great at “gentle”), and self control (with my compulsive nature, I never had much self-control). 

After years of striving, I decided maybe it was a good idea to stay indoors and keep away from people…  I was severely deficient.

There is a scene in Cinderella (the Disney cartoon I’m supposed to hate as a feminist) when the poor step daughter is stripped of the chance to go to the ball and meet the handsome prince.  Cinderella’s step-sisters tear at her jewelry and clothes until she is standing in rags, unable to be seen in public.  As she has a good, hysterical cry in the garden, her fairy godmother comes along, waves her magic wand and clothes Cinderella in a gown, transforms an ordinary pumpkin and mice into a coach and horses and sends her off to the ball. 

I’ve always loved that part of the story.  After all, Cinderella deserved to go to the ball and her awful step-sisters didn’t.  At the ball, Cinderella dances with the handsome Prince Charming and they fall in love on the dance floor.

BAM!

Of course, it’s a weak comparison – but it reminds me of the power of Holy Spirit transformation.  Once I surrendered to God, I admitted that my own efforts weren’t good enough (Eph. 2:1-5) and only Jesus could make it possible for me to be with Him.  Instead of a magic wand, Jesus held the real power of transformation.  When someone surrenders their life to Jesus, they are given a living gift – God’s Holy Spirit, alive inside of them.  Out of that life comes LOVE, JOY, PEACE, PATIENCE, KINDNESS, GOODNESS, FAITHFULNESS, GENTLENESS and SELF-CONTROL ! 

Just like that, any ragamuffin can be outfitted to go to the ball. 

Receiving the life of the Holy Spirit isn’t the result of our lame efforts.  It doesn’t reflect any super-Christian abilities or intelligent choices.  It is the result of an exchanged heart – here is my old, broken one; thank you for Your perfect, beautiful one!  This exchange is made possible by our benevolent lover, who accepts our surrender and gives us His Spirit.  It is the Holy Spirit alive inside of us that bears fruit – the fruits of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control. 

 God’s One and Only Holy Spirit lives inside of us and comes out – brightening the world as a result.  In truth, our TRUE LOVE wants to bring us joy so much that He includes the party!

Let’s celebrate with those NINE LADIES DANCING!  As somber as some try to make it, the Christian life is alive and there are many opportunities to dance!  The best part is, we don’t have to be home by midnight! 

Thank you, Jesus!

Lennae

I still remember the day that David, our oldest son, met his wife-to-be.  I was upstairs on the phone and Mario was downstairs, and we were listening as he was telling us about a date he had with a pretty young lady named Lennae. 

I was standing up, making the bed and I rolled my eyes.  David, an astrophysicist computer geek, had the brains of a genius, and the worst luck with women.  His last two girlfriends had drug him to hell and back and I was not expecting him to date again until he had recovered.  His story, made me stand straight up and listen.

“We got into the car and I had Blue Oyster Cult, ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ on, and she said ‘I don’t know about you, but I could use more cowbell.’”

I held the phone in my numb hand and imagined a movie camera zooming in on my face.  I thought, “Oh, no...he’s going to marry this girl.”

He did.

For those of you that don’t follow Saturday Night live religiously (like the Rodriguez family), Lennae was referring to a “Behind the Music” sketch, where the male cast re-enact the infamous taping of the rock classic, directed by a superstar producer, played by Christopher Walken.   Will Farrell imitates a 70’s stereotype rocker, playing a cowbell through the song, and messing up the taping.  The spoof had Mario and I in stitches.  Later, when we talked about it with the kids, it brought comic relief to tense times.  

Lennae knowing the sketch was one thing, but she said a line that we used to say to each other as a private Rodriguez joke – when something was ridiculous or stupid.  If a cheerleading squad did a “cheer dance with spirit fingers at the end”.  Yeah, that was good, but I could have used a little more cowbell....

Mario went before me to meet her (David and Lennae lived in the Kansas City area) and came home with pages of notes about the visit.  Mario loves taking notes about things.

“She’s been through a lot,” he said.  “Her parents are divorced and she seems like she became an adult very quickly.  She used to dance – swing dance.  But since David doesn’t dance she doesn’t dance anymore.  She loves animals and rescued two that are with them now.”  Here he looked up and smiled.  “You have to hear this story...”

He told me the story that melted my heart for her: Lennae used to live in an apartment building that was pretty small; a downstairs unit that had a door facing another tenant.  The other tenant was a dodgy individual and kept a dog chained up by the front door.  The chain was long enough to reach his food bowl and let him poop in the bushes, but short enough for the dog to have no room at all to live freely.  He was put there, mainly to guard the entrance and was pretty mean and ferocious.  At first Lennae was scared of him, since she had to pass there just to get to her door, but she soon realized that this dog had no play, no company and no love.  She began to give him attention, and when she came home, he would shake with joy in seeing her.  She once asked the owner if she could take him for a walk or play with him, but he denied her, saying the dog didn’t need anything like that.  On the day she moved out of the apartment, Lennae turned in her keys to the manager, unhooked the dog, and took him to her new home.  He was one of the most loved animals in the world there. 

“So,” I said, trying to get a picture of her.  “Is she a Cathy or is she a Janet?”  This question, for Mario was a no-win.  Cathy is Mario’s ex-wife, the mother of David and Joe.  She is a blonde, blue-eyed “girl-next-door” type that is peaceful and loving and soft.  Janet (me) is a raven-haired opinionated, passionate woman filled with fire...and repentance when I have to remove my rather large foot from my even larger mouth.  Which was Lennae?

“She is a...” he thought, lookining up in the air and scratching his chin.  “She’s a Lennae.”

Crap.  Now I had no idea what to expect.

I met her two days before the wedding, where I introduced myself and went into my nervous story-telling thing that I do in order to explain myself.  She had the greenest eyes, like our son, Vince.  It was hard not to be mesmerized by them.  Her skin was a perfect peaches and cream and she was statuesque and lovely.  She also was very affectionate with David, and he with her.  I was a little uncomfortable around the two of them, but smiled at Vince and Alicia about the whole thing. (Another Rodriguez joke? Smiling and plugging your nose around open displays of affection...) 

When you are a “step-mother” at a wedding, things don’t work out as smoothly as you would think they do.  I prepared myself for the awkwardness, but was very honored that David and Lennae asked me to be part of the first row, with Mario and Cathy by my side.  The wedding was gorgeous, and Lennae was dressed in a silk, strapless gown that showed off the loveliest shoulders since Princess Di...and her tattoo on her back. 

The reception was in a stunning Victorian house, and we gave David and Lennae a copper cowbell that was engraved “I got a fever! And the only prescription is more cowbell!”  It was their favorite gift. 

It turns out Lennae was nervous about the day because she loved each and every member of her family, but they did not like each other and had a very hard time being in the same room with one another.  She had just lost her beloved grandmother, a peacemaker and a joy to her heart.  Looking back, I think Lennae was surprised that Cathy and I loved each other the way we did.  It was easy to – Cathy is a Cathy. 

They honeymooned in the wine country of California, where they graciously added us to their stay for two days.  I played a video of David and Joe singing “Kiss the Girl” to the Little Mermaid – as I promised him I would when he was ten years old and woke the whole house up with a slumber party.  Our cool, controlled computer genius hid red-faced, under the kitchen table, humiliated beyond belief as Lennae laughed her head off and held her arms open to him.  The memory is unforgettable. 

We vacationed in Kansas City with them as a family, where all of our techno-savvy kids played x-box together (we didn’t ever allow it in our house, and all of our kids had become pros).  Lennae was pregnant and unable to keep food down, sometimes even water, and I worried about her.  Even though she was in her last trimester, she never had the “morning sickness” pass, and the sickness lasted all day.  I was very worried about her and said so as we left. 

“Don’t worry,” she said.  “David takes good care of me.”  He did.  It was nice to see the marriage working so well, although they said they never fought.  I saw this as a danger sign.  I didn’t know that the word “fight” had the worst connotations for both of them. 

Laila came one day and changed our lives for good.  We were now grandparents.  The pictures that they sent us were of the birthing tub, a method of drug-free birthing that Lennae had chosen to do.  After looking at them, I felt the same awkwardness that I had felt seeing the open displays of affection that David and Lennae had with each other.  She and David were beautiful, almost sensual in the tub as Lennae gave birth to her first child.  Her face was that of a Raphael painting, not the contorted red devil face one usually associates with childbirth.

Laila Willow was perfect, with the same green eyes as her mother.  The first time she called me “Abuela” I thought I would die for joy.  It was like being fourteen and the popular cute boy says “hi” to you and says your name...but better.

Soon after Laila came Lilliana Grace, then Lauren Caroline.  All with the tub, all without pain meds.  I secretly called Lennae “Mother Earth”, mainly because of the way she championed the birthing process and breast feeding. 

Last Christmas she hosted all of us (except Vince, who couldn’t make it) and we all played Quelf and wii and drank Irish car bombs...and laughed our heads off.  We had tender, gorgeous heart-to-hearts and she showed me her pictures of each birth.  And when I got on the plane I cried....

In my mind’s eye, she is surrounded by confetti and children.  I think she is literally one of the most agreeable people I have ever met, and in a strange way, she has taught me to accept people in my life regardless of their beliefs or convictions.  She is, without a doubt, the best person in the world for my step-son – our son- David...and I would have never ever chosen her if it were up to me. 

For that reason, she is a gift and a blessing to me and to us.  Today is her birthday.  Happy Birthday, honey.   You are a delight and joy and everyone’s daughter-in-law should be like you.

Not like Cathy; not like Janet...but a Lennae.  Their own person.  

Because of copyright, it is very hard to find a good copy of the video of the comedy sketch we are talking about in this post. This a crude one from youtbe. Click here to see it.