Urban Mama

Being Bullied is No Joke

It seems like every celebrity has been doing it recently, so what do I have to lose? I too will admit that I was bullied. Repeatedly. In elementary school and middle school.

It's still painful to recall, even though I'm more than 25 years removed from the worst of it. And I don't mean the throwaway taunts of classmates and so-called friends who thought they were just helping me out by pointing out all of my inadequacies (like that I was fat, ugly, hairy, boring, un-likable in either a platonic or romantic way). I'm talking about being actually afraid of a particular student who took any and every opportunity he had to belittle me, intimidate me, ridicule me, threaten me even when he thought I had tattled on him (when in fact I hadn't and didn't even know he and a group of other guys were smoking a joint on school property until he told me).

It's turning my stomach just to think of him, and yet I can't remember his name. I remember the names of some of his friends, a few of whom were actually really cool guys who weren't mean to me but weren't necessarily my friends either, just classmates who occasionally deemed me worthy of conversation, because I liked Led Zeppelin and the Who.

This guy wasn't good looking or particularly clever. He looked a bit like a junior-high version of Nelson from "The Simpsons." He was not athletic and had several extra pounds to lose, but somehow being a pudgy guy was ok, whereas being an overweight girl was inexcusable. He made me emotionally cower and wonder what was so horrible about me that he had to lash out again and again. 

I remember praying. Not for revenge but for him, that God would grant him peace and kindness and understanding. Sometimes I prayed he wouldn't notice me, that I could be invisible instead of my huge and offensive self that somehow managed to piss him off without so much as a word in his direction. To tell you that I internalized a lot of his jabs and jokes is to put things mildly. A small, irrepressible part of me really believed I was unworthy -- not of something particular but of everything.

Despite my maturity, despite my faith and my friends from church, this bully got to me again and again for three years.

He probably doesn't remember.

I don't wish him ill. I hope he changed and reinvented himself and went to college, met a lovely woman, built a family with her. But I do hope that one day when his children experience their first inevitable encounter with a bullying classmate that he'll feel remorse and regret -- not about me in particular, but about his cruelty in general -- the kind that cuts so deep a little girl felt unworthy of anything but that cruelty in his presence.

Remembering My Mother

Three years ago today was the worst day of my life. My mother died. I wasn't there, so I'll never know first-hand what it was like to see her pass into eternity, and part of me feels cheated that I wasn't present and another part of me feels fortunate that she was alive in my last memory of her.

As I said on her birthday, losing your mother isn't something you get over -- ever. It's not a sadness that dulls with time. The sadness is always there -- it's just a matter of degrees. Today was difficult. I felt on the verge of tears so many times and finally just let them fall while talking to Mami's very best friend Cacha -- a friend she literally knew her entire life, because Mami's mother and Cacha's had met and befriended each other before they had children.

Cacha told me, once again, that Mami was special. That even as a teenager she was so popular every body wanted to be her friend or just plain be her. She was the proverbial life of the party -- the girl all the young private-school boys wanted to dance with -- just once. When my mother eloped with my father -- a medical student who was below her social station -- her friends weren't scandalized, they thought it was fitting for a young woman as fiery as my mother.

My mother wasn't rich or pioneering or particularly intellectual. She didn't quote poetry or perform great works of charity. She rarely wrote much, except for the occasional letter. She never quite got the hang of budgeting or housekeeping or of loving without criticism. She had backward double standards about what was "men's work" and what was "women's work," and she thought married women should consider every other woman in the world a potential threat to her marriage. She thought I should greet my husband with full makeup and a smile, not yoga pants and a frazzled look of relief.

But... she was an amazing woman all the same. She had this fiery spirit that could not be contained. She had a full smile that could be fake to those she didn't care for (and I would be lying if I said she loved everyone she met, because she didn't), but when it was genuine her smile glowed. She had this loud, bordering-on-cackle laugh, and a terrible singing voice that she would belt out whenever she damn pleased. She didn't love to cook but could make a mean picadillo, lasagna, and a bunch of typical Colombian dishes that reminded her of home.

And you know that super sappy Lee Ann Womack song, "I Hope You Dance"? My mother danced. She danced plenty -- whenever she got the chance.

So I have no physical inheritance to speak of, but I had a mother who danced and made people notice and remember and miss her and want to be her friend for 60+ years. She had a first boyfriend who called her on her very last birthday and sang on her voicemail. She wasn't perfect, but there's no such thing.

She was so, so beautiful, flaws and all, and I hope that I can live the kind of life that's worthy of being her daughter.

To My Mother On Her 70th Birthday

My mother would have been 70 today. She loved her birthday. She was the kind of woman you didn't dare give a kitchen appliance or home accessory to as a gift. And you never, ever forgot her birthday, because she wasn't quick to forgive that sort of slight, no matter how unintentional.

Mami died three years ago this Oct. 2 -- just 10 days after her 67th birthday. I can't help but think of what she would think of these past three years. She would've been pleased to know my husband and I finally made it to Europe together for our 10th anniversary. She would've been thrilled to become an Abuela for the 9th time in June. She would've been especially impressed that my sister did Weight Watchers so successfully she got back to her high-school weight (me, not so much). Her grandchildren continue to impress all of us with their clever, sweet, ambitious personalities. She would've adored my daughter, who is just like her -- fiery and petite, beautiful and opinionated.

I miss her every day. Sometimes, out of nowhere, the ache of losing her will overwhelm me. It can be something as silly as hearing Sofia Vergara's Colombian accent on "Modern Family" or something as heartbreaking as seeing how much my mother-in-law delights in my kids. Whatever the unsuspected trigger, I will immediately feel sad and the tears come before I even have a moment to process the grief. When Mami's best friend told me two days ago that she was moving back to Colombia now that her three best friends are gone (Mami to cancer, another to an Alzheimer's nursing home, and the third to a new relationship complete with young children), I wept. 

But today I hope not to focus on the sadness. I want to celebrate Mami. I am once again wearing dangly earrings in her honor. I put on lipstick and blush for no reason whatsoever. I went to Nordstrom and bought a new lipstick called Peony, because she loved flowers and makeup. I will dance with my children. I will call my siblings, as it was her greatest wish that we remain as close as siblings can be when they're scattered across three states. 

And I will cry. Because it hurts, it hurts, it hurts to be motherless.

I leave you with a video of one of Mami's favorite songs, the folkloric "La Pollera Colora"

 

 

 

Grief Never Ends

On the plane-ride to London, I read the book "The Sky Is Everywhere" by Jandy Nelson on my Kindle. It was one of those impulse purchases courtesy of Amazon's recommendations. I couldn't stop reading, even after the husband start snoozing. The protagonist Lennie aka John Lennon to one of the most irresistible boys in YA literature (is there any other kind?) is grieving the sudden death of her talented, charismatic, beautiful older sister (again, I say from personal experience as an adoring baby sister, is there any other kind?). She constantly writes notes, poems, memorized conversations, confessions, and everything in between to Bailey on walls, scraps of paper, furniture, candy wrappers, anything she can mark on -- and then she throws them to the wind or hides them, leaving them behind for the earth to swallow up.

Toward the end of the novel, Lennie has a pivotal revelation:

"Grief is forever. It doesn't go away; it becomes part of you, step for step, breath for breath. I will never stop grieving Bailey because I will never stop loving her. That's just how it is. Grief and love are conjoined, you don't get one without the other. All I can do is love her, and love the world, emulate her by living with daring and spirit and joy."

Reading those words, I cried (which I do with alarming frequency while reading YA books). I felt like Jandy Nelson had written them for me, just as Len wrote just for Bailey. I have re-read that line so many times, my Kindle automatically opens to it any time I click on the title. That's exactly how grief feels. It never ends.

I was reminded of this fact yesterday when I found an old journal Mami received in 2003 at a cancer awareness event attended by the late Colombian singer and breast-cancer advocate Soraya (who died in May, 2006). Mami only wrote in it for three days, so only two pages were filled. It was late October, and she had just undergone her first cycle of chemotherapy via her port; she was exhausted. Mami was nervous, she kept repeating, but she was going to put her health in God's hands. She wrote about being excited to have Thanksgiving at my sister's new house. I had just called her with our travel arrangements.

There was nothing particularly emotional in her prose, but as I read it on the DC Metro on my way to a "Rise of the Planet of the Apes" screening, I began to cry again. Two young Mormon missionaries kept sneaking glances at me, probably wondering if I needed prayer (I probably would've welcomed it). I recovered only in time to walk into the movie theater.

Because grief is forever. But that means my love for her is too.

iPhone Grief

I've had two iPhones stolen (one in a snatch-and-grab on the DC metro and the other in a pick-pocket theft in a DC restaurant) in less than three months. I'm no longer eligible for an upgrade, so I now have to use a 3G a friend is generously offering for free. Just to be clear, this means I paid $300 for an iPhone 4 I didn't even want (I had just gotten a replacement 3GS to fix a battery issue) in August to end up using a 3G by October. I feel like the Job of iPhone owners. Depending on when Apple rolls out a new version (or better yet -- a Verizon version), it's unlikely I'll be able to upgrade until summer, 2010. Wah. Sometimes I hate how dependent I am on technology. Any other solution (canceling my AT&T account, switching to Verizon for a Droid or adding a new number to my account) still would have cost at least $300, so I'm down to just the freebie two-generation-old-but-still-works iPhone and a sense that I'm cursed. At least I still have my iPad!

A Letter to My Mother Two Years After Her Death

Dear Mami,

You died two years ago today. All of us thought you would want to hold on until Louis and I got down to Florida that Saturday, but that Thursday morning you had had enough of the pain and staring in Diana's direction, you quietly bid us all farewell one last time.

Today I remember when you told me that you felt naked without earrings. I thought it was bizarre, and slightly vain, but today I'll wear earrings -- the ones you lent me on my wedding day -- in your memory. I'm not sure platinum and diamond earrings go with what I'm wearing this morning, but later tonight we're going to dinner and a play, and in any case, I wanted to honor you today.

You would have turned 69 ten days ago, and on the 22nd I imagined what a fun year this would have been for you. You would have joked about your friends being 70 already and how "young" you looked for 69, because you always, always looked younger than you were -- a trait only Louis seems to have inherited, despite all of his grey hair.

Speaking of grey hair, I started coloring mine in earnest this year after hearing your voice in my ear about my premature grey (thanks to Papi's genes) making me look older, even if my face does not. I still think it's unfair that Louis and Jorge get to grey gracefully while Diana and I spend a not insignificant amount on dye jobs every couple of months. But seeing as double standards never bothered you much, I think you'd be pleased.

I still don't wear make-up every single day, but your granddaughter insists I at least put on lipgloss. Yes, my nearly six-year-old is invested in whether I put on lipgloss, I imagine, because she hopes I'll let her put some on too after I'm done. She's so much like you that I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the similarities. She's my fierce little beauty -- so opinionated and funny and sweet but also infuriating and ridiculously fascinated with beauty and fashion. She refuses to wear trousers, even jeans, unless I force her to because of the weather. And then she must carefully select every other part of her outfit. Who is this child? I sometimes wonder, and then I answer myself -- she just like you.

My firstborn is still a gentle, caring boy with a loud voice and a magnetic personality. I remember the when he told you, at barely four years old, that she wanted to be a doctor when he grew up so he could take care of you and make you better. I told a friend that story recently, and she said it was the sweetest thing she'd ever heard. I miss the smile he could bring to your face and how happy he would be to see you. He still talks about how "great" you were and how much he misses you. He even took a photo of you into his third-grade class as part of his "me bag" that contained artifacts about his life. He's sensitive, like I was, and when I'm sad, he comes over, hugs me, and says "I miss Abuela too, Mama." He always knows. 

And then there's the baby. He is such a mellow and kind toddler. It's impossible to be at upset at him. He is so devoted to all of us, and we all feel so blessed that he was born against all the odds. He's the apple of our eye, making each of us a better parent or sibling. We adore him, and we know you would have too. I pass your pictures and say, "That's Abuela, she was my Mami" and lately he has begun to say, "Your Mami, Mommy" when I point at your face. 

And those are just my three. You wouldn't believe how big and beautiful and talented the older grandkids all are, or how hilariously entertaining little Bella is. Whenever one of the kids does something noteworthy, Diana and I commiserate at how proud you would have been, how happy you always were with your grandbabies.

Missing you can be an inconvenient burden, I'll admit. I'll see a grandmother ushering around her grandchildren in a mall, and I'll all of a sudden feel overwhelmed, paralyzed with grief. I could barely stand to be at my mother-in-law's 70th birthday dinner this past March, because I was so angry and hurt you'd never see yours. The unfairness of it all struck me like a hot arrow, poisoning me with those unpleasant twin feelings of jealousy and sorrow. I'm jealous of my husband, who has two septuagenarian, healthy parents, when I have none. I'm sad that my mother-in-law gets to enjoy the children, when you no longer can't.

But I also feel remarkably lucky. Not everyone has such a close relationship with their mother. You knew all four of us, you could see into our hearts, see what made us special, see who we really were, when so many others put on acts to please their parents. You were real to us too. You weren't some saintly, flawless martyr. You had your flaws and they made you human. I learned from your failures as much as I learned from your strengths. I marvel at your ability to have meaningful, life-long friendships, and I pray I can be as good of a sister, friend, and mother as you were to the very end.

I miss you every day, but that's a good thing, right? It means you're a part of me, no matter how long it's been since you died.

And Then There Was One: Two Go Back to School

Today was the first day of school. The Schmoop (left, in his "awesome" Darth Vader backpack) started third grade, and my sassy girl the Schmoopette started kindergarten. It wasn't as emotional a morning as I expected, mostly because the Schmoopette didn't seem frightened, and because the Schmoop is an amazing older brother who helped her on the bus and told her exactly what to do. It was quite touching, actually, considering how combative those two can get with each other.

As I waved goodbye, I said a silent prayer for them to be strong, independent, enthusiastic learners this year. I want my son to continue to fall in love with books -- even if it means it's all Hogwarts and Greek mythology and silly boy-comics all the time here -- and to strengthen his friendships and to have a crush on his beautiful teacher. I want him to run and play and not feel like he has to be the most aggressive kid in P.E. or recess, because it's just not him, nor should it have to be. He is a sweet and cheerful kid. He's excited and empathetic and kind and once said he wished he could grow up and become a doctor so he could make his Abuela better. He is just a delightful son, and I couldn't get by (literally) without his help. What a blessing of an oldest child.

I want my daughter to learn to read, something she has struggled with but that I haven't pushed. I want her to stay confident and brassy (well, maybe not too brassy) and the social butterfly she's been since she was two. She will move mountains one day. She will make others fall to their knees in awe of her fiery spirit, her beauty and fierce intelligence.

I got emotional after they left, but not because I was worried about them. I cried, because I missed my mother. Unlike my sweet but a bit out-of-touch in-laws, she would not have needed to be called and TOLD it was their first day of school. Mami would've known. She would've been the one to buy the Schmoop his backpack or the Schmoopette her special first-day-of-school outfit. She would've been on the phone with me by 10AM to find out how their send-off went, and to make jokes about the kind of trouble the Schmoopette is going to cause me in the possibly very near future.

I think maybe it's time for me to attend a grief support group again if my grief is hijacking what's supposed to be a post about my children starting school. It's just that every milestone of theirs is also a reminder of a milestone Mami has missed. So when my husband arrived home and suggested we call his parents and fill them in on the kids' first day, I wasn't that interested. I didn't stop him, of course, but I got up and left the room. My kids are lucky to have grandparents on one side, but I selfishly can't stand that it's not my parents who the kids were calling.

This post was inspired by my volunteer participation in the Yahoo! Motherboard.

Grief Is an Ever Present But Welcome Burden

I still think of Mami every day. Most of the time I hear her voice in my head, prompting me to wear earrings, put on make up (por favor, Sandra Patricia!), cut the kids some slack. I usually sigh and smile a secret smile even my husband can't decipher. But sometimes I miss my mother so much it hurts -- literally. I feel my chest constrict and my hands begin to shake. My eyes blur over instantly with tears I didn't even know I was forming.

I needed information about her to fill out an important document. I couldn't remember, nor could any of my siblings, the exact date she became an American citizen. I couldn't recall the exact year when we had the party, with all the little American flags strewn about the house. Anyone else I could've asked is dead, I told my older sister, who was wracking her brain trying to narrow down the year for me. Our grandmother. Our two beloved aunts. Gone.

I wish I could ring you, Mami, on that ridiculously old and overused black cell phone. You'd know. You'd laugh your infectious laugh, and talk about that day and why you finally decided to become a citizen. You'd marvel at the reason why I need the information. You'd tell me how proud you are of us, making choices that aren't easy but are nonetheless right.

I miss you, Mami. Your two oldest grandsons turned 14 and 13 this week. They're funny and handsome and smart and good to their mamas. I wish so much you could have called Nicholas today. I still remember he was the last grandchild you gave a birthday call to -- just two months and change before you died. We all called him from Diana's house, and you made a point of talking to him alone, even though you were exhausted. And I knew then. You weren't long for this life, but dammit you were going to suck it up and wish your grandson a happy 12th birthday!

Grief is like carrying a stone-filled pack. Every day you get rid of one, and your burden becomes lighter. There's an infinite number of stones, though, and you feel them, even when there are fewer and fewer weighing you down. It's heavy, and at first it's debilitating. But the truth is that even just one pebble can overwhelm you, stop you mid-thought, mid-step and leave you a crumbled mess on the floor.

All I can do is keep walking. All I know is that deep down, I never want to stop feeling it in some way.

A Motherless Year

Mami died one year ago today. It feels surreal. 365 days have passed.

Mami was one of a kind, and a year later, the pain of losing her is still fresh, still raw, still difficult to process. There's not a day that passes when I don't miss her voice or wish she could've been here to witness something or other. I don't cry every day any more, but at the slightest, unexpected trigger, I still feel the grief encompassing me. And that's what grieving is -- an ache that usually stays on simmer but can boil up to the surface without any warning.

I want to honor my mother's memory today by wholeheartedly thanking the people who got me through what was the most difficult day of my life.

My siblings. I can't imagine having survived my mother's death without my brothers and sister to accompany me through the grief journey we've each experienced this past year. Louis, Diana, Jorge, I know Mami would be proud of how connected we are, and how much we genuinely enjoy being together. I count among my siblings my loving (former but forever) stepsister Patty, whom Mami helped raise (especially through adolescence), my brother-in-law Larry, and sisters-in-law Roe and Sinyee, who've been part of my family for so many years.

My husband. How many husbands love their mothers in law? Mine did. They were great friends. They could laugh endlessly at a joke and even bicker like the oldest of friends. I know my husband can still hear my mother's voice say "Ay, Hans!" in his mind on a regular basis. My husband has had to put up with a lot this year, and I can only say it's a testament to our marriage that we've managed to rise above all of my mood swings, disregard for domestic duties and my moping and lounging around the house.

My friends Jen, Madeleine, and Lourdes, who dropped everything to rush by my side, make me lunch, get in bed with me and cry, and show me that it's possible to . My countless dear friends from around the country who called me right away upon hearing the news, especially my life-long friend Ruth Ann, who spent many a night in my house and actually knew Mami.

My three children, who hugged, nursed, cried, and cuddled with me after learning they had lost their Abuela.

My mother's best friends Cacha and Tully, who had known Mami since birth, for reminding us that Mami was an amazing, unconditional friend.

My friend Chris, who brought Delia home safely, so I wouldn't have to get in a car to pick her up from preschool.

My close community of online friends, particularly those on LiveJournal, many of whom I've corresponded with since 2001, who sent me the sweetest of emails and comments after I posted about Mami's death.

And all of you Urban Mama readers, lurkers and commenters alike, who've read my cathartic ramblings this past year. Thank you for providing me an outlet to share my grief.

You Know What I Did Last Summer

Last year, my immediate family didn't go on a summer vacation. Instead, faithful readers of this blog know my husband and I crazily drove from D.C. to Tampa with a four-month-old, 3.5-year-old and 6-year-old, so I could spend three weeks visitingMami at my sister's house. My siblings and I knew the end was near, so my sister Diana and brother-in-law Larry generously allowed all of us to crash at their house for 20 days.

This exact weekend marks the penultimate visit I had with my mother, and the final time my husband and older two children ever saw her. I'm so thankful, looking back, that my sister and I have the kind of relationship that made that trip a possibility. Even though it was difficult to be away from my husband for 15 days (he drove us down, took a flight back to DC, and then flew down to drive us back home), those three weeks provided me with some beautiful final memories ofMami with my children and me.

It was, after all, an Olympic summer, so Michael Phelps' glorious gold streak shall forever be strangely linked with my last summer withMami. It was a summer of buying her Pollo Tropical and Colombian take out, because neither my sister nor I could adequately prepare a proper a Latin-flavored meal -- at least not toMami 's rigorous standards. It was a heartbreaking summer, when I began to do my anticipatory grief work, preparing my heart as best I could for the eventuality ofMami's death.

But it was also a joyful summer, with young cousins flapping in the pool, camping out every night in the playroom, making mini-movies on my Flip camera, and playing Rock Band over and over again. Every day, the kids spent time with theirAbuela -- bringing her ice in the Bubba Keg, talking to her briefly, and giving her hugs, kisses, and coos. The kids would have a decade of more traditional family vacations, but last summer, that trip toAbuela's was absolutely the best thing we could've done.

This year, we are going on a summer trip. We're headed to Ocracoke Island in the Outer Banks for a week, and we're all looking forward to unplugging (a bit) and relaxing on the beach. As we make our way down, I can't help but remember, with tears and a smile, how last summer's vacation began with a similar road trip. And I wish, more than anything, that we could take that trip again -- just to seeMami one more summer.