La ley de la vida

I wish I could start at the beginning of things, when everything started its downfall but too much has happened and too much is happening. I can’t go back, try to tell and explain every feeling and every thought from months ago. Today is the start of a new work week and I am, everyday, wishing for it to end already so that I can go back to bed, cry, jump from app to app and scroll aimlessly. I have many things to be thankful and hopeful for but the truth is I also have a lot of things and people to miss. We’ve been “in quarantine” for almost a year and I’ve lost plenty from colleagues to family and friends. I don’t know how to move forward and upward when many of my loved ones have gone into the soil like seeds, forever blooming elsewhere. I can now only see them in my memories and in my broken memories at that because I have a horrible memory. Most of my memories with my loved ones are shards of glass, too tiny, too blurry, too far away for me to see with any real clarity and it breaks me. I can’t see more. I can’t get closer to see and relive my experiences with them; I can’t though I wish I could.

Three weeks ago I lost my last grandpa, not to covid but to “la ley de la vida” as he would say. I cry because I miss him and wish I had more time with him. He lived a full 84 years on this earth and I cry because I only had 29 of mine with him and much less as an adult. I wish I could bring him back so I could make less excuses and call him more often. I wish I could see him and talk to him one more time before I couldn’t anymore. Tengo a mis abuelas; I love them and I’m sad for them. They lost their life companion. My mom lost her dad. My dad lost his dad. I lost my two grandpas within five moths of each other.

I wake up everyday looking for ways to understand their absence, the silence that death brings, the discomfort that missing someone forever brings; I wonder if I’ll ever feel whole again. I wonder how I can alleviate the pain that my mom feels, that my abuelita feels, knowing that I ache too. I hear my mom talk about how she makes space to hold her mom, to listen to her mom cry and miss my abuelito, her dad; she holds in her tears but sometimes she cries too. When I listen to my mom I try to hold my tears in but fail. I’ve lost plenty during this last year and it all hurts in different ways, at different times. Right now, what pains me the most is the loss of my maternal grandpa and my mom’s eternal pain. If I could bring my abuelito back for my mom, I would. If I could’ve granted my mom access to leave and re-enter this country when my grandpa was well, I would have because she deserves the world.

He andado muchos caminos

He andado muchos caminos
dejando piezas de mi ser
que al pasar el tiempo y el descuido
suelen desvanecer como la espuma de las olas

La primera pieza la dejé en aquel cuarto
tan oscuro, frío, y vacío 
como el abismo en el que ahora vivo y cargo

Las paredes: sin oídos, sin ojos, 
ahora se desmoronan.
ya no duermen, 
sienten el peso, la tristeza, la culpa, el vacío

Cómo las pesadillas, a mí, no me dejan ser
no me permiten soñar, imaginar un mundo bueno, 
Yo--me desmorono

Los caminos por los que he andado 
siempre suelen entrelazarse,

No hay vereda clara 
sino razones claras como el agua en sequía 
por las cuales siempre me pierdo

Pierdo hermosas memorias 
entre recuerdos de las peores
Pierdo el camino, ya que jamás ha sido mío 

Dicen que he llegado, 
que me he convertido en mujer 
pero, ¿cómo se puede ser mujer si me arrebataron a
la niña que nunca fui?

He andado muchos caminos
esperando encontrar 
aquellas piernas débiles, inmóviles 
y darles el empujón que querían, para correr y no volver 

Busco a la niña que perdí, 
a la que de pasada conocí 

He andado muchos caminos 
perdida y sin hogar 
como una extraña en mi propio cuerpo

Desmoronandome

Pieces: In Memory of Larry Berroya

Larry, for two years, we shared room 110 and I only knew you in pieces of my day and of yours. 

Piece #1: Start of Day

I knew you at the start of the day when I arrived right on time for my first class. You were already there–I could count on that, but somehow I was always, still, startled like I did not expect you to be there, sitting on those hard burgundy chairs as opposed to your comfier blue chair. Yours was always covered in stacks of essays to grade.

Every morning, you would make your tea at school, wait forever until you actually took a sip of it; sometimes you would make it and be in such a rush to get to wherever you went while I was teaching my class, only to realize you forgot it on top of the projector cart.

Every morning, too, you would yell and grunt as a way to eradicate stress, although I like to think that you did so in recognition of my own feelings about the long work days as teachers; you gave voice to my inner voice of frustration, stress, desperate need of a vacation. Through our short and straight to the gut kind of conversations, you and I prepared for long work days with high schoolers; we were a team of two, preparing for a crowd that was predictably unpredictable, as teenagers can be.

Piece #2: Your Civics B Block

I knew you in the midst of your own lesson when it became tradition that you interrupt my planning time to make commentary on your senior class’ presentations that were happening right then! It could only be you, to interrupt your own class to ask me random questions about my day. To ask rhetorical questions. It was perfect. I was your part of your real-life examples because I chose to plan at my desk, on my chair, as opposed to at the teacher’s lounge. In retrospect, I cannot complain; I chose to set my desk up in the front of the classroom and let you take the back. I did that.

Larry, your seniors will miss you. I, will miss you. I will be expecting to be interrupted, asked to pause my music to listen to your crazy thoughts. My music will get to keep playing but I will be waiting for your interruption.

Piece #3: Lunch Time AKA Meetings Time

I knew the you that came in from teaching 9th graders, exalted. You had so many ideas and hopes for what they would be like when they became seniors and it was contagious. 

You grabbed your sparkling soda, your Trader Joe’s wrap, then you remembered you had a meeting and on your way out you would ask, jokingly, “do I really have to go?” Of course, you never gave me enough time to actually respond. You told yourself: “No, I do have to go. Ahhhhhhhhhh” and by then you were in the hallway already! 

That was you, ready to support your students even if it meant eating at a later time. Even if it meant putting yourself on pause. 

Piece #4: Real Lunchtime

By the time your meetings were over it was time for the next class, but since it was your prep, one more thing I could count on is that you would come in to the room and grab your lunch, again, but actually get to eat it this time. You were not even out of the room yet and you were already chowing down to the beat of your hungry stomach. 

Sometimes you would even kneel down next to a student and tell them to pay attention. Other times, you would set your food down, get your phone out and join our Kahoot game. When you realized there was a lot you did not always get right on the Kahoot game, you would wave goodbye and say something along the lines of “learn!” and “listen to Ms. Cabrera”. 

Piece #5: After School on Non Wednesday Days

Everyday, at 3:35pm, waves of students exited our classrooms. You ended your day in 106.  I ended mine in 110. Routinely, you would join me at around 3:50pm or 4:00pm. Many times, I would have my head down on my desk because I had a very frustrating class or day and you would come over and say nothing but offer me chocolate bark.

Piece #6: Countdowns 

In my defeat, you would come up to me and high five me. You would bring me a post it with a countdown. You could be knee deep into stress but always had a crystal clear plan to breathe and take a break. You ran. You ate.  

One of the last countdown post its you gave me, read: “12 more weeks!”. It was your way to tell me there was a light at the end of the tunnel; it was your way to validate my feelings of frustration. It was your way to tell yourself to keep going. You gave me that post it sometime in late January looking forward to our spring break in late March. 

–

What the post it did not tell me is that you would not be here to see all of that through. 

• Your Roomie 

Atrapada en memorias

There was a story that I would always tell to people I met and started to become friends with. I never considered myself a liar, but this story was both fictitious and real all in one.

Plain and simply, this is the truth:

I was home alone and kept hearing really loud bangs followed by screaming. I was confused by it all, ignored it even, until it became inevitable to ignore. I went downstairs to check it out, moved closer and closer to the noise that was coming from my neighbors’ in law apartment. It turns out the loud bangs and screaming were signs of a husband hitting his wife. I asked “¿está bien? and the man, angrily replied with a yes. I asked again, but this time I said,  “Señora, ¿está bien?” because I didn’t actually care about him. The banging and screaming paused only because I was there, asking. I could tell she was crying even when she said, “sí, estoy bien”.

Here’s what I made up about it: So I banged on the door, got him out, I dragged him, and started punching him. I was angry! I just left him there and he eventually left.

Here’s how it actually ended: I remember yelling and asking him to leave or I would call the police. I went back upstairs, cried, didn’t call the police, heard him slam the door on his way out. Weeks later, they moved out.

I did want to punch him. I did want to drag him out.

I wanted to hurt him and avenge all the times he may have hurt his wife. I wanted to hurt my dad for all of  the punches, kicks, and slaps against the wall and the bed frame that he inflicted on my mom; I wanted to hurt him for all of the screams and tears he ripped out of my mom.

I wanted to call the police on the man but, in that moment, I was too frightened, stuck in my own memories and flashbacks. I felt powerless just standing there, like I did growing up and seeing my dad beat my mom.

Every time my dad hit my mom, my brother and I hid behind a chair through which we could still see mom’s face swelling up from all of the punches, the red and the purple on her lips, fresh blood, bruises, old blood.

Paralyzed.

This time, however, I was fortunate to have had a door as the barrier between them and me; I didn’t actually see the blood (if there was any), the swelling, or the tears.

It makes sense that I would change the ending to the story–in another life, perhaps the life I lived in that one bedroom on Balmy Alley, I wanted it to be true. I wanted to pick up the phone and call the police on my dad. Have them take him away. I didn’t just want to leave for the night, the few hours left in it. After all, we only left across the street, to my abue’s house where my mom was asked “¿qué le hiciste?”; I wanted him to vanish.

I wanted to hurt my dad worse than he did my mom.

Worse than he did me. And my brother.

 

When I think back to when this happened, how I felt then, how I feel now, it’s all one big blur. A whirlwind of  emotions, memories, flashbacks, shame, and even guilt takes over me.

Feeling Useless in COVID Times

Teaching from home has me feeling so fucking useless. There, I said it.

I am playing house: cooking and cleaning.  Texting and emailing. Working out. Writing.

I guess, in all honesty, I have never been able to, as an adult. It is interesting how my privilege is allowing me to breathe from home, work from home, and still feel useless, powerless.

I wish there was more I could do to support my students. To be there for them. I wish I did more than just show up to Zoom meetings and more than posting on Google Classroom.

I wish I could do more than just text them and their families; I wish I could see them.

I cannot  help but feel so useless. I cannot help but feel like I am not doing enough for my students, to reach them. I am concerned for their learning, their brains becoming inactive and addicted to the bright lights of big screens and small screens (ironic, I know), but I am even more worried about their well-being.

I imagine them feeling stuck. OR wanting to feel UNSTUCK and defying all norms, finally feeling like time has been suspended, lifted, and they can all take a break. I imagine them struggling to get up every day while their teachers focus on “less is more”, the cognitive load is still there for them, from their fucking home (whatever that may look like).

Now, let me toot my own horn, I am a teacher who cares; I value relationships with students and their families over everything–I call home and text home all the time, but not being able to see my students at school (in person) and now ONLY being able to call/text has me feeling useless, and limited, like I am not doing enough.

I just want to hear from them. I want to know they are ok. Sometimes I call or text families and spend so much time asking how everyone is doing that I forget I should have asked about assignments. I am 100% OK with that.

Today marks one month since I last saw my students in person.

 

Day 9: Decades Away From Being Alike

(Day 9: Pairs) Pick two people who don’t seem to have much in common — people you know, celebrities, historical figures, fictional characters, up to you! — and write a story

Sometimes I find myself incredibly focused on tasks, mundane and superlative, then realize I am making gestures with my face and mouth that I have seen you make before. When I realize what my face is doing, I imagine your face making the same gestures, the same reaction to things. I become angry at myself; I try to alter my face and what I do with the muscles in my face. It is unbelievable to me that the muscles in my face, though miles apart from you, decades of anger toward you, still move like yours.

When I imagine your face, it is in that moment when I feel our undeniable connection, perhaps because you are my father, and when I repudiate my own face and its gestures, that is when I remember we are nothing alike.

You and I will always share a lot, blood, last name, and loved ones, but we will always differ in that you hurt me and I have simply been trying to run from you to a liberated version of myself. And though I have not found her yet, the farther away from you the closer to her I feel.

Is this real?

Reality has been kind of weird lately. Every day is a giant block of time. For the amount of times I have asked my husband what day it is and what date it is and gotten a response, that man deserves an award! Of course, the more I ask the less enthusiastic he gets and the less time in between the questions, the more he wonders whether I am joking.

See, I am no joking at all. Every day is the same. I am home and I am trying to teach from home. By “teach”, I mean that I send over 20 emails a day, respond to another 10 emails, hop on zoom meetings and doodle through all of them, “stop video” to fix my hair and scratch my nose, post on Google Classroom, text hundreds of texts checking in with families and students. And so I ask myself, is this shit really real?

Yes, yes it is.

Considering His Trauma

I close my eyes to escape you, what you did to me, but even in the dark, I see you there, too.

I close my eyes to escape the memories of your touch but it only intensifies the confusing good feelings, the tingle. It hurts. It feels good. I hate you. But I love you. This should not happen. I am seven and you are well over thirty. You are my father.

Sometimes I go days and weeks without thinking about what a despicable person you are and how much you do not deserve to be loved by anyone. And sometimes I think about all the trauma you must have faced yourself and how you probably did not have a positive outlet to talk about and release your trauma, because, well, even predators, people who abuse their children, deserve some consideration, deserve healing although I do not know if you do.

Dealing with and working through trauma and the way in which we do, today, is about privilege. When were you going to talk to a therapist? You bounced from state to state in Mexico in the 70’s, alone. When all, you, too, saw was your elders drink until their bodies gave out, or until someone got hurt and then went and hurt another one. You crossed the border at a young age. You have been working all of your life. How could you? When could you? But, still, it doesn’t give you permission onto and into another person’s body, your daughter’s. You do not get to abuse your own child. Me. Or maybe it does?

Las vueltas de la vida

No es vida si no hay turbulencia en ella. Y valla que en la mía han habido momentos, etapas, y experiencias llenas de turbulencia–de simultáneo miedo, furor, confusión, y amor. Estos días, vivo mi mejor vida pero no siempre lo fue así. Espero abrir mi corazón en búsqueda y en plan de continuar mejorándome como persona en este mundo.