Samantha Grace wrote about the useless burial of the "n-word" at the NAACP convention last week. I lamented with her that real Black activism is dead.
Then I read this story today. A local activist is camping out (in an actual tent) in a high crime neighborhood (not far from where I grew up) to really see what the fuss is about. While he is there, banners are posted with a reminder about the arson who still at large for causing one of the deadliest fires in Cleveland history, which took place in the same neighborhood. He is blasting speeches by MLK, which is drowning out the crude rap music that plays all through the night.
This doesn't get more gritty than this. What a real get-to-the-heart-of-the-matter way to raise awarness about the plight of Cleveland's poor neighborhoods.
Go ahead and bury words in pine coffins if you want to, but Black organizations need to take a hard look at Art McKoy and start getting real with their leadership.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Not quite a quaint quotable, but pretty darn close
"Maybe it’s because I look like a wacko, but I’ve always thought that, somewhere inside, [he]wants to do the downward dog with a dude."
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Cleveland Plus Gets Bushwhacked
G-Dub was in Cleveland Plus today. As I write this, he should be on his plane headed for wherever.
He managed to stop by Slyman's, a popular deli spot, for a sandwich. Ironically, the deli is located in a part of town made worse because of G's bullshit political ideologies. And of course, his presence here fucked up traffic, shut down the airport and all that jazz.
And in good news, while he spent his time here, his approval rating sits comfortably at 29%, an all-time low for him. Surprisingly though, I didn't hear anything about any demonstrations. Maybe people have just called it a day on him.
Meanwhile, I was at Corporate Club today for their speaker series, which was all about Cleveland Plus. Most of it was baloney and malarkey, but some of it was encouraging. The salmon was nice. When this white man brought up the issue of diversity (he pretty much called them out), the panelists gave some vague ass answer. Afterwards, I thanked him for asking the question and I swear other Black people there did the same. As my boss and I walked out, she said that it's true what he asked: too many white men spoil the pot with our leadership in this town. Another man (who I think was white) overheard her and said to us, "You're right. It's got to change."
That was the best part of the program.
He managed to stop by Slyman's, a popular deli spot, for a sandwich. Ironically, the deli is located in a part of town made worse because of G's bullshit political ideologies. And of course, his presence here fucked up traffic, shut down the airport and all that jazz.
And in good news, while he spent his time here, his approval rating sits comfortably at 29%, an all-time low for him. Surprisingly though, I didn't hear anything about any demonstrations. Maybe people have just called it a day on him.
Meanwhile, I was at Corporate Club today for their speaker series, which was all about Cleveland Plus. Most of it was baloney and malarkey, but some of it was encouraging. The salmon was nice. When this white man brought up the issue of diversity (he pretty much called them out), the panelists gave some vague ass answer. Afterwards, I thanked him for asking the question and I swear other Black people there did the same. As my boss and I walked out, she said that it's true what he asked: too many white men spoil the pot with our leadership in this town. Another man (who I think was white) overheard her and said to us, "You're right. It's got to change."
That was the best part of the program.
It's the Delusional Show starring Moxie Lady!
Color me delusional. I always have been. I attribute this to being raised as an only child and being forced to create my own entertainment most of the time. This provided me with a huge imagination. When you're little, imagination is cute and exuberant. When you get to be my age, it's called delusion.
Case in point: Crush #1,456,567
Name: Michelangelo Scorsese
He's an artist and a filmmaker. He works for corporate during the day. He shops at thrift stores. He drinks Hoegardens. He laughed when I made a bukkake joke.
To a normal person, this means nothing. He's just another interesting human being. But to a delusional person this can only mean one thing: He's The One.
And when I say "The One" I don't mean like Jesus is the one for me, I mean the man of my dreams. Believe it, people, Moxie is Barbie and she has envisioned the perfect Ken. And this Ken is so cuuuuuute.
All crushes are. That is why they are crushes. I remember my first crush. His name shall remain nameless, but his last name fell right before mine in the class roster. He and I were in the same classes a majority of elementary school. Because our names fell sequentially in the roster, I found myself assigned to either the same desk row, or reading group, or recess group with him. We even got in the same line for lunch. He was perfect. Great smile. Beautiful smooth skin. Big, brown eyes. Small problem: He made fun of me all the time. I was a total loser to him. He "dated" the cooler girls in class. But that didn't stop me from daydreaming and fantasizing about the day he would wake up and realize how awesome I was. At some magical instant (and it was always different depending on what I felt like), whether it be afterschool, or during reading circle, he would pass me a note and ask me to be his girlfriend. Ultimately, my keen reading skills and sweet lunchbox would win him over.
It never did. Ever. I remember running into him years and years later. I was downtown. He was waiting around the square with some friends. I recognized him instantly and before I knew it, I was walking towards him. I said,"You don't remember me, maybe you do. But your name is ____ and I went to school with you. I remember I used to be absolutely in love with you and you always made fun of me. Now you look like such an asshole. I don't know what I was thinking." He just looked at me. Turns out he did remember me and he thought I was cute...now. Well, too fucking late.
I remember the times when the people of my dreams did realize how awesome I was and we dated. Obviously, none of those people are in my reality now and they were more nightmarish than dreamy. There is one ex in particular that I have delusions/fantasies about. He's married now. But I still picture the day when he will come to the conclusion that his wife sucks and he looks me up. He will ask me out for coffee and he will break the news to me that he and his wife divorced. I, of course, will look fabulous (I have had this delusion for years, so depending on the season, I have on various outfits or wear different hairstyles) and I will coolly say, "Oh, that sucks to hear that. Why are you telling me?" And from there, he will ingratiate himself and confess that I was the one for him the whole time. I haven't decided yet if I will take him back, leave him at the coffee shop, or keep him around for sex (because that part was really good).
There is the alternate one where I can become famous for some reason--a book signing or autograph signing--and he comes to see me. He tries to get up close, but security won't let him. And he tells them his name and claims to know me. I see him struggle with security and he yells, "Moxie, tell them you know me! We go way back!" And I sigh and walk over and tell security, "Yes, I know him." And he will get smug like he always has been, but then I go, "And you are to never let him near me. Ever." And like five bouncers haul him out and throw him to the ground. Then this is followed up with an appearance I make on either Conan or Leno and I make fun of him and say what a douchebag he was when we dated.
My delusions about crushees follow a pattern: I meet them or see them for the first time. Something sparks in me (like they say "hello" to me) and I am hooked. Then every piece of information that I learn about them becomes fodder for my fantasies. I picture the moment we first kiss. Maybe I will think about the first time we have sex. Then I think about the moment when we decide to be together forever. (I don't necessarily have a wedding fantasy for each person. I have engagement fantasies. I have a set wedding fantasy in which the crushee is then placed.)
And I can do all this within a matter of minutes, hours, days of meeting them. Now, I will stop and say that many women do this. It's crazy, but it's the result of screwed up socialization. But what makes my fantasies slightly more deranged is that I also fantasize about the arguments, even the one where we almost break up. Their parents and how we will have a disagreement about which side dish to bring to this year's Thanksgiving dinner. Detailed delusions.
Now take Mike Scorsese. So far, I have only met him THREE times in the span of THREE months. Once per month. This has not afforded me the opportunity to build much of a fantasy around him because I don't know that much about him. But so far, I have attended the screening of one of his films. Go to all his art shows. We've definitely made out. We go for coffee a lot. He has visited me at work. Oh, and I skipped over a bunch of steps and we're looking at an old Victorian that is some sort of rustic red. We hold hands a lot. We laugh a lot. Three times over three months and this is how much we've progressed: we have a mortgage.
And as with every delusion, there comes a time when they come crashing horribly to the ground. When reality is the cold shower, cool hand slap, and steaming hot cup of black coffee that wakes you up. For me, this is either the break up, meeting his/her girlfriend/wife/fiancee, the crushees professed dislike of me...stuff like that. All those brain hours wasted.
The sad part is that the reality phase is simply followed by revenge/vindication fantasy. That will continue until a new crushee appears. Sometimes *whisper* sometimes, the new crushee becomes part of my revenge/vindication fantasy. Because they are better so the ultimate revenge is seeing the old crush and you're looking fabulous AND with a new hottie...looking at Victorian houses. Whatever. Like, Miss Fixx-It: the emotionally unavailable lesbian. I will see her and I will be with Mike Scorsese and because lesbians sometimes feel inadequate standing next to a real man, I will simply say, "Oh, hey. This is my boyfriend Mike. He has a real penis. Something no lesbian has ever been able to give me." And he will go, "Hi." And she will run out of the room/bar/party crying, drowned in her inability to measure up. Take that!
I would spend more time waxing poetic about Mike Scorsese, but I don't even know enough about him to tell you. We exchanged an email, which I am proud to say I've only read it five times. I have, though, fantasized about my next encounter with him at least 15 times. Not too bad....I'm not sure when the reality moment will hit. I'm thinking it's going to be when he turns me down cold when I ask him out. But how that will happen is still wide open for creation.
But, But, BUT, what if he doesn't and we do end up going out? What do I wear? Will I spill wine/coffee/water all over my dress/jeans/pants? When we kiss, will he like my lip gloss/Burt's Bees/lipstick? Will we be at my house, or his house when we have sex? When we merge Netflix queues, what if he picks bad movies? What if his parents don't like me????
Are we on the same page about kids? I hope he likes dogs....what if he's a cat person, or a Leo?
What if, we get far along and I share my blog addy with him and he reads this post?
Case in point: Crush #1,456,567
Name: Michelangelo Scorsese
He's an artist and a filmmaker. He works for corporate during the day. He shops at thrift stores. He drinks Hoegardens. He laughed when I made a bukkake joke.
To a normal person, this means nothing. He's just another interesting human being. But to a delusional person this can only mean one thing: He's The One.
And when I say "The One" I don't mean like Jesus is the one for me, I mean the man of my dreams. Believe it, people, Moxie is Barbie and she has envisioned the perfect Ken. And this Ken is so cuuuuuute.
All crushes are. That is why they are crushes. I remember my first crush. His name shall remain nameless, but his last name fell right before mine in the class roster. He and I were in the same classes a majority of elementary school. Because our names fell sequentially in the roster, I found myself assigned to either the same desk row, or reading group, or recess group with him. We even got in the same line for lunch. He was perfect. Great smile. Beautiful smooth skin. Big, brown eyes. Small problem: He made fun of me all the time. I was a total loser to him. He "dated" the cooler girls in class. But that didn't stop me from daydreaming and fantasizing about the day he would wake up and realize how awesome I was. At some magical instant (and it was always different depending on what I felt like), whether it be afterschool, or during reading circle, he would pass me a note and ask me to be his girlfriend. Ultimately, my keen reading skills and sweet lunchbox would win him over.
It never did. Ever. I remember running into him years and years later. I was downtown. He was waiting around the square with some friends. I recognized him instantly and before I knew it, I was walking towards him. I said,"You don't remember me, maybe you do. But your name is ____ and I went to school with you. I remember I used to be absolutely in love with you and you always made fun of me. Now you look like such an asshole. I don't know what I was thinking." He just looked at me. Turns out he did remember me and he thought I was cute...now. Well, too fucking late.
I remember the times when the people of my dreams did realize how awesome I was and we dated. Obviously, none of those people are in my reality now and they were more nightmarish than dreamy. There is one ex in particular that I have delusions/fantasies about. He's married now. But I still picture the day when he will come to the conclusion that his wife sucks and he looks me up. He will ask me out for coffee and he will break the news to me that he and his wife divorced. I, of course, will look fabulous (I have had this delusion for years, so depending on the season, I have on various outfits or wear different hairstyles) and I will coolly say, "Oh, that sucks to hear that. Why are you telling me?" And from there, he will ingratiate himself and confess that I was the one for him the whole time. I haven't decided yet if I will take him back, leave him at the coffee shop, or keep him around for sex (because that part was really good).
There is the alternate one where I can become famous for some reason--a book signing or autograph signing--and he comes to see me. He tries to get up close, but security won't let him. And he tells them his name and claims to know me. I see him struggle with security and he yells, "Moxie, tell them you know me! We go way back!" And I sigh and walk over and tell security, "Yes, I know him." And he will get smug like he always has been, but then I go, "And you are to never let him near me. Ever." And like five bouncers haul him out and throw him to the ground. Then this is followed up with an appearance I make on either Conan or Leno and I make fun of him and say what a douchebag he was when we dated.
My delusions about crushees follow a pattern: I meet them or see them for the first time. Something sparks in me (like they say "hello" to me) and I am hooked. Then every piece of information that I learn about them becomes fodder for my fantasies. I picture the moment we first kiss. Maybe I will think about the first time we have sex. Then I think about the moment when we decide to be together forever. (I don't necessarily have a wedding fantasy for each person. I have engagement fantasies. I have a set wedding fantasy in which the crushee is then placed.)
And I can do all this within a matter of minutes, hours, days of meeting them. Now, I will stop and say that many women do this. It's crazy, but it's the result of screwed up socialization. But what makes my fantasies slightly more deranged is that I also fantasize about the arguments, even the one where we almost break up. Their parents and how we will have a disagreement about which side dish to bring to this year's Thanksgiving dinner. Detailed delusions.
Now take Mike Scorsese. So far, I have only met him THREE times in the span of THREE months. Once per month. This has not afforded me the opportunity to build much of a fantasy around him because I don't know that much about him. But so far, I have attended the screening of one of his films. Go to all his art shows. We've definitely made out. We go for coffee a lot. He has visited me at work. Oh, and I skipped over a bunch of steps and we're looking at an old Victorian that is some sort of rustic red. We hold hands a lot. We laugh a lot. Three times over three months and this is how much we've progressed: we have a mortgage.
And as with every delusion, there comes a time when they come crashing horribly to the ground. When reality is the cold shower, cool hand slap, and steaming hot cup of black coffee that wakes you up. For me, this is either the break up, meeting his/her girlfriend/wife/fiancee, the crushees professed dislike of me...stuff like that. All those brain hours wasted.
The sad part is that the reality phase is simply followed by revenge/vindication fantasy. That will continue until a new crushee appears. Sometimes *whisper* sometimes, the new crushee becomes part of my revenge/vindication fantasy. Because they are better so the ultimate revenge is seeing the old crush and you're looking fabulous AND with a new hottie...looking at Victorian houses. Whatever. Like, Miss Fixx-It: the emotionally unavailable lesbian. I will see her and I will be with Mike Scorsese and because lesbians sometimes feel inadequate standing next to a real man, I will simply say, "Oh, hey. This is my boyfriend Mike. He has a real penis. Something no lesbian has ever been able to give me." And he will go, "Hi." And she will run out of the room/bar/party crying, drowned in her inability to measure up. Take that!
I would spend more time waxing poetic about Mike Scorsese, but I don't even know enough about him to tell you. We exchanged an email, which I am proud to say I've only read it five times. I have, though, fantasized about my next encounter with him at least 15 times. Not too bad....I'm not sure when the reality moment will hit. I'm thinking it's going to be when he turns me down cold when I ask him out. But how that will happen is still wide open for creation.
But, But, BUT, what if he doesn't and we do end up going out? What do I wear? Will I spill wine/coffee/water all over my dress/jeans/pants? When we kiss, will he like my lip gloss/Burt's Bees/lipstick? Will we be at my house, or his house when we have sex? When we merge Netflix queues, what if he picks bad movies? What if his parents don't like me????
Are we on the same page about kids? I hope he likes dogs....what if he's a cat person, or a Leo?
What if, we get far along and I share my blog addy with him and he reads this post?
Monday, July 9, 2007
Happy Birthday, Papa Moxie!
Today is Papa Moxie's birthday. This makes him a cancer. Ironically, he died of cancer. He would have been....I dunno, 70? 69? I can't remember. The ages of my parents are some sort of mathematical equation that I never bothered to figure out, sorta like long division.
I have few, but precious memories of Papa Moxie. This is because he was so busy cutting the games that he didn't have time to create precious memories with his favorite child. In fact, I feel as thought I have more moments shared with Papa Moxie when I was holding him in a seal tight box during my journey to return him to his homeland than I do when he was alive.
Somehow it became my right, honor, and duty to return PM to the waters of the Atlantic. Lake Erie--to him at least--was not real water. It was a fake substitute for the vastness of the ocean. I used to think he was exaggerating when he would talk about "the ocean back home". Then I got there. I was lucky to stand in the same place where his childhood home stood. It was a beach. An actual beach. There were dingy row boats lined up on the shore. And where the house was, stood nothing but sand. The house--I was told--was actually open on one side on the first floor or something. So that, you literally turned and the beach was right there. So when he would talk about the oceans and all the swimming he would do every day, he wasn't bullshitting.
Picture it....Arroyo, November 2006. It was the one year anniversary of PM's death. I finally was able to go back to PR and spread his ashes. I had the assistance of my ex-girlfriend who grew up there and she accompanied me to his hometown. I wore this white, linen dress for the occasion. PM didn't wear much black and it would have been hot as hell, so a white dress it was for the "funeral". We read some appropriate passages from the Bible and then I opened the box and dumped out the contents. Papa Moxie was home again. In the water....despite the wind blowing some of him back against my feet. And for the record, he was heavy. You always think about ashes being lightweight, but I guess condensed bone and flesh of an adult male should be heavy.
I scoop up some sand from the shore (which grossed me out because it's nature and all and the water has a funny smell to me...all watery and natural) and put it in the box. I keep just sprinkles of his ashes in the bag inside the box and now it's mixed with the sand. Symbolism, I guess. There are people fishing farther down. Wading in the waters. Some of them look at me and my ex like we're taking part in some santeria ritual. We were wearing all white, which is what santeros wear. And we were Black, which is what santeros are.
The sun was shining and it was relatively quiet. PM liked quiet. It was sometime in the afternoon. I stood there for what felt like forever in the sun. The water was so warm and I let the waves lap around my feet. Random ocean debris floated past me, touching my toes. At first I was creeped out. Then I remembered that my fear of the "creepy ocean" annoyed the hell out of PM because he loved it so much, he expected the same of me. I still don't know how to swim. So I stood there as my dress started to get wet along the bottom. Holding the box. For a brief, brief moment, I wanted to swim....follow the water as it coaxed the ashes from the shore. My ex kept telling me I had to go in farther so that the ashes could be swept away. But I was actually afraid. The ocean looks to have no end. There was nothing for me to grasp. I would drown. I finally let go and moved further in. I don't know if it was the fact that was surrounded by water and my father's remains, or fear or both, but I started to cry. The kind of crying that feels good. Mourning crying that comes from knowing that it's finally all over. The sickness, the death and the return. Hospice, cremation, flight to PR and then, ocean. That is all Papa waited for in those final days, was the ocean. He talked about it a little with me...in some ways to remind me that he expected me to get this job done.
I had always got the little things wrong in his opinion. The way I wore my hair. The job I chose. The way I completed a chore. But he trusted me to bring him back home. In the big picture, I got something right, but he'd be damned to tell me so. He told my mother instead and she told me. "Your father told the doctor today that you're the only child he has. He talked about how proud he was of you." Then she would cry all over again. That was the doctor visit when they told him that wasn't anything they could do for him.
After some moments, we departed from the beach. From there, I met my cousin (PM's favorite niece) and ate dinner. We had never met before, but we had heard of each other. We talked as I guess two women would who were related, but lived isolated from each other for decades. Then she took us on a tour of his hometown. She had all sorts of stories; she was the ultimate tour guide. She took us to PM's birth home and not to far across from it was this dilapidated old house. She walks up to it and calls out in Spanish for someone. Our uncle walks out. Papa's youngest brother.
This all happens in a weird sequence: she is calling out for him and she walks to the other side of the house to look for him because she doesn't get an answer. My ex and I are standing there in the front waiting. He comes out the front door and misses my cousin. He stares at us as if we were the ones who called him. It was scary-strange for a lack of a better word. The man standing in front of me was Papa Moxie. He was a gruff older man wearing a tattered shirt that looked to be older than me, shorts, socks and sandals. After taking him all in, I realized (and accepted) that my father's strange fashion sense was cultural and familial. He had the same color, eyes and hair as my father. He was just taller and skinnier.
He frowned, using the same forehead muscles that run in the family. Frowns so deep that the creases are there even when you don't frown. My father had a tattoo on his back of my grandmother and she had the same frown. The tat on his back included the frowns! He looks at us and in Spanish goes, "Who the hell are you? My Puerto Rican (which is different than Spanish, I swear) is rusty, but I know confrontation when I see it. I just blink and my ex goes into this dialogue with him about why we're here. Sometime during this, my cousin managed to come back out front. She gently introduces us. So there was me and my uncle facing each other, flanked by my cousin and my ex. He stares (down sorta) at me and says, "Where is my brother?" And I don't think I was still carrying the box at this point, so instead I look towards the water and point. He follows my gesture and then his eyes return to me. He asks me why I put his older brother out there and not in the family plot.
By this point, I am annoyed at him. Annoyed (not surprisingly) like I would get with my father when he spared no pretense. So in meeting Tio Moxie for the first time, I have been asked for identification and the whereabouts of my father. Oh, I'm fine, Tio, thanks for asking. I calmly assert that PM wanted no part of the family plot and that he insisted on his ashes being spread in the water. I certainly wouldn't let him down simply to please a family he didn't even like and one I didn't even know.
I frown the family frown. Then he takes a step back, crosses his arms and asks my cousin where I have been all this time. And by "all this time" he meant the past 24 years. I was peeved that he was now talking about me in front of me, but then I realized that my Spanish annoyed him. I sounded in Spanish like my father sounded in English. Maybe a little worse. Prima Moxie knows the answer is a long one and instead suggests that they show me around. So he goes inside--he first asks her where the food she promised to bring was--and comes back out a few minutes later dressed in pants and the same shirt. And a hat. Again: that family fashion sense.
He starts walking towards the water and tells me about how he and his older brothers grew up. And how my father went to the States to work and later sent money back home so that Tio Moxie could come to New York with him.
Papa Moxie never spoke to me about Tio Moxie. He never really talked about my cousin. Hell, he barely spoke to me. But I knew everything there was to know about Papa Moxie and Tio Moxie just from that little piece of information. PM worked hard and that is how he expressed himself: through hard work. And he just sent the money. There was no expressive conversations about how he missed his little brother. No. Work. Send money. And you join me and work hard, too.
That was Papa Moxie love. Get a damn job.
Tio Moxie also proved that my father came from a place where love--while existent--manifested itself in raw, rare occasions. I say this because as we bid him adieu to explore more parts of the town, he said to me, "Many blessing to you and may you return sooner rather than later." I'm not even sure he hugged me, let alone shook my hand. He just parted and returned into the house.
Kind of like Papa Moxie. Not many words, but when spoken they were memorable, and then he left us and returned home.
Happy Birthday.
I have few, but precious memories of Papa Moxie. This is because he was so busy cutting the games that he didn't have time to create precious memories with his favorite child. In fact, I feel as thought I have more moments shared with Papa Moxie when I was holding him in a seal tight box during my journey to return him to his homeland than I do when he was alive.
Somehow it became my right, honor, and duty to return PM to the waters of the Atlantic. Lake Erie--to him at least--was not real water. It was a fake substitute for the vastness of the ocean. I used to think he was exaggerating when he would talk about "the ocean back home". Then I got there. I was lucky to stand in the same place where his childhood home stood. It was a beach. An actual beach. There were dingy row boats lined up on the shore. And where the house was, stood nothing but sand. The house--I was told--was actually open on one side on the first floor or something. So that, you literally turned and the beach was right there. So when he would talk about the oceans and all the swimming he would do every day, he wasn't bullshitting.
Picture it....Arroyo, November 2006. It was the one year anniversary of PM's death. I finally was able to go back to PR and spread his ashes. I had the assistance of my ex-girlfriend who grew up there and she accompanied me to his hometown. I wore this white, linen dress for the occasion. PM didn't wear much black and it would have been hot as hell, so a white dress it was for the "funeral". We read some appropriate passages from the Bible and then I opened the box and dumped out the contents. Papa Moxie was home again. In the water....despite the wind blowing some of him back against my feet. And for the record, he was heavy. You always think about ashes being lightweight, but I guess condensed bone and flesh of an adult male should be heavy.
I scoop up some sand from the shore (which grossed me out because it's nature and all and the water has a funny smell to me...all watery and natural) and put it in the box. I keep just sprinkles of his ashes in the bag inside the box and now it's mixed with the sand. Symbolism, I guess. There are people fishing farther down. Wading in the waters. Some of them look at me and my ex like we're taking part in some santeria ritual. We were wearing all white, which is what santeros wear. And we were Black, which is what santeros are.
The sun was shining and it was relatively quiet. PM liked quiet. It was sometime in the afternoon. I stood there for what felt like forever in the sun. The water was so warm and I let the waves lap around my feet. Random ocean debris floated past me, touching my toes. At first I was creeped out. Then I remembered that my fear of the "creepy ocean" annoyed the hell out of PM because he loved it so much, he expected the same of me. I still don't know how to swim. So I stood there as my dress started to get wet along the bottom. Holding the box. For a brief, brief moment, I wanted to swim....follow the water as it coaxed the ashes from the shore. My ex kept telling me I had to go in farther so that the ashes could be swept away. But I was actually afraid. The ocean looks to have no end. There was nothing for me to grasp. I would drown. I finally let go and moved further in. I don't know if it was the fact that was surrounded by water and my father's remains, or fear or both, but I started to cry. The kind of crying that feels good. Mourning crying that comes from knowing that it's finally all over. The sickness, the death and the return. Hospice, cremation, flight to PR and then, ocean. That is all Papa waited for in those final days, was the ocean. He talked about it a little with me...in some ways to remind me that he expected me to get this job done.
I had always got the little things wrong in his opinion. The way I wore my hair. The job I chose. The way I completed a chore. But he trusted me to bring him back home. In the big picture, I got something right, but he'd be damned to tell me so. He told my mother instead and she told me. "Your father told the doctor today that you're the only child he has. He talked about how proud he was of you." Then she would cry all over again. That was the doctor visit when they told him that wasn't anything they could do for him.
After some moments, we departed from the beach. From there, I met my cousin (PM's favorite niece) and ate dinner. We had never met before, but we had heard of each other. We talked as I guess two women would who were related, but lived isolated from each other for decades. Then she took us on a tour of his hometown. She had all sorts of stories; she was the ultimate tour guide. She took us to PM's birth home and not to far across from it was this dilapidated old house. She walks up to it and calls out in Spanish for someone. Our uncle walks out. Papa's youngest brother.
This all happens in a weird sequence: she is calling out for him and she walks to the other side of the house to look for him because she doesn't get an answer. My ex and I are standing there in the front waiting. He comes out the front door and misses my cousin. He stares at us as if we were the ones who called him. It was scary-strange for a lack of a better word. The man standing in front of me was Papa Moxie. He was a gruff older man wearing a tattered shirt that looked to be older than me, shorts, socks and sandals. After taking him all in, I realized (and accepted) that my father's strange fashion sense was cultural and familial. He had the same color, eyes and hair as my father. He was just taller and skinnier.
He frowned, using the same forehead muscles that run in the family. Frowns so deep that the creases are there even when you don't frown. My father had a tattoo on his back of my grandmother and she had the same frown. The tat on his back included the frowns! He looks at us and in Spanish goes, "Who the hell are you? My Puerto Rican (which is different than Spanish, I swear) is rusty, but I know confrontation when I see it. I just blink and my ex goes into this dialogue with him about why we're here. Sometime during this, my cousin managed to come back out front. She gently introduces us. So there was me and my uncle facing each other, flanked by my cousin and my ex. He stares (down sorta) at me and says, "Where is my brother?" And I don't think I was still carrying the box at this point, so instead I look towards the water and point. He follows my gesture and then his eyes return to me. He asks me why I put his older brother out there and not in the family plot.
By this point, I am annoyed at him. Annoyed (not surprisingly) like I would get with my father when he spared no pretense. So in meeting Tio Moxie for the first time, I have been asked for identification and the whereabouts of my father. Oh, I'm fine, Tio, thanks for asking. I calmly assert that PM wanted no part of the family plot and that he insisted on his ashes being spread in the water. I certainly wouldn't let him down simply to please a family he didn't even like and one I didn't even know.
I frown the family frown. Then he takes a step back, crosses his arms and asks my cousin where I have been all this time. And by "all this time" he meant the past 24 years. I was peeved that he was now talking about me in front of me, but then I realized that my Spanish annoyed him. I sounded in Spanish like my father sounded in English. Maybe a little worse. Prima Moxie knows the answer is a long one and instead suggests that they show me around. So he goes inside--he first asks her where the food she promised to bring was--and comes back out a few minutes later dressed in pants and the same shirt. And a hat. Again: that family fashion sense.
He starts walking towards the water and tells me about how he and his older brothers grew up. And how my father went to the States to work and later sent money back home so that Tio Moxie could come to New York with him.
Papa Moxie never spoke to me about Tio Moxie. He never really talked about my cousin. Hell, he barely spoke to me. But I knew everything there was to know about Papa Moxie and Tio Moxie just from that little piece of information. PM worked hard and that is how he expressed himself: through hard work. And he just sent the money. There was no expressive conversations about how he missed his little brother. No. Work. Send money. And you join me and work hard, too.
That was Papa Moxie love. Get a damn job.
Tio Moxie also proved that my father came from a place where love--while existent--manifested itself in raw, rare occasions. I say this because as we bid him adieu to explore more parts of the town, he said to me, "Many blessing to you and may you return sooner rather than later." I'm not even sure he hugged me, let alone shook my hand. He just parted and returned into the house.
Kind of like Papa Moxie. Not many words, but when spoken they were memorable, and then he left us and returned home.
Happy Birthday.
From Quitter to Game Cutter
Cindy Sheehan's little retirement may be short-lived. She now is threatening to run against Nancy "Cut the Shit, George" Pelosi for her seat in Congress if Nancy doesn't present impeachment articles against GWB....IN TWO WEEKS.
She is slowly becoming the white, female Al Sharpton.
She is slowly becoming the white, female Al Sharpton.
Dat's Just My Baby Momma
From Slate.com....
Nearly 2,000 officials have been caught violating China's one-child policy from 2000 to 2005. The list includes 21 lawmakers, 24 political advisers, 6 "senior intellectuals," and more than 100 entrepreneurs. "Rising incomes mean some newly rich can afford to break the rules and pay resulting fines." Some of the newly exposed violators were "found to have kept mistresses," leading to extra children. American offense: taking a mistress. Chinese offense: having a baby with your mistress. (To discuss China's one-child policy, click here.)
I thought having a child with your mistress is a problem in any country.
Nearly 2,000 officials have been caught violating China's one-child policy from 2000 to 2005. The list includes 21 lawmakers, 24 political advisers, 6 "senior intellectuals," and more than 100 entrepreneurs. "Rising incomes mean some newly rich can afford to break the rules and pay resulting fines." Some of the newly exposed violators were "found to have kept mistresses," leading to extra children. American offense: taking a mistress. Chinese offense: having a baby with your mistress. (To discuss China's one-child policy, click here.)
I thought having a child with your mistress is a problem in any country.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Shut up, gurl!
A recent study shows that Chatty Cathies may simply be a stereotype. It studied male and female college students and found that the difference between the number of words men and women used was statistically insignificant. In other words, contrary to popular belief, women don't necessarily talk more than men.
There is plenty of room, researchers say, to study how age and culture can affect these findings. Now how I will use the study for good not evil is yet to be seen.
There is plenty of room, researchers say, to study how age and culture can affect these findings. Now how I will use the study for good not evil is yet to be seen.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Teaching a man to fish
Super cool commentary about lending to the poor and tackling root problems versus putting band-aids on them. An excerpt:
"Gifts of charity do provide income to the poor, but they do not necessarily increase their freedom. Only the poor receive gifts of charity, and only the poor truly understand the weight of the debt created by such gifts. All gift-giving creates some form of indebtedness. For the recipients of charity, that debt can never be repaid. As a result, charitable giving can increase the unfreedom of the poor by confirming — to themselves and others — their status as distant, needy, and different from the non-poor. It is perhaps not surprising that while charity may work well to temporarily ameliorate the suffering of the poor, it has been criticized for failing to transform the conditions that create and perpetuate poverty. In fact, charity frequently has been associated with not only not changing the conditions of poverty, but even deepening them.
The lives of the poor are precarious, dangerous, and disadvantaged. However, the poor are not without resources and they are not irretrievably lost. "Microlending" is an approach that begins with assumption that poverty, not the poor themselves, is the problem. Further, it assumes that under the right conditions and with the right methods, the poor can become non-poor."
"Gifts of charity do provide income to the poor, but they do not necessarily increase their freedom. Only the poor receive gifts of charity, and only the poor truly understand the weight of the debt created by such gifts. All gift-giving creates some form of indebtedness. For the recipients of charity, that debt can never be repaid. As a result, charitable giving can increase the unfreedom of the poor by confirming — to themselves and others — their status as distant, needy, and different from the non-poor. It is perhaps not surprising that while charity may work well to temporarily ameliorate the suffering of the poor, it has been criticized for failing to transform the conditions that create and perpetuate poverty. In fact, charity frequently has been associated with not only not changing the conditions of poverty, but even deepening them.
The lives of the poor are precarious, dangerous, and disadvantaged. However, the poor are not without resources and they are not irretrievably lost. "Microlending" is an approach that begins with assumption that poverty, not the poor themselves, is the problem. Further, it assumes that under the right conditions and with the right methods, the poor can become non-poor."
Sunday, July 1, 2007
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