A Catalytic Trip

#52Weeks2017 - Week 22

Traveling has become something I think about day and night. It very well may be second place on the list, right below photography. And just like almost everything I do, traveling for me has become more than sightseeing the most popular landmarks, as that barely touches the surface of what traveling is. For me. I realized this during my second trip to Puerto Rico.

The weeks prior to the trip, I planned our stay in Puerto Rico. I wanted to explore hidden gems that were less populated but just as beautiful. I also booked our stay in a humble fisherman's town walking distance from Playa Fortuna in Luquillo. The first time around we stayed at the Wyndham in Rio Grande. I knew the commodities and amenities would be nothing close to the resort this time around but I didn't care. That is what I was actually looking for. As long as we had a bed, a bathroom, and air conditioning I knew we would be fine.

I also had planned to shoot some portraits. I wanted to capture the faces of locals in the beautiful island, as well as observe how they lived and their culture. All of this was to be captured through my lens. Never in a million years did I think that the trip would be a catalyst for my photography journey, as well as for me.

Upon my arrival to the Air BnB we noticed the sweeping difference from our previous stay at the Wyndham. This time as we drove looking for where we were staying we came across stray dogs playing and chasing each other, chickens clucking around, and children running barefoot. It was everything I wanted to see and experience. But not only was our setting beautiful, our Air BnB hosts were the sweetest people ever. My trip had started off on the right foot and I was thrilled to be back at the island that had stolen my heart the first time I came.

Our first morning we decided to wake up early to catch the sunrise in Playa Fortuna. Little did I know this would be the inception of what would change my purpose in photography and me as a person. After watching the spectacular sunrise as sunrises promise to be, we walked down to "La Boca", a corner where the river, Rio Grande, and the ocean meet. We laid down our belongings, including my camera and tripod at sight and then walked and swam early in the morning in cold river water and the warm, salty ocean. We were alone. The river and the beach was all to ourselves. Or so we thought. Far in the ocean, to our left, we saw a fisherman. He was there all the while we were. But he was so far from us we would forget about him from time to time. Around 10 am he was done fishing and as he was leaving he warned us to stay close to our belongings. He said that even though it was safe there, it's better to stay close and keep an eye on it. This was the beginning of our trip.

His name is Evaristo. Tato, to family, friends and everyone in town. That morning when we met him as he was leaving we got caught up in a conversation. So much that he forgot he had to go home, and we forgot about the beach and the river. Suddenly his words and his fishing pole were much more interesting. He crossed the river to a mangrove to make sure it was shallow enough for us to cross. So we did. After crossing the river and talking to him I asked him if I could take his portrait. He loved the idea and posed for my camera with his fishing pole dug into the sand and a coconut next to him. After the first few portraits we continued to talk and I got carried away taking more portraits. These were candid shots. I loved them even more.

At the end of our conversation he pointed to his 'yolita' (little boat) and offered to take us deep into the river whenever we wanted. As we walked out of the beach he showed us around. He pointed to 3 story buildings and houses destroyed by the ocean on the right side of the beach which had no entrance. He taught us about the power of the ocean and how the ocean, sooner or later gets back what belongs to her. The buildings and houses were built without the 'ocean's permission' taking away its space. Giant walls were put up to avoid destruction. What took months to build and a few years to enjoy, the ocean took back what belonged to her in a matter of two nights. Once again this brought about another long conversation about all that we do to our Earth. We then walked Tato home, a block away from where we were staying. He told us to knock on his door whenever we wanted to go into the river and explore Rio Grande. His Rio Grande.

Two days later we went looking for him and off we went to explore the depths of Rio Grande in his 'yolita'. As he rowed his boat he pointed to all the lizards, turtles, birds, and crabs we found along the way. He gifted us with facts about the the trees and plants and his beautiful island. The island he loves. As we went further in, he asked us if we wanted to swim. I was a little skeptical at first but Tato looked down and studied the water, he dove in and reassured us it was safe. I trusted him, and in we went. We swam in some remote location of Rio Grande. No pristine beach has ever compared to this water, to this moment, and to the company we had.

As we swam, Tato remembered we had never had coconut water before, and so he found a large stick and began to hit a coconut palm tree. He brought down four coconuts and with his bare hands and a rock he made a hole at the top of two coconuts for us to drink the water, and pealed the other two so we can eat the flesh.

While in the water, three of us only. Tato told us his story. He was born in the same house he lives in now. He moved to Philadelphia at the age of 35 and spent 15 long years in Philly. Every single day while in Philly he dreamt of the life he now has. He dreamt of fishing, sitting on his hammock, living in his home, in his island, and eating the reaps of his crop and the fish of the day.  I will forever remember when he said "I rather $500 a month here, than $5,000 over there." The organic simplicity of his life and the island that watched him grow is the definition of happiness for him.

Tato not only gave us an exquisite tour of Rio Grande, he also went out of his way to find maracuya (passion fruit) for me as I was literally dying to have some. He gave us 'tostones de pana' to try and we now like them even more than regular tostones. Sadly, I highly doubt we can find them in the states. Yet another reason to go back.

Tato was by far the realest and best tour guide we could have ever looked for. He has no reviews on Yelp, no tour company, no tour guide title or income from it. But he introduced to us the real Puerto Rico, and showed us the rawness of the island through his wise words, actions, and humble and beautiful tour that came from the bottom of his heart.

Tato gave my photos a story to tell. Yes, the story includes all that he showed us and his wise words, but for me the story is more about passion. I, myself found passion in photographing stories about raw passion and happiness. In whatever shape of form it looks like for my subjects. He taught me that just as I am looking for mine, and he went back to his, others are looking for theirs, don't have a clue yet, or have found it and are fighting for it or living it.

Thank you Puerto Rico; but most importantly, thank YOU Tato.

Creativity Without Practice

#52Essays2017 - Week 21


Creativity without practice is nothing. It does not exist.

I'm learning that as artistic as I've always claimed to be, it is only ego talking. Yes, I used to lay flat on my belly on the floor and sketched for hours. I used to create stories in my head and act them out, maybe even believed them. But the creativity was fed by practice and consistency. Which in turn resulted in more creativity. I wasn't born with more artistic neurons, or a larger right side of my brain. I had discipline with my art. I was clueless about where the daily drive came from, but the discipline was there, and the results were visible. 

The older I get the more trouble I have with discipline in my practice. I want to do it all. My mind wanders and jumps from one idea to another. But ideas are just that, ideas, if not put into action.

I find that I am not alone in this. The more I read on the subject the more I realize we tend to wait around for inspiration, a strike of luck, or for some super natural force to push us to start doing whatever it is we want to do. And when and if we do start, it seems difficult to be consistent with our plans. Whether we want to go back or maintain a routine at the gym, school, leave a dreaded job, or learn a new language. We just wait and push ideas and plans back to an unknown future instead of acting on our desires now.

I believe the first step to bringing discipline and action back into our lives is acknowledging that we are not the exception to the rule. We have to stomp on our egos, pick it back up and throw it as far away from us as possible. Because saying or thinking we are talented or creative, or boasting on all the things we want takes us no where if we do nothing to obtain them. We become stagnant, and the idea only gets farther and farther from our reach.

If I want my creative juices to flow I have to be consistent with my art. I have to show up everyday to a blank page and write. I have to pick up my camera and shoot even if it's from inside my home and the landscape before the lens comes from outside my window.

We have to show up. We have to not only start, but also treat each day as the first and do whatever it is we want to do Every. Single. Day. I guess we can call it karma, whatever we put out we get back. If you create, more creativity will find its way to you. Make it a ritual of just showing up and asking yourself "hey, I'm here again, what's new today?"

A Short One On My Dad

#52Essays2017
Week 20

"In life you have to earn things" is what my dad said to me at Walgreens when I asked for a red teddy bear I had fallen in love with. I was 5 years old. I had no idea what he meant, but I knew I wasn't getting it. My mother who was behind me, put her hand on my shoulder. I felt the tears in the back of my eyes closing in on the corners. I felt my heart beat hard and fast, my face turning hot and red and my head weighed as much as my lanky body did. These physical sensations were caused by three reasons: I wasn't getting the bear, I couldn't cry in front of my father or else he would give me a "real" reason to cry, and most importantly, this was going to cause a major argument between my parents. I hated myself for even wanting the bear.


That is the earliest memory I have of my father. A memory with words that have haunted me for as long as I can remember. What can a five year old possibly do to not earn something in life? But due to those words I have worked hard to the point of exhaustion for absolutely everything, even things I have not desired. I thought I wouldn't be deserving of anything otherwise.

My dad was a man of his word. He took pride in his harshness and strict parenting style and beliefs. He was stubborn and closed minded. There was no other way in his book, as he wanted to emulate the dad his father was to him and his seven siblings. But as a child, I also experienced another type of dad. It was like I had two dads battling each other on who was better and who would parent on what day. The 'other' dad I'm referring to was sweet, playful, overly sensitive and empathetic, and sometimes, he was even willing to listen. Traits I carry by nature and nurture.

Growing up, I started changing him, the softness in him allowed me to mold and modify him. I started to teach him how to consistently be the 'nice dad' that he let out once in a while. I knew deep down he was more open minded than his father and all his siblings. So I taught him everything I learned in college, especially in my psychology and sociology classes. Most of the information I relayed to him was backed up by research. I made sure I was giving him valid and credible information and not mere opinions. Although, I slowly started voicing my views, most of which differed from his, but he listened, respected, and some, he ended up agreeing with. I opened his mind to world issues, science, religion, cultures, beliefs and customs, and most importantly, parenting. I took advantage of dinner time to share the day's lectures. I gained his respect as a scholar and as an adult and I knew my father now looked up to me. He listened and looked at me in a way that I knew he was not only absorbing new information but it was also rewiring his brain and in turn his behavior.

Teaching my dad how to be a better person and father was and is a lot of pressure. It has been both a blessing and a curse, as I have reinforced his reliance on me. I have always been and continue to be the one he seeks for help and support. I quickly became my parent's parent. But I continue to teach him and expose him to new things every chance I get, and he continues to listen and kiss me on the forehead every time he learns something new from his daughter.

A few years ago I rehashed the red teddy bear story to him. He didn't remember. My mother did, because she recalled their argument and going back to Walgreens that week to buy it for me. As I retold the story with details of my every thought and feeling at that moment, he shed a few tears. I did too. He apologized for being a 'bad dad'. But he wasn't a bad dad. He was just being the father he knew how to be. He was parenting as best as he could. However, his ways affected me. They scarred me, but him changing and bettering himself is mending both our wounds.

A few weeks after I told my dad the story, I found a big teddy bear on my bed for Valentine's Day with a card that read "El osito que nunca te di" (the bear I never gave you). I hugged it and cried. The little red teddy bear when I was five, was him back then, and the bear he gave me twenty years later, is my dad now.

What I Learned From My Solitude

#52Essays2017
Week 19

A couple years ago when I thought I needed company the most to stay distracted and keep my mind from taking control, I read somewhere that solitude is the best company. I fortunately, or unfortunately for me back then, don't work over the summer, so alone time is all I would have. It took some time to put it into practice as it terrified me to feel lonely.  But loneliness is forced solitude, instead, I made the decision to be with myself, and see what came from it. The first few moments of solitude were difficult, but I didn't give in and gave it a chance.

I learned 5 things from my solitude:

1. I learned how fun my own company is
The more time I spent alone, the more I started to enjoy my own company and dates with myself. I watched movies I wanted to watch without having to compromise with others and their choices. I bought the junk food of my preference and had those replace main meals. I did whatever I wanted to do at the time I wanted to do it. I had so much fun being alone that I found myself canceling on friends and making excuses, only to continue to have fun with ME.

2. I learned a few things about me I did not know
Growth is never ending. Becoming better at we do is so necessary. But during my time of constant solitude, I discovered new things about me. I discovered new passions. I wrote in my journal more than usual. I wrote everyday. Entries were not only about me and my feelings, but I wrote poems and stories, and long essays. I paired my photos with writing. I also traveled more and loved every ounce of fresh beach and river water, grandiose waterfalls, majestic mountains, trails, and foreign cities. I discovered yoga, meditation, and Buddhism, a love for their meaning and what they stand for. I was unraveling in front of own eyes.

3. I learned to take the reins of my own thoughts
First thing every morning I meditated. I lit up candles and jasmine incense, gathered crystals in front of me, and sat on my cushion in front of my altar. Meditation taught me to clear my head. To focus on my breathing or on a mantra throughout. It taught me to focus on the now. I practiced gratitude, mindfulness, and positive thinking. I wasn't stressing over pushing my thoughts away anymore. I was letting them flow freely for a few minutes, and then replacing those thoughts with positive ones. My thoughts became brighter and lighter. Instead of focusing on the negative, I focused on gratitude. I was suddenly thankful for the hardships, because I would not have been in the path I was in had they not existed. And I would not have been so aware of my thoughts and changing them had I not embraced my time alone to do so.

4. I learned to focus on ME
My time alone led me to not only appreciate it, but also prioritize it. Me and my time became number 1. Suddenly my family and their issues weren't more important than me and mine.

5. I had time to create
Art has always been a big part of me; however, my life became all about the 'important' things, and wrongfully art did not fall in that category, thus it was placed last. Once I started spending time alone, I started sketching, clay sculpting, writing, and photographing incessantly. The more I did all of this, the more creative I was becoming. I thought day and night about all the clay sculptures I wanted to do, all the cartoons I wanted to draw, all the words that had to be written, and all the dogs and places I wanted to photograph. My creative juices were flowing 24/7 without effort.

Time and Me, was all I had for two entire months two years ago, and every summer ever since. There were moments I didn't know what to do with myself, but I learned that boredom is good. Boredom led to the best dates with myself, the most intricate drawings, most amazing photographs, heartfelt essays, and mindful walks. There were moments I cried, but they were revealing tears. I learned so much about myself and loved every inch of me throughout the process.

Every summer I have all the time in the world for me. I am lucky and grateful to have those two months every year. And because I appreciate and love my solitude so much, outside of those two months, I make sure to make time for me to have fun, to discover, to learn the depths of my thoughts, to focus on me, and create.

My Constellation of Stars

#52Essays2017
Week18

Lately I have been working harder on the things I am passionate about. I have been photographing Bernard much more, as well as dogs in foster homes, from Pupstarz Rescue. I have also been photographing everything I find beautiful- nature, buildings, landscapes, places; and whenever I'm not shooting, I sit on my desk and edit new and old photos. Photos that have never been edited, or ones that have already been through photoshop with several layer masks upon them. I get to create and bring new life to photos that were long gone and forgotten. I love writing about the process. Writing about how it makes me feel. These pieces are mostly for myself. They are handwritten. Just like photography, I write about what makes my heart turn, in good and bad ways. If there is an event in my day that was significant and had an impact on me, I write. If I see something that makes me dream, I write. If something happens to someone else, but it hurts me as if I carried the person's heart in me for a while, I write.

I photograph and write because I let out what I fail to execute in any other way. Verbally, words don't flow as well as they do when I write. Verbally, sceneries and soulful eyes can't be described as they are in my photos. I express myself best through art, and that is what I want to do. Forever.

However, because I've been doing this so much more, I'm becoming familiar with the feelings I get when I'm fully immersed in what I love. I'm becoming accustomed to relentlessly create. Therefore, not only have I been feeling amazing about it, I've also been hearing the little voice of depression make it's way back into my life. During the hours that I am immersed in photographing, editing, and writing, in other words, creating, I am on a high like no other. I'm in my zone. A zone I do not want to get out of. A high I do not want to come down from. But I have to, not because I have to eat, shower, and sleep, but because that is simply not part of my everyday life. It doesn't pay the bills, it doesn't feed me. So when I come down of the high, I don't gracefully hit the ground. I hit it hard. So hard it hurts.

The first few days I kept it to myself. I tried to ignore the feelings and push them aside. As if this would work. I should know better. Then I decided to honor my feelings and be fully aware of these emotions. I am entitled to let myself feel whatever I want to feel because there is nothing more real than my raw emotions. I told John about it. And although he was very understanding and kind to give me suggestions and advice, I just needed him to listen. Because the advice he was giving me were things I knew well I had to do. They were the things that got me out of hell, so I knew I had to to put them into practice. I just needed listening ears. I just needed to vent. So I let out all of my emotions. It hurt, but I also freed myself from them, because I was then able to see clearer.


I am lucky to have a job I enjoy, with children that make me laugh and families that trust my knowledge and capabilities to help and teach their children. I am also lucky to have all the time that I have to do what I love. I do count my lucky stars, even though sometimes I forget to do so. But I also count the stars that are farther away, not yet at my reach, because those are the ones that I will relentlessly work for. Stars that I am not sure if they even align. Perhaps my dream job hasn't been invented yet. But somehow I will find a way to integrate photography of dogs and beauty, with writing that comes from the heart and do them both for a living. I'll not only align those far away stars, but they'll become a constellation I'll form on my own, and I'll count each and every one of them every chance I get.

Empathizing With a Rap Song

#52Essays2017
Week 17

"There are certain emotions in your body that not even your best friend can sympathize with, but you will find the right film or the right book, and it will understand you" - Bjork  

** or the right song **

On Sunday morning I jumped into a friend's car to head to a rooftop sunrise shoot. As I stepped in I asked for the music to be changed as he was listening to rap.
My liking in music is very dependent on the lyrics. Music with words that tell a story I can identify with travel deep. Even if the song has no real connection to my life or any experience, my empathetic self feels what the singer is relaying as if he/she is living it, and I hurt or rejoice for them. I am not a fan of rap and hip-hop, because for me, there is nothing significant about 'I got a glock in my rary' or 'I'm so gangsta prissy chicks don't wanna f*** with me' --- I can't. I try to be open to things as much as possible. But those words just don't do it for me. It does for others, but not for me.

On our way back from the shoot, he tried educating me about the specific rapper he was listening to when I got into his car. He tried convincing me that not all rap and hip hop is meaningless. That there is actual art created in it, and life messages being transmitted. He provided examples of what this singer/songwriter raps about, and how his style is so unique. I listened, liked what I was being told, and decided to give it a try. And so he played it, and I tried listening to rap as I do other genres. Listen closely, feel, relate.

I listened to Logic, a 27 year-old rapper, singer, songwriter, and record producer. The first song I listened to jumped from different perspectives in such a genius way. It integrated the fatality of an accident, talking to 'God', and the explanation of a theory of life; more specifically how little we know about it. Genius I tell you.

But then I listened to a song that prevented me from swallowing the bread I was eating. I had a knot in my throat throughout as I listened to its every word. Never in a thousand years did I think a rap song would make me feel the way that song made me feel. The song is titled "Anziety"

"Ima make it someday somehow"
what you telling yourself
But you ain't focused on what's important: mentality, health

Speech within the song-

It was December in sunny Los Angeles California
in the heart of Hollywood
I stood next to my wife in a line surrounded by hundreds of other people
on our way to watch Star Wars
When suddenly I was engulfed with fear and panic
as my body began to fade
In this moment my mind was full of clarity
But my body insisted it was in danger
........
And soon enough I found myself in a hospital bed being told
what I went through was anxiety
.......
The doctor said it was anxiety
But how could it be anxiety?
How could anxiety make me physically feel off balance?
How could anxiety make me feel as though I was fading
from this world and on the brink of death?
.......
Derealization
The sense of being out of one's body
I'm not here
I'm not me
I'm not real
Nothing is
Nothing but this feeling of panic

Every word was familiar. His description of anxiety as feeling physically off balance, fading away, panic, and on the brink of death punctured through my heart.
An anxiety I dealt with alone for as long as I can remember. Anxiety and depression I kept as a secret to not add to my parents' list of worries. I was 'strong' in their eyes, I was the family's anchor, how could I possibly weaken? If I fell, my family would too, I thought.

Anxiety and depression is real. And even more real is the silence that surrounds it. It's a silent killer the creeps in and suffocates, slowly. Oh so slowly.

It's like having a constant voice poking fun at you for feeling helpless, which makes you feel even more helpless, because you know the voice is right. The voice is heavy as it pushes you down making it impossible to get out of bed upon waking up. It plays and replays nerve racking and sorrowful events making sadness the most known and familiar feeling. The voice thumps in rhythm to your racing heart, making it louder and deafening. This voice never leaves. It becomes quieter sometimes, so quiet that you may think it's gone for good, but it comes back. Without announcing its return, it comes back well fed, bigger, louder, and more aggressive.

The voice becomes so deafening that there comes a point when its sound waves knock you into a hole. A deep dark hole, so deep that light isn't visible when looking up. I was in there. I tried climbing out, by ignoring the feelings and pushing them aside as I always did, but this time it didn't work. And the fact that I couldn't get out made matters worse.

Until I embraced my emotions, I learned to listen and talk to my heart. To free myself from my own mind because it was distorting and intensifying what my heart was feeling. I had to learn to accept that my heart was a little different. It felt too much. It felt my feelings and others' as well. Once I accepted that about myself, I was no longer at the mercy of my emotions. Because I let myself feel, and then took control of my thoughts, which in turn took control of those feelings before they controlled me.

There is nothing wrong with sadness, and feeling nervous. But when they forcefully want to become your best friends, your mind tends to listen and welcome them in. Controlling my thoughts through self help books, yoga, meditation, mindfulness, positivity, and putting ME first, helped me climb out of the hole, as if they slid in a long ladder and helped me out.

11:11 and Eyelashes

#52Essays2017
Week 16

Last week, as I was with one of my students during a session, I noticed a long eyelash on his rosy cheek.
I stopped teaching, told him to stay still and took the eyelash. I placed it on my index finger and said to him, "Look sweetie, this is your eyelash. Close your eyes, make a wish, and blow at it"

He didn't question me. He closed his eyes for what seemed like an entire minute, opened his eyes and blew. He was excited. His little smirk told me so.

The next day I saw him while I picked up and waited for another student in his classroom. He walked up to me, and with sad little eyes said "My wish didn't come true."

My heart sunk. He had wished for a toy and innocently believed my every word. For a second I didn't know how to amend what I had done. But as I looked into his eyes, the words started flowing. I told him to keep wishing, but to work hard for what he wants as well. If he wants that toy, I told him to do all of his homework on time, pay attention in class, do his chores, help mommy and daddy out, and ask for the toy as a reward and be patient for when his parents can get it for him. To always wish and work hard for the wish. Those are the wishes that are most likely to come true. He seemed to understand what I said, and walked back to his seat with the same sweet smirk as the day before.

At first I thought I should have never introduced him to wish-making for every eyelash. He'll either pull out all of his eyelashes, or get his little heart broken time and time again, as this first time. But after seeing his reaction to my explanation, and knowing it will most likely stay with him more than what is taught to him during a lesson, I thought I did right.

Ever since I learned about wish-making, to stars, eyelashes, blowing birthday candles, 11:11, in no particular order, I got my heart broken several times. I'm a big wish believer. I believe in wanting something hard enough to wish it into reality. But I recently learned that as much as I wished for something, if it wasn't under my control, chances are those wishes would not come true. But for those wishes where I did have control over the outcome, I had to wish hard, and work hard to have them granted. There's no way around it. Not that I know of at least.

When I was young, I wished for my brother to get it together. I wished for him to come home early from parties. To stay home on weekends. For my parents not to argue. For my dad to be happy. For them to understand me. Those wishes weren't granted, even though I wished hard for them.
But other wishes, like getting the jobs I interviewed for, getting accepted to the college and gradschool of my choice, winning contests, etc. they did. Most, at least. Because I worked for them. I wished them every chance I got, every 11:11 am/pm I came across, every eyelash I found, the first star I saw every night. But I also did everything I could to obtain them.

I still make wishes now. The same wish over and over again. The one I now know I want more than anything. I wish to be a photographer and a writer. Full time. Do them both for a living. And just like I told my student, I'll not only wish for it, but I'll work hard for it, because one day the wish will be granted even if I blow at the eyelash when it's already gone, or I look at the time and make the wish a minute after 11:11.

My California Dreamin'. His California Nightmare

#52Essays2017
Week 15


Last week, for spring break, John and I went to California. Again. Last year we went to San Diego, this time we went to San Francisco, and spent a day in Yosemite National Park.

There's something about California that I love. The weather perhaps. The numerous hiking trails. The

greenery. The tranquility. Coming from New York, it seems like the rest of the world is much more calm. San Francisco, although very city-ish, is still quieter. On a Saturday night, San Francisco's Union Square didn't have nearly half the amount of people you see on any street of Manhattan. 

  

I love New York. Sometimes I think I love it too much. I thrive on the loud, the hectic, the variety, the crazy, the sleepless. But I appreciate the silence and calmness of the outside world as well. Whenever I step out of NYC, but stay within the country, I see vast differences, and consider the possibilities of living wherever I am visiting. San Diego is up there on the list. The differences I see between NYC and other states are not so apparent to foreigners. I learned that in a cab ride in San Francisco.


It was 5:45 in the morning when John and I took an Uber from our hotel to another hotel where our bus tour was picking us up for Yosemite. Our cab driver was from Bombay, now living in San Francisco for the past 7 months. He came with his wife following his son, as he met and married a French girl during his time in college in California. He spoke about Bombay with such love and yearning. It was beautiful to listen to and painful at the same time. John and I listened and asked him questions. I mostly wanted to know how much he missed Bombay, and if he saw himself returning eventually.

"My son and wife want to stay. So I'm outnumbered. But I do miss it. You can't cross streets in Bombay. You have to hop in a taxi to cross streets" he laughed "But as crazy as it can be, it's crazier here"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Here, people are so worried about themselves. Only themselves. Work. Making money. Home. Eating. And the same thing over and over. They don't think about anything else. They have some fun on weekends, because they think it's the only time they are allowed to have fun. I think they are only living on weekends. That's not life."

"I guess you're right. I didn't think it was much like that here though. We're from New York, and I can definitely see what you're saying over there."

"Oh, I haven't been to New York, but I have heard it's worse than here."

After talking some more about the lifestyle he missed, and the one he had now and didn't yet get accustomed to, we start talking about politics. And this is how he described Americans when it came to politics:

"They're not very smart. They make decisions thinking about themselves only, and then when things go wrong, they regret having made that choice. But they don't learn from it. Because they do it again."

I stood quiet for a few seconds. I was in utter shock listening to how someone with fresh eyes, who barely has 7 months living in this country viewed us Americans. Perhaps I should've been offended. But I wasn't. I wasn't because I knew that so much of what he was saying was true. He wasn't trying to be disrespectful. We were having a conversation and he was simply voicing his views and opinions. Which are very valid if you ask me. He's not from here. He is now seeing and living life here coming from somewhere else. He can compare.

When we hopped out of the cab, I wished him well. I told him that he ever goes to NYC, to stop by 74th and Roosevelt in Jackson Heights, because he'll feel more at home with it's vast south asian shops and eateries. As we closed the cab door, right in front of us I saw a tiny restaurant 'Little Delhi', I turned around so I could show it to him as I pointed to it, but he had driven away. I then wondered if he had seen it. If we would go back home that night and tell his wife they had to dine there sometime. And then I supposed he probably didn't, because he was working, because he was making money, because in America details are so easily missed. Was he becoming Americanized without realizing? I hope not.

Is There Beauty in Fear?

#52Weeks2017
Week 14

Growing up I was extroverted and fearless. The extroversion and fearlessness lasted until middle school. I was then flooded with fears. Fear of bad grades, of disappointing my parents, my teachers, myself. Of getting caught doing, or even thinking something I wasn't supposed to. Of wanting too much. Of flying. Yes, of flying. I suddenly became deathly afraid of airplanes.

I've let go of many of my fears. I no longer care about disappointing anyone but myself. Bad grades? I'm done with school, and if there's any grading left to do, it will be on how much I learn, love and laugh in my life. So far, I'm giving myself an A+ with room for more pluses. On wrongdoing and getting caught, I only care about catching myself before I go deeper in the wrong, and if I do, find a way to dig myself out, and learn from it. Wanting too much? I want what I want, and no longer apologize for it. My wants, however, are different from what they were. I desire happiness and balance. That's all. 

But the one fear that persists is flying. * I write this as I'm sitting in between John (my husband) and a stranger, in a plane taking me from San Francisco to New York *

The day before a flight, the anxiety I've been successful at controlling for the past 2 years comes back. It lasts until I'm up in the air in a steady and smooth flight. Once I feel turbulence, it comes back full force. I close my eyes, shake my legs, breathe in and out, and pray under my breath. Pray to the universe. Pray to a God I don't know the name of, but I know is there. Once the turbulence passes, I look around me. People are sound asleep, reading, talking, watching movies. And then I wonder, why am I so afraid? Why does this happen Every. Single. Time?!

No matter how many times I fly, which I'm doing more of, I'm still terrified of being up here, somewhere in the sky, inside an overpowering, loud and shaky machine that for some reason takes control of my thoughts, emotions, and body. But why do I let it? How do I make it go away?

I hike. I love altitude when hiking, so when I travel I purposefully look for hikes that lead to beautiful sceneries from up above. I crave standing, walking, and photographing on the edge of beautiful solid earth and looking down. Down at nothing. At the abyss. John hates when I do that, but he knows it gives me such a thrill and happiness, that as much as he hates it, he just stands behind me and lets me be. 

I am often asked how can I not be afraid of heights, especially being so vulnerable standing on an edge with outside factors circulating, such as wind, a wrong step, feeling dizzy, etc, but feel afraid being in a plane, which is more secure. I am not quite sure what the answer is, but after thinking long and hard about it, I believe it's about control and trust. The control I have over my own body when standing on a precipice, and the trust I have in me that my body knows what it's doing and what it's feeling. I don't feel that while in a plane. I'm enclosed in a machine, up in the sky, flown by a pilot I do not know. My body then reacts to the lack of control. It wants to trust in itself but it can't because all power has been snatched away from it. 

I'm still flying. As I type, the plane is somewhere over Denver. There's moderate turbulence according to my app and what I feel. But I'm not shaking my leg. I'm obviously not closing my eyes. And I'm not praying. I'm on my phone typing away. Controlling my thoughts as I'm writing. My body is still at the mercy of this airplane, but my thoughts are coming back to me. They're quieting. My emotions aren't recklessly slipping away from me and doing as they please. My heart beats at a faster rate than usual, but it's not loud enough for me to hear, as it usually feels like when I'm in here. 

I perhaps won't ever get over this fear completely. I don't plan on not facing it either, because I want to travel and explore as that is part of my happiness; so getting on a plane and being 35,000 ft above ground is necessary. But writing through a flight, writing about what is going on in my head and chest throughout seems to help. Have I found a way to not only ameliorate my fear of flying, but create something beautiful out of something scary?

The Two Zones

#52Essays2017
Week 13


The school I work in provides us with professional development meetings every six weeks or so. As a speech and language therapist, it gives me more insight on what my kids are doing in the classroom, and for teachers it gives them time to plan as a group for the upcoming units. Last week, before any talking about future units occurred one of the assistant principals dimmed the lights and showed us a 5 minute TED Talk. It was about two important 'Zones' - the Learning Zone and the Performance Zone. Both zones are vital in all we do. We're either in one or the other. But for many reasons, we are typically stuck in one zone. We're stuck in the Performance Zone. Day and night. 24/7.

In all we do, work, hobbies, parenting, LIFE, we are usually in the performance zone. We perform. We do. We repetitively act on how and what we already know. This is how he explained it. I listened and knew it to be true. At least for me, in many aspects, it is true. As much as I hate to admit it, it felt as if it was being said solely to me. Loud and clear, with a dark background, and headlights on him. "Get out of the performance zone only, because nothing ever grows there" - ok Angie! Once again, this is it. Get out of it.

The performance zone is the zone that I am mostly in. Because when I perform I do what I know. I'm good at it. I've mastered it. I've already done it so many times that I know what to expect. The results are good, therefore I do it over and over again. It's pretty much my comfort zone.
I am typically in my performance zone at work with my kids. The materials, tasks, and strategies I use work, and the kids love them, so I use them over and over. Can I add more to my repertoire? Of course. Do I? Yes, but not as often as I would like to.

I also find myself in my Performance Zone in my art. With my photography and writing. Not because I love being there, but because it's what I know well and I like the results. When photographing, I usually have three or four compositions that I love. My hands tightly gripped on the camera swiftly, and automatically turn to those well known angles. The post processing is done with tools and programs, and clicks and shading that I am familiar with. Little frustration there. In writing, only my journal pages witnessed the bleeding of my pen. I read entries out loud or to a few friends, but nothing more.

But then I look back at photos I took 2 or 3 years ago, and realize I have been in the Learning Zone many points since, because I see growth. The lighting, colors, composition, focus, cleaner shots with less distraction. I can now pay attention to the entire picture, my subject and what surrounds it. The few workshops and classes I took, and self-taught practices brought me here. I look back at old journal entries and compare them to the ones I write now, as well as these essays, and realize my craft has improved. I no longer keep my writing in journals and for a few to know about, but publish them in a blog, weekly. And it's because at several points I've been in the Learning Zone in writing too. Inspiring workshops, more reading on the craft of writing, and giving myself more discipline in my writing practice, also brought me here. My Learning Zones merged with my Performance Zones, which is absolutely fine. That's the point. Learn it well, learn it deeply, put what I learn into practice, make it familiar, make it be a part of me. But I need to keep going back to my Learning Zone as much as possible. Because growth should never stop. Especially for the things I love.

If I could do less robotic performing and doing, and instead, do more learning, exploring and asking, I would be able to balance out my time in each zone, and prioritize the more important one. The Learning Zone.

Walking on Pretzel Sticks

#52Essays2017
Week 12


Yesterday I came across a video on Facebook of a man that stopped a fight between two african american teenagers. The video was recorded by one of the teenagers in the 'audience'. I say 'audience' because the fight had a crowd watching. They were their 'friends' who were amused by what was going on as they recorded, and laughed while they fought. This man, or hero, I should say, came in between them and not only stopped the fight, but asked them to look around. To look at their 'friends'. To observe how they recorded and laughed. They laughed at their anger, at their experience. They laughed at them. One of the teens involved in the fight breathed fast and heavily. He was visibly more angry than the other one. The video then jumped from the fight to the man receiving an award for having done what he did to and for these minority kids.

Unfortunately these common events don't always have a person like him to intervene. Most don't.
I could rant about how this is the government's fault. Because I believe it is. Not all may think so, but I do. Because it doesn't take a genius to figure out that our system is flawed. That it has failed them. It doesn't take a genius to come up with a list of these flaws and add bullets under each one with possible solutions. For example, getting rid of biased standardized educational curriculums and tests that continue to leave and push behind minority children even further. Putting them at a disadvantage from the very beginning of their educational journey, setting them up for failure. Or fixing the welfare system, that to me, is a bandaid or a cover up that disguises the true intentions of keeping them there generation after generation with little to no room for escape or growth. Or how about the disgusting use of third grade data to plan for prison beds? How dare they make a beautiful little boy into a number and reserve a bed for him in prison! Perhaps doing something about the education system to prevent the present and future minority third graders to fail, is a much better idea. No? Is it much more complicated than this? Absolutely. But we all know that proactivity is better than reactivity, so to me, it comes down to not caring enough to do anything about it. And when they pretend to do something, it's exactly that, pretending.
Ok, I did rant a little bit, but I'll stop there, because we cannot do much about that aspect. We have no control over that. But there are other things we do have control over. Which I will get to.

Going back to this particular event, the brave man was presented with an award. In the small ceremony, he was accompanied by his mother and the two teenagers he helped. Or better said, saved. Both teenagers are two of the lucky few who encountered someone in their lives who saved them from a future that has a path paved for them already. Thank the universe and all the heavens for these people. Because they're the ones who give these kids a chance at shifting the route of their destination. Sometimes these people are loving and strict parents who provide love and much needed discipline. Sometimes it's a teacher, a friend, a mentor. People who don't give up on these kids. People who take action time and time again, or simply do something amazing at the right time and the right place for someone who needs it at that specific moment in time. For this man, it was his mother. He spoke with tears in his eyes about living in the projects and going down the wrong path. But she never gave up on him. When he was young, she broke pretzel sticks and lined them up in the middle of their kitchen table, and explained the line to be the good path, the path he needed to be on, and the rest of the table being where he shouldn't be. Imagine that. What are the chances? But it's the sad truth. It's the world they face.

Many of these people are ones who've lived through it. People who needed a person like themselves when they were young. Others are people who are able to put themselves in these kids' shoes. Who don't look passed others' misfortunes. Who use what they have to help as much or however little they can. Wether they have a lot, have a little, have been through it or not, they're compassionate people. They are what this world needs more of.

We should thank them. For doing what they do, and being who they are. But more than thanking them, we should be one of them. Now, I am not saying to join a youth group and become a mentor 20 hours a week. We cannot, and should not do what is not in our hearts. But we can all be better people for ourselves and others, and make small differences. We can all do a little something. A little something that changes the mindset, or at least plants a little seed of thought into a young mind. Provide advise, listen and understand before judging, a hug. Sometimes that is more than enough. By doing this, their pretzel path of good becomes a little thicker. They'll have more room to walk on, and less chance of stepping onto the table.

"Da Hurst" and Jackson Heights

#52Essays2017
Week 11


I work in the neighborhood I grew up in. In the elementary school I attended as a child. The neighborhood I lived in until I was 15 years old, and went back to every weekend since I moved, because everything kept me attached to it. I couldn't let go of it. The streets, the people, the scents, the food. The familiar. It was my home. Elmhurst "Da Hurst" as we called it, and Jackson Heights, Queens.

I grew up in a one bedroom, turned 3 bedroom apartment. An old, four story building with huge bedrooms commonly converted into multiple bedroom apartments for the commodity of big families, or multiple families living in it. We were rather a small family. A family of 4, and our dog. The large bedroom had a sheetrock down the middle dividing my parents' room from mine and my brother's. Once my brother turned 13, and I 7, my parents thought it was important for each of us to have our own space. Thus, they divided our small space even further. I ended up with a tiny 10x6 'room'. Just enough for my twin-size bed and a night stand. I loved my room. It was my sanctuary.

This was the norm where I lived. I knew because I learned from friends, who aside from living with their immediate families, they also lived with aunts, uncles, cousins, and/or grandparents, in tiny one bedroom apartments, or studios.

Year after year, I filled my tiny room's walls with diplomas, certificates, and drawings. Until I turned 15. My parents then bought a one-family house in Woodhaven, Queens. A new neighborhood. Quiter and cleaner. With more houses than buildings. More trees than stores. Although in the same borough and a bus ride away, it was too far for me. Woodhaven wasn't Elmhurst. It wasn't Jackson Heights.

Let me tell you why where I grew up in, exactly two blocks south from Roosevelt Avenue and the 7 train was, and is so special.

The people. Both neighborhoods are inundated with Latinos. Although from different countries and backgrounds. We speak the same language. We understand each other. Having neighbors that know and appreciate your food, your language, your customs, your struggles, is comforting. As a kid, growing up with other Latino children in school, in my building, and in my block, contributed to my sense of identity. I played with children who looked like me. I spoke to them in the language that was spoken to me at home. We sat on our stairs eating the same or similar foods. We played similar games. We used similar phrases. We had similar clothing styles. We were raised alike. We celebrated the same holidays and had the same traditions. And if there were particular traditions or holidays that differed, we were still so young that we learned about them, adopted them, and celebrated them too. My mom's best friend is Colombian. She was our next door neighbor. She was more like my second mom. If I wasn't home, I was in hers, listening and dancing to cumbia, salsa and vallenatos as she cooked. Eating arepas and sancocho several times a week. I grew up braiding my culture with others, and ended up with a solid, colorful, long braid of cultures that were made into one. It was distinctly mine.

My building was so small that all of us knew each other. Some neighbors were closer to others. There was a group of neighbor friends who watched important soccer games outside, in front of the building. I joined them every time. Who took the television outside and how they made the connection is beyond me. But it's one of my fondest memories. The World Cup and Copa America games were unforgettable.

A very symbolic and iconic person in Jackson Heights is a Colombian man who rides his bike entertaining passerby's. His beard is always dyed colorfully, he wears a dress, has a parrot on his head, and carries a poodle in his arms. He makes pit stops and tells jokes, and interacts with people, many who know him by name. Even those who don't, wave at him every time he's seen. He's carefree, jolly, free-spirited. He spreads a little bit of all that as he rides his bike through those noisy, busy streets.

The food. There was nothing like buying tamales from the lady on the corner of 90th and Roosevelt on Sunday mornings. Or drinking cafe Colombiano at a young age every morning before going to school. The aromas coming from Latino restaurants and street vendors all through Roosevelt avenue, disguised the polluted air and called you in as you passed by. The scents of your building, or your friends' buildings at dinner time were so inviting, that if your neighbors and you were more like friends and family than mere neighbors, you knocked their door and helped yourself to a plate.

The noise. The lady in 82nd and Roosevelt with her supermarket cart yelling "obleas, obleas, obleas, salpicon, avena!" The lady on the opposite corner shouting "bateria, bateria, bateria!" The loud preacher on the other corner trying to save souls and reassuring their entrance to heaven. The deafening, always crowded and iconic 7 train. A train that takes hardworking, beautifully blended and an incredibly diverse amount of people to their destination. A train that everyone in Queens has a love-hate relationship with.

The diversity. Yes, Elmhurst and Jackson Heights is home to Latinos. But both neighborhoods are also homes to an incredible number of different countries and cultures. Jackson Heights is one of the most diverse places in the city. Walk from 74th street to Junction Blvd on Roosevelt avenue, and back on 37th avenue. and you'll feel like you're walking through different countries. Restaurants and stores on and near 74th street are predominantly South Asian. Colorful sari and jewelry stores envelope you. Keep walking up and you'll go from hearing Indian and Bengali music to Mexican cumbias and rancheras. You won't miss the delicious scent of Mexican tacos, and mazorca con queso coming from restaurants and food carts. As you journey on, in between 82nd and 90th streets you'll encounter an overwhelming number of Colombian, Peruvian, and Ecuadorian restaurants. You won't know whether to have bandeja paisa, pollo a la brasa, or bolon de verde for lunch. Countries and cultures in Jackson Heights are so intricately sectioned, but at the same time so beautifully blended, I think it's safe to say that the neighborhood is the physical definition of New York's melting pot.

Friends. My nearest and dearest friends are the same kids I met in elementary school, and journeyed middle school and High School with me as well. The same ones who lived a few buildings from mine, or no more than 3 blocks away. Many have moved, and some have stayed. But they all know exactly what I am talking about. They are familiar with every word. They may even be able to add things I've missed. Because they lived it. We hung out in front of their buildings everyday after school eating Wise chips, Doritos and Twinkies. We cut school together. We knew each other's parents. We had the same dreams of making it in life meanwhile loving every bit of where we were from and doing life the way we did. We get together now and talk about the good old days, our neighborhood, the streets, and how easily it was to get lost in them and end up on the wrong path. Not because our neighborhood was overly dangerous, but because due to the socioeconomic, educational and immigrant status of families, parents are forced to work excessive amount of hours, and children end up raising themselves. We saw many friends get lost. Not from our close-knit group, but many that we grew up with, talked to, and even hung out with. They walked down the wrong path to their own downfall and demise. And although we know this about the streets we walked on, we loved it and love it still. Because it shaped us. Because wherever we go and whoever we may become, Elmhurst and Jackson Heights, comes with us.



Working in my childhood elementary school as a speech-language therapist is probably not much of a coincidence, or because there are no positions for me in other schools. Of course there are, and much closer to where I live now. But there are still strings that attach me to these neighborhoods. There's beauty in listening and understanding my kids' lives. Not by trying to put myself in their shoes and feeling pity, but by actually having walked in their shoes and recalling the familiarity of what they are going through and feel. There's beauty in appreciating the honesty and rawness of their feelings as they share their experiences with me. Experiences and feelings I know all too well, or saw those close to me live them.

Growing up I wanted more. I wanted less noise, less crowd, a bigger home, cleaner streets. I wanted an 'upgrade' on all that surrounded me. It's not that I didn't love or enjoy my neighborhood. I did. But I had an unfulfilled desire for more. Perhaps my imagination made satisfaction an unrecognizable concept. Although I have now what I wanted back then, I miss my neighborhood. I appreciate the noise, the crowd, the streets. I come back everyday for work. But when I am back to visit a friend, or obtain something that only Elmhurst or Jackson Heights can give me, I walk down memory lane. I smell the air I smelled before. The sights take me back and I cherish every corner. I am beyond grateful to have grown up in an immigrant neighborhood. To have been exposed to a different type of knowledge. One that books can't teach. I am grateful to have thrived here. There's no where else I would have preferred to grow up in.


* This blog post inspired me to collaborate with a friend. One I grew up with, and knows these words to be true. We will embark in a photographic journey that has our hometown in the heart of it. * 
Stay tuned :)

Photos taken by: Davidson Miranda 

Oh My Dog!

#52Weeks2017
Week 10

This is probably the piece that has been the most difficult to start. Yet, the subject is what I love the most in life. What has taught me most in life. What motivates me. What occupies the softest part of my heart. Dogs. Especially my dog, Bernard. I just love him so much. I love them all. I'll tell you how much.

When I was in 2nd grade I accidentally saw in the news how dogs were being tortured in Korea. My parents had no time to turn the TV off or change the channel, as my mom and dad fumbled through the couch and cushions looking for the remote control to no avail. I had seen enough. I didn't sleep that night. I cried so much I can still feel the heaviness in my chest when I think back to that night. I was hurting for them. At the time my two best friends were Asian. I didn't know exactly from what country. But at that age we're learning about life, and we create our own categories, and I immediately placed them in that group. The next day I saw them, and did not want to speak to them. So I didn't. I later told them as my voice quivered, why I was never going to speak to them again. Again, I was in second grade. I didn't know any better. My teacher spoke to me, and called my mother. I learned I was wrong, and so I apologized to my friends, who accepted my apologies, or probably had no clue as to what I was talking about or apologizing for, and we quickly became friends again. However, the image that was recorded in my brain, still produced the same pressure in my chest. The same sadness. The same anger.

I loved dogs so much that in elementary school I was convinced I was going to be accepted to Cornell University to their veterinary program. Until I soon learned that my responsibilities as a veterinary included performing surgeries, watching them pass away, and crying with families as they said their last goodbyes. That's when I changed my mind.

In 5th grade, I found several of my dog brother Wolfy's puppy teeth around my house. I collected 4 and took them to school to show them off with pride. They never returned home with me, as I lost them in the cafeteria. That night I hugged him and cried into his fur. I had lost a treasure.

When I was 9, I tried refuting our family pastor's theory that animals don't go to heaven. I felt especially offended with his remark as my younger brother, Wolfy, was a dog. The pastor had not died and gone to heaven. He didn't have a family member who walked down from heaven and given him the 411. How would he know? I refused to believe him. So, after the sermon, I decided to ask him where he had obtained that information from. "The Bible" he responded. At 9 years old, my heart learned that the Bible wasn't a reliable source, especially if it stated such things; and second, God, no matter what religion, was the definition of love, why would he reject animals? What was so special about us humans? I asked for the verse, but he didn't know it. I then, tried to prove my point as to why animals did go to heaven. And lastly, I decided that not only the Bible, but he, also, was no longer reliable to me. Wolfy was going to heaven, no matter what he said, no matter how he or anyone thought life after death worked. No one knows how that's going to go down anyway. The only thing I was sure of was that Wolfy was more deserving of a heaven than him, and most people I knew.

Growing up, whenever I was asked about my siblings, I always said I had two. Wolfy was the first one mentioned. My response was something like this "I have two brothers, Wolfy is the youngest, he's a German Shepherd/Husky mix, and my older brother, Jose." I got some laughs, some weird looks, some "me too!" The answer I gave wasn't to be cute, to be funny, or to obtain any type of response, it was just the truth. It was my truth.

I taught my dad to love dogs. He grew up not having any pets, and the only reason he accepted Wolfy was because I begged for him. I taught him to understand them. To pet them. I showed him that they had feelings and emotions, through numerous books I borrowed from our local library, and by giving him examples of Wolfy's behaviors that reflected his emotions. I cried when he didn't show Wolfy affection the way I thought only Wolfy desereved. Until he did. Until I saw him cry when Wolfy passed away. Then I realized my dad had changed. His heart now had a soft spot for dogs because I was stubborn. Because I didn't accept bland treatment or indifference. Because he had to say hi and bye to him upon entering and leaving our home. Because he had to wear a birthday hat and sing happy birthday to Wolfy for 13 years. Because I insisted and didn't accept anything but love from his part towards Wolfy. Because Wolfy himself taught my dad how to love dogs. How to love him.


After Wolfy's passing, Bernard came into my life. My fur-son. He has taught me and continues to teach me a whole different set of life lessons. He has helped me discover some layers of myself I probably wouldn't have discovered, had it not been for him. Because of Bernard I say with pride, that I am a dog photographer. He motivates me. He pushes my boundaries. He's not only my muse but somehow he has guided me to other dogs, to shelter dogs. To use my talents to help them. I am now an artist member for HeARTS speak, a global community of artists and advocates who provide their professional services pro-bono to save the lives of shelter pets through art. All because of Bernard.

I look at what I do and where I am now, and look back at all my experiences with Wolfy, Bernard, and dogs in general. They have taught me so much. So much more than college courses, than books I've read. They have taught me loyalty, compassion, love, friendship, unconditionality, forgiveness, happiness, joy, self care, and more importantly, to live in the moment.

They have taught me the real deal. The important things in life. Life lessons taught without a board, without a book, without a word. They were taught through example, through simply living.

Thank you Wolfy. Thank you Bernard. Thank you beautiful dogs!

In the Midst of the Unknown

#52Essays2017
Week 9


When tia was diagnosed with stomach cancer 12 years ago, it was a shocker to the family. She was 49 years old. She was the 6th of 8 siblings. She was my caregiver during my parents' long work hours. She was the strong one, the funny one, the glue that held the family together. 'Anyone but her', I'm sure everyone thought. One of her sisters traveled to the states to care for her during the time span of radiation and chemotherapy. Her husband worked, and her children were too young; 15 and 9.

The entire family had faith a miracle would happen. A religious faith that kept everyone going. Everyone prayed incessantly. Tia's family in Peru gathered to pray the rosary and light up candles to different saints. I had never seen, experienced and felt so much faith and hope before. So many acts of religious beliefs. Their belief that a miracle would occur was strong. However, from the start, the prognosis was not a good one. She was given 6 months to live with chemo and radiation. Perhaps less without it. Given the prognosis, some may view these acts of faith as being in denial.

Tia was diagnosed in October, and passed away on a rainy day in June of the following year. Thirteen days after her daughter's 10th birthday. Yes, she outlived the 6-months prognosis. But the prayers and faith, if they had anything to do with it, only gifted her those 2 extra months.

The way I see it...
Faith is a wonderful thing. It's a powerful feeling and belief for good and beauty in the midst of the unknown. In the midst of tragedy. And although I was one of them, who prayed and believed, or wanted to believe that she would be ok, something in me didn't believe as hard as the rest. Now I understand what that something was. It was the not yet discovered understanding of life. The knowledge that we have very little control over it. Yes, faith still is a beautiful thing. I think what makes it beautiful is that it makes us feel like we have some control over a situation, "if I have faith, it will happen." If it does happen, it was because of faith. If it doesn't, our faith wasn't strong enough.

I have faith in many things. I feel it. However, I think there is one universal truth, regardless of who we are, our beliefs, our religion, and the strength of our faith, or lack thereof, we can't control life, and we must accept it as it comes. Because life does as it pleases, and asks for no one's permission, and most likely cares very little about our hopes.

Still... we must believe that it'll be nice, and play out in our favor once in a while.

RIP Tia

The 'Shoulds' of Life

#52Essays2017
Week 8

When a couple dates for longer than a few years, they're asked when they are getting engaged. Once they are engaged, they're asked when they're getting married. Once they are married, they're then asked when they're having a baby. And believe it or not, once the first baby arrives, they're asked when will that baby have a sibling. I too, was guilty of asking those questions.

Those automatic, rote, habitual questions, are exactly that. Habitual. We ask them because in our minds, and in most cultures, it's the order of events in life. However, as innocent as these questions may seem, they shape minds, they set in stone a template, a scheduled plan that 'should' be followed. We find and date several significant others, time and time again, until 'the one' arrives. Once he/she comes into our lives, the pressure is on. We count down the days to engagement. The counting becomes even more intense after the engagement up until the wedding day. And then baby comes. And another, and maybe another. These human beings follow life's plan down to a T. 

Good for the ones that really envision their lives this way. Those who dream and truly know that that is what they want. 

But I am sure that there are many who think they want to walk down life's most common path, but really don't. Those who are influenced and pressured, and 'should' all over themselves given the examples set forth in their families, and constant questioning once they reach a certain age. Thus, they think they want what most want, but realize they actually don't later on in life. Those who rather live their lives traveling alone or with someone else, or simply love their solitude, enough to not want to have another human being next to them 24/7. Some are strong and true to themselves, and know early on they don't fit in the popular cookie cutter. Others realize a little later that they went down a path that has been paved over and over again, and decide that it's time to change routes. 

My husband and I have been together for almost 13 years. 2 years out of the 13, married. Given the pattern of events in my life, the next step would be kids. However, we have recently realized that children is not something we see in our future. At least not at the moment. Both our parents want grandchildren. We are asked time and time again when kids will come. The famous questions, that put little pressure to those who have an expected and adequate answer, but somewhat annoying to those, like us, who answer differently, leaving the other party a bit baffled with little to say. 

So given the stage in which we're in, should we have children? in the eyes of the world, yes, in our eyes, no. We shouldn't do anything we don't want to do, regardless of the pressure, regardless of the set-in stone life patterns. I've never been good with routine, normalcy, and typical. I am recently starting to embrace that side of me, and discovering and/or creating myself in ways I hadn't before. And I'm lucky to have someone by my side who accepts that about me, and is learning that he too, can see beyond the normal. 

Will we have kids? Maybe one day. And when, and if, that day comes, it will be because in my heart that is exactly what I want.