I used to be a poet and creative writer. Well, once upon a time, that is. My freshman year English Teacher was so impressed with my writing he insisted I join Young Chicago Authors. I was flattered, until I realized I just signed up to wake up every Saturday morning for an extra class… My 14 year old self instantly regretted that decision until-the outlet relief drove me to pour words into journal after journal. It was therapeutic, it was freeing, it was identifying, it was validating-it was ME. Fast forward to three kids, full time work, part time college, marriage, family , sick parents, loss, LIFE-got in the way of any words I thought would bless any page. I could not think clearly enough to dedicate myself to my craft. But, here I am, making MYSELF believe I have something of substance to share, to say, to write. Here. I. Go.
I’m not sure of anything. All I know is that, at any moment, life will surprise me. It will bring me to my knees, and when it does, I will remind myself, I will remind myself that I am my father. And I am my father’s father. I am my mother. And I am my mother’s mother. And while it may be easy to wallow in the tragedies that shape our lives, and while it’s natural to focus on those unspeakable moments that bring us to our knees, we must remind ourselves that if we get up, if we take the story a little bit farther… If we go far enough, there’s love. ~Life Itself
A while back, I listened to a T.D. Jakes sermon about families torn apart by divorce. Something he said struck me hard. He said that everyone bleeds when this happens, the couple as well as the children, everyone bleeds. That imagery was so raw. When we think about it, divorce can be very similar to a surgery, the precise cutting away of a life that will cease to exist in one way and patched together (hopefully) to function in a new way. But the scars remain… There is a tearing away of flesh on all sides. No one is spared. Even in mutual friends and in-laws must adjust. People you love subtly asked to pick a side. The wreckage is brutal at times. There is no easy way that leaves us unscathed. It doesn’t exist. Everyone bleeds.
I was five years old when my Daddy left. I remember the day vividly. It was Easter morning. Mami was getting our dresses ready to have dinner with our family at my Abuelita’s house. Food smells and morning rituals wafted in the air. I sat quietly on the toilet watching Papi shave. I admired his precision and patience as he carefully removed his prickly stubble. He began to talk in between the rasping noise of the blade. He kept a calm tone, he didn’t choke or waver in any way. He didn’t sound afraid or angry. He sounded simply informative and soft. He told me he would be staying with my uncle for a while. That he would always be here for me and my sister, a detail that seemed way to heavy for my five year old heart. He simply would not live in the same house with us anymore. Everything would change in this moment.
In my small mind I began to connect the dots. Papi had just arrived the night prior back from a trip to Florida that he took alone. The night before their bedroom door was closed, covering their faces but not muffling their yelling. We were too close to miss it as we got tucked into the sofa bed by our Abuelita. The living room was just across their bedroom. Our proximity to the moment that would tear our family apart for good separated by a weak door. Abuelita handed me my hot chocolate and I asked what they were yelling about. She replied that they were likely fighting over what my mother would wear to Easter dinner the next day. We would get our annual Easter baskets via Daddy drive by. I was so confused. All I had known was altered. A togetherness among us all that would take decades to mend.
A while later, Papi took us for the weekend. He had a small and very clean apartment. It had a sun-filled, bright kitchen but it still didn’t feel like home. Such odd displacement to have breakfast at a table without our Mami. I remember a small living room with orange walls that made me feel like I was inside of a flame. I felt hot anytime I sat on the couch. My baby sister was so little, I think she had just begun walking. I remember her discovering the rooms in our new weekend oasis in her fleece onesie sleeper. She seemed to adapt quickly as I sat with such confusion. She didn’t know my parents together as one for very long. Me waking them up to ask them for cereal and milk on Saturday mornings as they attempted to sleep in. She would not remember the parties they threw together that filled our living room with what felt like every neighbor on our block. Everyone dancing to my Dad’s impeccable play list. He was so proud of their record collection and loud speakers. Heels and big hair. Papi made sure Mami was dolled up for every occasion. My baby sister would not get to see that for long, if she could remember at all. Everything after that Easter morning felt like a blur of uncertainty and division.
My baby sister and I were so blessed with a Papi who remained present and consistent after the divorce. The two critical pieces beyond love and provision that parents can give. Presence and consistency. We could set a clock every other Friday practically down to the minute we knew Papi was pulling up in front of our house to spend the weekend with him. The routine became reliable. We had pizza or spaghetti (the ONLY thing he knew how to make at the time), a movie and bedtime. Saturdays we usually went on some sort of adventure. Parks, playdates and walks. Oh, and ice cream, there was always ice cream.
Several years later, Papi was not well, emotionally. He temporarily moved back into our home. I had no real understanding of why but all of a sudden, our bedroom became his. Mami would still have us sleep in there on the nights he never made it home. Confusion and unrest filled the air again. They seemed to be getting along well but Papi was far from ok. Then came the moment Papi felt I needed to be informed of. This time, there was no calm in his voice. He was on the floor, face first, sobbing. My Mother was kneeling over him and doing her best to console him. At one point, I could hear him pleading with my mother. He wanted to tell me something and Mami disagreed. Then he just let it come out of his mouth as he told me, “I am gay.” I don’t think I even knew exactly what it meant and had such limited exposure as to what the definition of that really meant. My parents had me in a Christian school, there was no conversation there about that. I suppose TV and eavesdropping was the extend of my education on homosexuality. My mother’s face loosened up. She was defeated and there was nothing left to say, she surrendered. Papi searched my face for a reaction and I honestly don’t remember feeling surprised or affected by this seemingly “big” news. It didn’t change who Papi was to ME. He was my Dad, my provider and protector. Who he loved seemed so insignificant to our relationship.
As an adult, I wonder how my Mother felt when he told her. Was she humiliated when she had to tell her family and friends? Did she question her femininity? Did she have her doubts or connections once she knew the truth? Did she question every “I love you” he spoke to her? My heart hurt for her. She was his wife for eleven years. Was it all a lie? I have also empathized deeply with my Father’s journey as a gay man living with such a huge secret. Denying who he was must have felt like a slow internal death. I regret never asking him what made him finally tell my Mother the truth. I am certain that was one of the hardest things he ever had to do, knowing it would rip us apart as a family and crush my Mother’s heart. He had to risk everything to be honest with each person he loved.
Seasons changed. The dust of the divorce began to settle and Papi insisted on helping Mami learn to drive and even dressed her for dates. My Mother learned to drive in her early 30’s and she would never, EVER drive on the highway, even later in life. We used to joke that it would take her days to get to us if we were ever stranded in another state. My parents began to hang out like old friends and we loved seeing them laugh in our living room together again. That didn’t last once my mother met her new boyfriend. He wasn’t comfortable with their closeness one bit.
The circumstances around my parent’s divorce were unique. They got along, they built a life, they made children. They had so much fun together. No one laughed like them and even their bickering was like a comedic routine at times. Papi was with my Mom when she took her last breath. He massaged her, stroked her hair and made her absolutely insane until she left us. He sat next to her hospital bed. He cried over her. He promised her he would be there for us, that he would love us through the pain of losing her.
And when the time came for Papi to accept that his time on earth was near end, my Aunt asked him…. “Who do you want to greet you when you arrive to the other side? Papi tearfully answered, “I want it to be Lucy.” (My Mom.) Their love for one another was real, messy, tragic at times. There were years of disconnect in between. Violence and words that could not be taken back. Hurt and anger. Resentment and court. We rode all the waves and I was in therapy at a very young age over the depression and fear this and other traumas had me experiencing. My high school graduation has no photo of us as a family, they could not even stand to sit near one another. Years and years of grudges. Until Mia. During my pregnancy, my mother was going through the second huge heartbreak of her life and she and Papi bonded once again. The first man to hurt her was the one that would support her through her last romantic heartbreak. The excitement to become grandparents, the sharing of her newness united them in a way that could never be broken again.
*Disclaimer: I am not an advocate of divorce. I love to see family’s working it out. I just wanted to share my story and personal experience from the perspective of the child(ren) at the center. My parent’s story is unique and co-parenting did not always come easy for them. Their divorce had very painful and ugly moments, we all bled. My parents were essentially divorced twice each, my grandparents on both sides were divorced as well. Could this generational curse end with me? God knows how desperately I hope so. Marriage isn’t easy, we have to die to ourselves in loving service daily. Forgiveness becomes a daily practice. But the shared moments with one another and our children are where it’s at. If you are considering it, please pray and do the self-work and family effort. Truth is, we never escape that work anyway. Your family (and mine) deserve that fighting chance!
If I am being honest, I am tired about writing about grief. I am tired of my heart aching all on its own when this month arrives. I am tired of having to work so hard to smile and push through the days I wish I could just hide under the covers and cry. It’s old. I don’t want sympathy, it won’t bring them back. I am not angry or unappreciative of the concern, I just wish I didn’t need it. I woke up yesterday morning with a headache. I had been sobbing in my dreams and crossed it over somehow when I woke up. Sometimes my dreams force me to release what I can’t seem to do awake. It’s so hard. To miss them, to know they won’t be back. To know that I can’t run to them when I feel sad, sick or overwhelmed with life. And MAN is life overwhelming these days. It’s like a buffet of all-you-can-worry at our disposal!
Making a moment to moment intentional choice to focus on the good is a skill I have not mastered, but trust me your girl is trying. Some days the best I can do is just surrender to it all. Leave all the feelings off the cuff and hang out like dirty laundry. Be authentic, admit the bad days are bad and just endure it. Cry, snap at the simple stuff and just feel what you gotta feel cuz… Then you can cross over to the other side. The side that holds hope. This can’t last forever because life on this side of heaven ends. We know that for sure. I hold onto the promise of a reunion. A glorious party of reconciliation that is entirely clear of sickness, violence and fear. Maybe this is the beginning of an end. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. We must mourn what once was and prepare for what is to come. Make peace with what we cannot control. Surrender to the daily reality and let the peace of that surrender seep into my bones. It’s all I can do. Cuz, I’m tired. Tired of feeling sad and pensive. Tomorrow will get better, and if it doesn’t, I will hold onto the hope that the following day will be. The sun will continue to rise, the moon continue to light up the darkness. Whatever comes will come. I will continue to work at wringing all the joy I possibly can out of each day. We owe it to one another to try. And then wake up and try again.
And when I am done feeling sorry for myself, I remind myself that they left pieces of them behind. In us. We walk out the dreams they began. The ones they loved to life through us. We hear them in the things we say. They just could not bear to leave us entirely. I hear her voice in my voice, in my sister’s voice. My brother jokes like her and my sister looks just like her. I feel them when I move. I feel the expression on my face and know my mouth is pressed just like my mother’s. She would make this face when she was concentrating that I can actually FEEL on my face when I do the same.
Nothing will ever prepare us to release our loved ones entirely. It’s unnatural and if you are a believer, you know that our hearts were designed for eternity. All this grief is temporary, the parts we miss will return. They will be made whole again. In the meantime, we honor them in the mission they began in us. The way they prioritized us, their children, the way they celebrated and connected with family. We take it a step further and create memories for our children with some of the old and so much new. It is our duty to them, to live out the days they wish that they could. We carry those parts with honor and dignify them with how we live.
They brought her home. Papi taped up “NO SMOKING” signs all over the house. He presented me with this little living cherub doll wrapped up snuggly. She made me sleepy to look at, she seemed so cozy. I don’t think I understood that this little human would never leave. My parents must have suspected I would be incredibly confused and possibly insanely jealous so they softened the blow with a little “bribe” gift. Cabbage Patch dolls were all the rage and it wasn’t a doll, YET, but it was a playset that held me off long enough not to bite my chunky baby sister in a fit. She was so quiet but that didn’t last long. She was a colic baby. I was THE most tired kindergartener EVER in life. I would just watch her cry and wonder how they thought I would be able to sleep through her wailing, it was a joke. And so our adventure into sisterhood began.
I had a dream a few years after my baby sister’s birth that I was holding her hand to cross the street and all of a sudden, she deflated like a balloon. I began to panic and cry in my dream. I look back on that knowing that my hold on her, watching over her, can be suffocatingly tight. I can’t help it. I get so defensive of her and will fight anyone in a second if they mess with her. That’s not to say I was the best big sister, I was NOT. I bullied her until she got big enough to stop me. She was Daddy’s baby and I always felt this “she’s the baby, just give her what she wants” energy that would make me act out. Maybe because we were latch key kids so young, too. I always had this tag-along I was responsible for so my frustration would come out in not so nice ways. I better apologize for that but then again… She had her ways of getting me back. Stealing my clothes and make up and I remember one time she brought my bra outside for all the neighborhood boys to see in an attempt to embarrass me. (It didn’t work. I was pretty proud of needing a bra, thank-you-very-much!) It’s what sisters do, right? We would fight and then laugh. We didn’t have a choice, we were stuck with one another, no matter how crazy we made each other, we were all we had. Abuelita used to remind us of that constantly. She would tell us, “that is your ONLY sister. You girls need each other.” No truer statement has been made.
We have held one another through the loss of our parents, through the birth of our girls and all of life’s hurts. We have pushed one another to grow and face our shit when no one else will be THAT honest with us. We have fought and reflected, and apologized.
My sister is such an incredible mother. I always knew she would be. When we were little, she took such pride in cooking and serving others. She just had that nurturing piece- it was always prominent. She is artistic and wise. We joke all the time about who is prettier but I fully know the truth deep down, she is drop dead gorgeous. A perfect reflection of my father’s heart shaped lips and my mother’s smile. Camille is blessed with Papi’s fashion sense ALL the way. She rocks her outfits like a walking piece of fine art. She pushes me to venture out of my comfort zone in what I wear and how I wear it. I will never match her creative fashion funk. We admire and celebrate our unique styles. Camille is my biggest cheerleader and she is the best friend that knows all my ugly loving me anyway.
This month she celebrates her 37th birthday and I wish so very much for her. Probably too much cuz that’s what my overbearing big sister self does. Lol! I am so proud of her and I KNOW my parents are overjoyed with who she is and has yet to become. It’s just us and our baby brother left of our immediate family. It is on us to carry out the legacy of our loving parents to our children. We feel the heaviness of doing that WELL every single day. Please join me in wishing her the happiest birthday and BEST new year of life. I pray that it brings an overflowing of blessings and happiness! This one’s for you Special Sissy!!!
I want to apologize, in advance, if I offend anyone. My hope is that this piece invokes unity, compassion, empathy for those hurting along with a motivation to work on our hearts. We desperately need a better tomorrow. In my opinion (that I am fully aware not everyone will agree with) the state of the world today is a direct reflection of the condition of our hearts. We have some deep healing to do, and by we, I mean the entire human race.
I will not pick a side. I care about human beings. Black people, people of color and immigrants are human beings!
For that matter, so are white people.
How have we arrived to this? Dehumanizing is how we got here, remember? Police & law enforcement officers are human, too. Both people of color and police are being hunted, villainized and bullied. Both are hurting for this City. All of us are scared for our communities or lack thereof. Love your neighbor as you love yourself. Where is the love? Where is the call to correct in having the hard conversations about FEAR, vulnerability and healing? Who benefits from this incitement of hate and hurt? Looting isn’t a balm for us, it is a raping of our morals.
It is another pathway to cage us. Is a black police officer a family of blue and no longer a black life that matters?
What is your weapon of choice?
Will you allow it to be love?
Do you dare to cover your neighbor no matter who they voted for?
Who started this cancel culture trend and how soon before they get cancelled?
Being woke is so much deeper than the latest conspiracy theory and regurgitated tweets.
I am hoping not to lose people in one sentence. Please hear my broken heart.
We need to see the bigger strategy here. We have a REAL enemy & we distracted af.
No one wins when we praise hatred over humanity.
I was about five years old when I had my first negative encounter with police. Yes, FIVE years old. My father was chased down by the police, and handcuffed in front of my very pregnant mother and my five-year old sobbing self. He had run down the street yelling at a woman on a bike who scratched the door of his brand new Mazda. The biker had headphones on and was possibly ignoring my brown father in a rage over his property being ruined so carelessly. He worked two jobs to support us and this was his first brand new car. He brought it home with plastic still covering the seats. Maybe he should have handled things differently. Retrospect will invade our thoughts for years if we let it. So, here we are in the backseat of a squad car. My mother didn’t know how to drive so they towed us all in with my Dad still in cuffs. The police-woman looked at me with disgust and repeated “shut up, kid. Stop crying.”
Here’s the thing. I have a whole new grace for this scenario. Maybe the police-woman never had children. Maybe the sound of my crying was giving her a headache. Maybe my Dad had said something mean to her before she met me? This was not her finest moment, clearly. But, in all fairness, I have had some pretty shameful moments in my lifetime. I once grabbed a woman’s face in my hands like she was a child, in my own fury, a total stranger. I humiliated her just like I was humiliated as a child by that police officer. I felt weak and afraid as a child so I transformed that into “power” over someone else who did not deserve that disrespect. In the end, pain will make us do some -ish, will it not? The scars on our hearts will play out real ugly and if we aren’t careful, will lead us into some serious self-destruction.
My point is. Aren’t we all hurt people hurting people? Can it be that simple?
The system is broken, I will NOT deny that fact. It is a set up for people of color, the poor and the nameless. We are pressed on every side and then expected to act accordingly. And it was built during a time when we had no voice. But now we do. Question is… how will we proceed?
We are alive, concerned, passionate, sensitive to what is happening around us… But most of all-we are RESPONSIBLE for how we move forward. I want to move forward from a healed heart, not a hate-filled one. How ‘bout you?
How many women have body image issues? How often do we scan our bodies in the mirror and magnify every “imperfection?” I wish this was bigger, this was smaller, this was tighter, this was a different color (hello bogus red stretch marks)! As a little girl, I was always chubby, nah-I was obese. I am still considered obese in clinical terms, I am sure. However, there are days when I feel like each and every part of my body is a celebration. In these trying times, having our health is an actual luxury. There is an awareness of each part that does what it was made to do. Legs that can walk me to work. Arms that can hug my children. A womb that has carried life, as well as lost it. My body has endured sexual trauma, car accidents, bumps and scrapes, illnesses and two surgeries. I admit that I have betrayed my own body with what I have allowed to take over my space. Self sabotage comes in many forms. Toxic connections I have confused as love or intimacy that left me defiled. Anger I have allowed to make a home inside of me and explode in violence. I owed my body more honor than disgrace. Allowing it to marinate in self hate, even if mildly, conforms destruction from the inside out. Feeding myself poison rather than fueling with nutrition. Yet, on other occasions, I have loved my body and made it my greatest project, filling it with greens and carving muscles with exercise. There is a constant tension with what I wish I could change and what I have accepted as all mine. After 42 years of connection, you begin to embrace what you are and what you aren’t, in all ways, especially the cavity you move in.
A good friend of mine is planning a celebration of… the removal of her uterus. A farewell party, if you will. Yes. It is been the source of great joy and life bearing as well as the source of excruciating pain. She has decided it is time, to part ways with this sacred organ. She is eager and grateful because their journey has been everything transformative that has, however, run its course. I imagine that our bodies carry more than just blood and guts-they carry soul ties to experiences that have molded our hearts.
My wise Titi (Aunt) told me that we must have connection with our bodies, in more than the physical. We must become aware of the soul work we place in them, it’s not just a physical effort, it is an entire experience of movement worth embracing. We cannot detach ourselves from these vital temples. They are more than a shell, worthy of delightful care.
The truth is our bodies deteriorate by the minute, and replenish, too. Each step is “mileage” placed. Cells die and others are born. Is that too scientific? It shouldn’t be. Our bodies are vehicles of love, service, pain, dance and ecstasy. Each part created with intention. Driven to carry out purpose. They are worthy of our celebration, care and farewell.
She is magical, this one. I can tell in her cry. Robust and sure of herself, and it’s only the first minute of her life. Isabella was born on 7/20/2009 at 9:07a.m. weighing in at 7 lbs 9 ounces. We all joked that someone should play the lotto. My compadre went ahead and did it for fun and he won! We all felt like winners that day. A smooth delivery and healthy baby and Mom. What more could we wish for?
I recall her laugh, in the middle of the night, during a bonding breast-feeding moment. I took a look at her as I pulled her away from me and she belly laughed, only a couple chuckles but enough to fill my weary heart with so much joy. She was days old, when most babies just smile, she openly laughed. She was already so very extraordinary, this one.
I had been a mother before, twice, in fact. One via birth and one inherited-both very unique journeys but none like this one. It would be my last hurrah as a mommy. I was done after this one. She would be my last little delicious bite into motherhood. I wanted to savor every moment of it, I still relish in that to this day. We waited just a little longer than we should have to take her bottle away, her favorite blanket and Mr. Pink (if you know, you KNOW) because-why not? Let’s stretch the moment.
She is my little artist. Isabella creates with tact and grace. She pours love into her baked goods and then sits back to take in the delight all over your face as you take your first bite. She adds little touches, making the goody her own little canvas. Her offering of love, made with her careful hands and overflowing heart. Colors awaken her, she doesn’t have a favorite because she believes they should all be celebrated and featured in their own special light. And she is absolutely right.
This month she will be a year older, another year further from being Mami’s baby. She may need me less each day but in a peculiar way, I need her all the more. Isabella has challenged me and molded my heart in ways only she was created to do. I am grateful for the lessons during this journey of ours. Each of my children are so different and bring up different versions of me. I suppose that is as it should be. Growth in three different ways, none better than the other… All three most definitely all necessary to my core.
Isabella told me once that when she was with God in heaven, she looked down and picked me as her Mommy. That she has loved me since before she was born. That’s the kind of love she came to bring into our world. A celestial one.
A lot of people don’t know that I have been crushing on my husband since I was 12 years old. It must have been a sign from God (that I totally ignored for many years) because I when I saw him in the hallway at Brentano it was like time stopped for a second. It was one of those slow motion moments, the light from the windows near the stairs beaming behind him, around his head, like a halo. It was like God was saying… it’s him, he is the one for you. But…I was 12, what did I know about signs from God? I missed that memo BIGTIME. My mind was more like daaaaaaang, that boy is FIIIIINE. The sad part was that he didn’t even notice me. (Insert dramatic pre-teen tears.) I was at an awkward age (I had several), dressed and styled mostly by my Dad at that time. The same “stylish” Dad that totally traumatized me by forcing me to get a boy cut which had me feeling like I was SURE everyone thought I was a BOY so I rocked enormous earrings and the brightest red lipstick possible so that if you saw me from the MOON, you knew I was a girl. I REALLY don’t think my Dad accounted for my frizzy curls when he shoved that cut down my throat. So me and my “Vote for Pedro” hair had to tough it out.
Two years fly by, I’m now a freshman in high school. My hair is back and I am feeling myself. It was a warm day and my mom and I had these matching black rompers on with the tube bra underneath in different florescent colors. We were likely wearing scrunchies or a banana clip in our hair when we met up with some friends at Mont Clare Bowl. (I am aging myself real hard cuz that place is no longer there either.) Anyway, we walk in to meet up with them, too cool to bowl, just dropping in to say “what’s up” and there he was. It was THE hottie!! The one my heart paused for a couple years ago. I played it cool when introduced as if I hadn’t already memorized his magnificent dimpled face. My mom and I left and I was like, wow, small world. Never ever thinking anything would become of it. After all, it was this a one-sided admiration, right? WRONG!
A short while after that encounter, my friend tells me that her cousin (Robert aka Fine Guy from Brentano) was asking about me. Wait WHAT!? HEEEEEE was asking about MEEEE!? I was crying over some stupid boy when she gave me this incredible news, so my tears dried RIGHT up as I soaked in the flattery.
Our first date was at Father and Sons. I had the pizza burger and I remember thinking he was such a gentleman because whatever I needed, he asked for on my behalf. Oh, you’re thirsty (cuz you been drooling all over me) let me flag down the waiter and get you some water before you dehydrate girl. He was THAT guy. He always walked me home, even in the SNOW. We were “officially” boyfriend and girlfriend for less than a month before he broke up with me to talk to a “faster” girl. I respected him for being honest. He waited until after Valentine’s Day like a real player so that was nice. Getting dumped wasn’t fun but the teddy bear and flowers sure softened the blow to my ego. Because he handled me with such honesty and respect, I stayed in contact with him for many years after our short-lived relationship. We had several arguments over the phone about how I would NEVER iron his pants (I was a real feminist in high school) and he would tease me about everything and anything that he knew would get me yelling at him. He thought it was funny to make me hang up on him. He was pretty conceited and knew that I couldn’t stay mad at him for long.
Through the years, we would attend haunted houses and carnivals together. Enjoy summer nights hanging out with drinks we were too young to sip on with other couples. We weren’t an official couple, we just became one any time we hung out. The vibe being with him always felt so easy and safe. You would think my head and heart would have made the connection sooner but no… There was a moment that I often think back on with such regret. A loving conversation we had in which he really his heart on the line and I still walked away. I shake my head at the thought of how much sooner we could have gotten into a serious relationship with one another and maybe spared our hearts the painful scars caused by loving the wrong people. So much time wasted not loving him and so many tears shed over my bad choices.
Then one day, about four years after our “could have been us” moment, we reconnected. Robert had relocated to Florida and my girl tells me he’s in town and she extends an invitation to a family dinner that was planned. I was welcome to bring Mia, which made me more inclined to go. I remember being so excited to introduce him to Mia. I had already met his child a couple years prior and I knew he would be just as happy to meet mine. Mia was about a year and a half when we attended that dinner. He barely flirted with me but that was kind of his thing, he would keep me on the edge wondering if this was just going to be a friend situation or if he was interested romantically. He had that mystery that kept me intrigued. We made plans to hang out with his cousin, one of my closest friends (and THE match maker of a lifetime) to check out some bars that weekend. We did just that and ended up having the 3a.m. breakfast at IHOP that sobers you right up. As we sit and laugh, talking about how everyone we mutually know is doing, who has kids together, who got married, etc. I say out loud “I wonder who I will end up with” to which Robert quickly (and confidently) answers “ME.” We all laughed it off and sipped our coffee.
He was right. I ended up with him. We were engaged within 3 months of reconnecting. Many hours over the phone we talked about what we wanted for ourselves and for our children. I remember being brutally honest about never wanting to “play house” again with a man now that I had seen how things unraveled when I did that in the past. I was sure I was ready for a husband and I understood if he wasn’t on the same page… But he was. He was ready to hold onto me and not let me slip away again. He followed through on every promise he made. We did the long- distance thing for about 6 months and after many conversations, he moved back to Chicago. We were married at City Hall on October 11, 2003.
We have had some painful experiences as marriage has chiseled away at selfishness, ego and pride. The lessons involved in considering one another and living as ONE is not for the faint at heart. It took a lot of compromise, forgiveness, prayer and strength to adjust to looking at life as no longer as ME, but as US. We endured some really rough seasons and very short lived separations, but we fought our way back to one another, never letting go of our vows. The promises we made in front of our children, parents and loved ones in our church ceremony on June 26th drove us back to the center of our love. We have created life together, we have buried loved ones and grown through many levels of maturity and compromise. We share 28 years of friendship and 17 years of marriage between us. No one knows his heart like I do, and he knows mine in ways no one ever will. Our love story does not measure up to a scripted fairy tale because it is OURS, imperfectly ours.
“Marriage is the closest bond that is possible between two human beings. That, at least, was the original idea behind it. It was to be something unique, without parallel or precedent. In the sheer sweep and radical abandon of its commitment, it was to transcend every other form of human union on earth, every other covenant that could possibly be made between two people. Friendship, parent-child, master-pupil—marriage would surpass all these other bonds in a whole constellation of remarkable ways, including equality of the partners, permanent commitment, cohabitation, sexual relations, and the spontaneous creation of blood ties through simple spoken promises. As it was originally designed, marriage was a union to end all unions, the very last word, and the first, in human intimacy. Socially, legally, physically, emotionally, every which way, there is just no other means of getting closer to another human being, and never has been, than in marriage.”
What exactly is blooming? How do we witness it from our confined (but safe) spaces? For some of us this season has brought a long awaited and necessary pause. Yet for others it carries loads of anxiety and fear. Still others seem to be thriving. How do we show up? Is it even fair to press ourselves to care? Or is it acceptable to consider each day an act of survival that starts at sunrise (with gratitude for breath) and ends at sunset (with a sigh) in our sheltered space?
I don’t think it is adequate to measure this moment of time in accomplishments. Most of us are still trying to wrap our heads around this new reality and new routine (or lack thereof). Planning seems beyond silly and goals so very fluttering. What are we working towards other than staying healthy, alive, safe and trying our hardest to find happiness in solitude? Having family around is a blessing wrapped in the loss of exposure to new faces or embraces. Getting to know your thoughts on a level your previous busy life never allowed, and maybe, just maybe, that’s why we preferred to stay so busy. Being alone with my thoughts can be overwhelming. We begged for white space and now that we have it, most of us have no idea how to move in it. Me, I am most people. I strive off routines, checking of tasks on my list, knowing what comes next gives me such a sense of safety. And that has been jerked right out of my hands.
What a humbling awakening for me. Because the truth is- it was never in my hands. That was always an illusion. We have no control. I have no control. Over myself or those around me. I have cried so hard doubled over in heartache. Grief has a new height and depth. I don’t know anyone personally to has passed of COVID but is that even necessary to feel the heartbreak? I cried as people applauded medical teams, videos of birthday parades (because love finds a way to celebrate through the despair) and as I overheard my daughter’s teacher say “I love you” over video class. Teachers miss their students so very much. That is another layer of sadness. We are all grieving. Life isn’t what it used to be, we are all doing our best to reconcile that loss and me, personally, I beat myself up for having the audacity to be sad when I should be grateful that we are all safe and healthy. It’s a cycle and as of late it has been filled with more hard days than easy ones. I drive down streets and feel the lump form in my throat when I see places I used to enjoy and I wonder if they will survive the economic toll this is taking. This whole piece is a downer, I’m sorry. This is a journey-we have to be ok with NOT being ok so that we can do the work to BE ok. Let it out. Surrender your weakness so that we can make the space to rebuild. Our courage, our hope, our happiness on new foundations.
Today I’m not so ok but I know and trust God for the day I feel it. The day will come when I am not faking how I feel. I will stand under the warmth sun, without a mask over my mouth in a new state of gratitude. The day will return when I am able to take my daughter to a park and listen to the sound of people, lots of people, talking and laughing nearby. We will make it to that day. We have to. We have a promise to hold onto.
We may not be able to hold one another in person, but let’s be super intentional about constructing new ways to hold one another up in encouragement. Witnessing one another in all the shades of emotions that we are riding out. Show that love in every possible way (while socially distancing) because it is our survival tool. And, let’s be honest, love is the only currency that will matter in the end. Maybe our acceptance of that is the purpose of this season.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
First test… positive. Hmmm, no can’t be right. I was so careful. Ok, let’s take another… NEGATIVE! See! I told you Taina, you were being paranoid. Break the tie? Yeah, take another one… negative again. Yeah, two out of three, I can’t be pregnant, no way.
The next morning when I told my nurse friend what happened the day before, she swiftly educated me that a woman can get a false negative pregnancy test but never a false positive. She insisted that we draw my blood for a more accurate test result. (We both worked at the clinic, so we did that immediately.) She comes back… “Mama, you are five weeks pregnant.” HOW!? (As I pretend not to comprehend EXACTLY how babies are made.) I’m in total shock. I had just received my acceptance letter to Roosevelt University, had distanced myself further from my on/off super toxic relationship with the guy who would now be… my baby’s father. My head was spinning.
I was sick ALL day for almost five to six months. Nothing worked, NOTHING. There was no saltine and ginger ale cure for this type of “morning” AKA all-day-long sickness. And when I say sick, I MEAN sick! I could not keep anything down for very long. I was in the emergency room at least two times with severe dehydration due to vomiting. All the while my mind reeling as to how my minimum wage job was going to cover my rent and a baby that would need formula, pampers, wipes, clothes… I would stare at the ceiling of my bedroom and just ride the waves of nausea while brainstorming as to what my next move was going to be.
It was a miserable, wobbly winter for me. I was mean to just about everyone (even got into a fist fight at 7 months pregnant-yes, THAT mean. In my defense, she grabbed me first and then I just snapped), felt ugly the entire pregnancy and the laziness was so real. Taking a daily shower required so much energy of me in my depressed state, but I pushed myself to do it. I moved twice during my pregnancy. I recall being alone in my new place, my very quiet one-bedroom apartment realizing that this is the home my baby would arrive into. It would be just us two. The thought of that was harrowing. There would be a little baby in the now empty crib pretty soon. I had chosen Noah’s Ark as her crib theme. Little elephants and giraffes… Motherhood would surely be my “Noah” assignment.
The time has come, my water bag broke… SHOWTIIIIIME!! I was ready, she was two weeks late and I was SO ready! My head was in the game, I endured the pain of the inducing hormones they injected into me and the contractions were GIANTS I took on one by one. I was motivated for maybe the first 10 hours and then the delirium kicked in. My contractions would not stabilize and my cervix was refusing to cooperate in progressively opening. It was like my body was in denial. They give me my first epidural and I. Am. Golden. Got a few hours of sleep and woke up declaring to my room full of family that I was having a baby THAT day! Flash to what felt like an entire day later, I was still rocking and moaning in pain, falling asleep between contractions, hungry, weak and desperate for an end to this epic labor.
The entire floor of nurses rushes into my room. They shake her head, make me lay on my side and strap an oxygen mask on my face. They kick everyone out of the room except for my parents and her dad. They explain that the baby’s heart rate dropped and the doctor is going to have to perform a c-section. I’m crying and confused. What’s happening? My sister and best friend stop in to see me before they take me into the operating room. The tears and fear in their eyes made me cry harder. They said they would be in the hospital’s chapel praying for me and my baby to get through this safely.
I was wheeled into what felt like a meat freezer, the operating room where they asked me to be super still as they injected another epidural to prepare to cut into me. I didn’t realize I would be wide awake during the c-section. I had never broken a bone or even had stitches so the thought of being awake during my first surgery was terrifying to say the least. I was sure I was about to die. I could feel the pressure, the tugging and pulling. And then…she was out! I should be embarrassed to say this but instead of asking if she was ok, my first question was “who does she look like?” hoping she didn’t resemble him too strongly. (Ha! I know, I’m awful.) He said “she looks just like you.” I sigh and then all of a sudden my body starts to convulse. I was shaking so hard and the urge to vomit was STRONG. My arms are strapped down, I couldn’t even cover my mouth or shift my body to the side, all I could do is move my head to the side and try not to panic. The next thing I remember is the nurse asking me to lift up my hips to which my face replied with “are you kidding me right now!?” The pain is excruciating. I’m scared to clear my throat that the pressure in my abdomen give way and I burst my guts out everywhere.
But then… they bring me this chubby baby with a WIG of black hair and this fair white skin. Snow White, I have my very own princess in the flesh! Her eyes were wide open, her neck was moving around, and then she found my voice and we locked eyes. She’s MINE! Mia. Mi nena. Mia! From that moment, I knew everything I endured was worth it. Every time I laid on the bathroom floor counting the tiles until my next eruption, all the fright-filled tears, all the sleepless nights, it wasn’t in vain. She was here and she was perfection! The weight of motherhood, this assignment would forever change me. She would be my teacher of compassion, patience, unconditional love, perseverance, all of it. Mia was so beautiful, she took my breath away every time I gazed at her.
It has been the most remarkable journey to raise Mia Camille. I was never entirely alone. God placed family and friends around me in the darkest moments of single motherhood. Mia’s presence was the hope we all clung to when my Abuelita was diagnosed with leukemia. The blessing of Mia’s birth was our saving grace. Every milestone after her birth meant so much more, because we shared it with her light-filled spirit. Life had a whole new meaning, goals existed with a drive I didn’t know I possessed. I have raised three children in my lifetime and Mia is the one I can describe as my “easy” one. There were definitely hard days but more good than bad, to this day, thank God.
This month, Mia turns 19 years old! It has been 19 years since my life has been awakened. The relationships, decisions, goals-everything I tolerated for myself would NEVER fly again. I had new, higher dreams the minute she arrived. She has motivated me to be better, do better and learn constantly. She forever changed me in all the greatest ways. She is proof that there is deep blessing on the other side of brokenness. That my willingness to say yes to motherhood, that obedience has shifted my life forever in all the best ways.
Mia is a dream come true. She sings like a blue bird, so sweet and comforting. Her heart is like no other. She believes in the good of humans in a magnificently hopeful way. She loves God and speaks life into myself and others. Her laughter is full of soul! She is destined for greatness! Mia changed my world and I’m sure I’m not her last stop. Her life has been MORE than a blessing. Something unplanned that unraveled into a majestic catalyst that I very much needed. She is my first born baby girl. My mirror, my inspiration and a legacy of love that will forever mark this earth with her talent, love and beauty. She is our blue butterfly.
This piece is dedicated to my magnificent daughter, Mia! Happy birthday Mia Camille!
There is something about the onset of Spring that reminds us things change, even when we don’t want them to, they just do. The snow melts, the rains come and the flowers begin to explode into colorful life. They are alive and brand new! We feel refreshed, rejuvenated and injected with the motivation to indulge all that the new season has in store. I suppose one can say change is growth. And that growing change is truly a gift. One that can be so invigorating knowing that a new day is upon us with promise of adventurous experiences.
When we are consumed by our daily routines, we can fail to notice how much has transitioned in comparably small amounts of time. Photos can be such a great way to measure change. I have had moments when I look at a picture of myself from 5, 10, 20 years ago and I instantly recall what I was feeling during that season of my life. I begin to reflect on the moment captured and start to calculate how much has changed in me and around me since it was taken. Lately, a lot of photos remind me of when my parents were here, as if that’s a measure of time, an era all my own. Instead of before Christ (“BC”) and after Christ (“AD”), it becomes before or after Mami and Papi left this earth. I gaze at a photo and think, “Oh, this was the last birthday they were here for, the last Christmas” and so on. It’s crazy how much changes in a minute, a day and a year. Some change can be incredibly sad to reflect on. Other photos trigger self-mourning. Who I was, what I was thinking or doing in that chapter. Pitying my clue-less-ness and the foolery I was on while other pictures make me want to jump into the frame and relive every minute of that day when I recall the joy and happiness I was feeling.
Most times we aren’t bluntly honest about how incredibly painful growth and change can be. My biggest transitions happened in the loneliest and most painful seasons of my life. That one child that stretched you to your limit in those years of raising. (we all got one or more of those, huh? LOL) That heavy relationship that pulled up and out all of the flaws I was so blissfully ignoring. (That character mirror can be hella harsh, right?) The one constant we can rely on with change/growth/stretching is… it WILL come. We can accept it and flow with it or we can get dragged kicking and screaming, the choice is ours to make. Change is growth and growing involves breaking out of spaces that are no longer for us. And honestly, we should worry if we DO fit into the same space in 10 years because just like a baby at a 2 week check-up, that scale and measurement taken shows that baby has been nurtured and given all they need to move into a new day. This is proof that growth is such a vital part of life, we should not fear it one bit.
As we look ahead at Spring, let’s vow to accept change with grace, inspire growth by watering seeds in our gifts allowing us to bless those around us. And may we look back in awe at where we have been lifted from, what we have overcome. No matter what happens tomorrow, we know it will be a NEW day and it’s up to us to embrace all that comes with it (or resist the inevitable). Posture yourself wisely, Beloved.
Vida Taina Luz 