Tuesday, June 29, 2004

My Meeting With SMB

I arrived at the Central Park boat pond looking for Stupid Married Boy (SMB). My heart was racing. All I know is that one moment I turned around and there he was. He had shaved his head , which I had suspected since his hairline had been receding the last time I saw him. Besides that he looked exactly the same, delicious. But I wasn't overwhelmed by lust or desire. It really was like seeing an old friend. Anyway I was still curious to hear what political issue he wanted to discuss with me.

His children are absolutely beautiful. It was the first time I had seen them in person since they were forbidden to me before given my position of " other woman". It's amazing how four years really seems like a long time when you see how much children grow in that time. His son his nearly 9. His daughter is 5. She was in diapers and babbling when I dated smb.

If nothing else, he was always a good father and he still is. He rented a sailboat for the kids to sail and happily got plastic cups for them to catch fish and snails with.
Then he sat down and began to tell me about an idea that he had to engage people politically. I won't get into the details about his idea because it is his, all I will say is that it is culturejamming and parody. I have questions about how it could potentially commodify the movement and repeat the methods used by the oppressor but it's not a bad idea. It just needs to be fleshed out.

As we moved from the boat pond to a playground area we got more comfortable and I asked about the situation with the kids. His ex-wife moved to Georgia with them , so he only sees them over the Christmas holiday. This summer his ex sent them to stay with him for the entire break. I felt bad because he loves those kids. They are his life and always have been.

I asked what he was doing for work and he's been dabbling in computer stuff still.

I told him my career path from wall street when we were dating to stripper to starving artist. He said I seemed happier. I told him I was. He asked about my health , meaning my mental health and I didn't lie. I said it had been a pretty good year.

I'm glad I didn't lie because then he confessed how he had found me. SMB found my blog, this blog and has been reading it. ::Waving:: Hi SMB!!!! ( in case he's reading) Sheesh soon my main audience will be ex boyfriends and lovers.

Of course I had to tell him that he would be blogged about and I told him about how I had been secretly calling him Stupid Married Boy. He laughed.

He's engaged, living in the Bronx , and he's back in school.

After a few hours in the park he walked with the kids to pick up his girlfriend (who is sweet but not political at all, his words not mine---it seems that I am always "the political girlfriend").I hopped on the subway. No hate. No lust. He's just someone I used to be madly in love with and planned in my naive early 20's to spend the rest of my life with. If anything my meeting him shows how I have grown personally in four years.

He didn't know if I would show. I didn't know if he would show. I'm glad we both did.

Monday, June 28, 2004

See, It is Possible for me to live in a place called Carajo

When I was having an identity crisis as a young Rican living in Rego Park, I said I lived in Carajo.

When I was in college in Maine, I said I lived in Carajo.

Now these people....they really live in carajo and are pretty ok with it.

Saturday, June 26, 2004

Fahrenheit 9/11 is not a good date movie

I caught a midnight showing in the city with a date. He happened to be white. It was my third date with him. I like him. He's smart, funny, cute, laid back. He hates Bush. We thought it would be something we would/could enjoy together.

Overall I enjoyed the film as overall I have enjoyed Michael Moore's work. I feel it wasn't as tightly made as Bowling for Columbine. Then came the end. Camera scans mostly African American young males faces, Moore painting them as the ones who are usually on the front line. They , the ones who get fucked up education systems, no real job or higher education opportunities, they are the first to go and defend this country . That is Moore's argument. In my opinion he set it up within a very us/them paradigm. All they ask is that they not be sent into harms way [to war] unless it is absolutely necessary. He wonders aloud on film if they will continue to make the sacrifice.

Why did this bother me so much? Maybe for the same reason that Moore has always made me a little uncomfortable. From his position of white privilege he says things that have been said before by others and continues to be said and gets lots of play. What if poc stopped enlisting and fighting foreign invasive wars? It's a huge and loaded question that was treated very patly in my opinion.

I made the mistake of saying the words "white privilege" to my date. He got very defensive. That made me defensive and upset. It's 3:38 am . He has just dropped me off at home and I'm still digesting and processing tonight. He said I have a lot of anger in me. He hinted at the fact that it made him uncomfortable to see such anger in a "date" situation.

There is so much I could write but I will hold back because I don't want to write from a place of anger and hurt and sadness which is what I'm feeling now.

How much you wanna bet there won't be a 4th date?


Friday, June 25, 2004

My First Year In The NYC Public School System

Today on the last day of school for NYC public school students, I reflect back on what I've learned during this first year of having my daughter as a student in a city school.

My sister and my cousin both went to same public school that my 6 year old does. I was sent to a nearby Catholic school, not because I was a "bad" kid but rather because I was deemed "smart" and worthy of spending money on to educate. Now me being the political one in the familia, I believe every kid is smart and deserves to have money spent on their education, through the public school system.

Lesson #1: Work the system (or lie lie lie)

Sometimes this means forging a medical document, sometimes it means "moving in" with a relative who lives across the street because you want your kid to be zoned to a different school. I made the mistake of not lying about what languages were spoken in my home naively thinking that in the big apple they school system would be all about promoting diversity. Because I admitted that we live in a bilingual household my daughter was tested on her English ability and because on entering first grade she couldn't read ( I don't know a ton of first graders, bilingual or not who can) she was placed in English as a Second Language. This meant that at least two periods a day she was pulled out of her regular class. I wasn't made aware of this till months later when the MapucheRican was theatened with failing first grade. With the city's ESL program the only way to get out is to test out. I ended up really liking the stuff the ESL teacher did with my daughter (like poetry writing which the MapucheRican seems to be really good at) but I still hope that she passed the ESL test so she won't be pulled out for services she doesn't need. That seat that she took in ESL class could have been better utilized by a student who really needed those services.

Lesson #2: Work the System (be involved)

I was lucky that I work from home which allowed me to be in the school often. I was active in the Parent's Association, I volunteered at school events, I was a Learning Leader working on a volunteer basis with students. I translated at meetings for Spanish dominant parents, I translated documents for the school. I realize that most parents do not have the privilege that I had. Even if it means writing a note to your child's teacher to find out what's up, keep the lines of communication with your child's school open. Do not let language be a barrier. Insist, hell demand, that you be given information in your language. My daughter's school has very much of an open door policy. As long as I had identification I could get in and pop my head in the principals office and my daughter's class. It's your right as a parent to know what's going down. Plus, it sends a positive message to children when they see their parent's involved.

Lesson #3 Work the System (fight fight fight)

Fight to get services in your language. Fight to get documents translated in your language. Fight to get you child into a program or out of one. Fight for smaller class size. Fight for your child's equal share of state education funding. Fighting takes on many forms. I wrote letters, went to protest marches and meetings, and of course yelled.

Thursday, June 24, 2004

My Curse (or Stupid Married Boy returns)

Ok I know some of you are sick of me posting pictures. You want to know the dirt. I've been on a few dates with people I've met online ( I think the official count is 5). Some have been great, some just ok. None of them horrible. I will not be posting details of any of my dates here well because some of my dates may be reading this. ::waves hello::. I am taking this all very slowly and just really enjoying meeting new people. I do not want to repeat the mistakes of the past , of giving of myself too much early on because it feel right only to get my ass kicked (well dumped).

See I have this problem. I call it a curse. My exes: ex lovers, ex boyfriends, ex people I've dated always end up coming back into my life after the original relationship has ended. The more passionate and intense the relationship the more likely I will see them again. It especially seems to help if they have dumped me, leaving me on the brink if not pushing me over the edge of insanity.

For example, I returned from breakfast with my mother yesterday to find an email from SMB, Stupid Married Boy. Stupid Married Boy was a Puerto Rican/half from Dominica married man I made the mistake of having an affair with about four years ago. We met online ( ha no surprise there) and had our first in real date in a lesbian bar in the Lower East Side where there was an event for Vieques. He was political and beautiful and sexy. On another date we mutually decided that we weren't going to fight our natures and we were going to begin a relationship. That first day of having his mouth on mine was delicious and scary. I had become the other woman.

Of course he was in a miserable marriage. He said both he and his wife showed up drunk or hungover at the wedding. I think she may have been pregnant. She was from Laos and once when I saw a picture of her I got sick to my stomach because she was so gorgeous. He had two young children. A girl and a boy. He said he was going to leave her. He said he was in love with me. We said we were going to get married and start a life together. I planned on moving to New Jersey. The sex was incredible and so was he. He would pick me up for my birthday and whisk me away to bed and breakfasts upstate where we pretended we were married. We swore that the other would be the last person we would ever sleep with. We went to an IMF/World Bank protest together in DC. He came to poetry readings I did up in Washington Heights. It was perfect except that it was never supposed to be mine.

He would stay with me and leave in the middle of the night to go home. Or he would leave his home in the middle of the night to crawl into my bed. When we would drive through Jersey I remember ducking in my seat whenever he thought he saw his wife's car or the car of anyone else he knew. Once he left me sitting in the garage of his condo as he went to get something he forgot. His wife and children were upstairs and I was shaking from fear of being found out. He would sneak away to call me, even when he was on family vacations. Upon returning from one of those vacations he left his wife. His children were the same age my sister and I were when my father left my mother for another woman.

Naively I though we were going to live happily ever after . I got pregnant (the beginning of a nasty cycle of pregnancies from men who would leave me). He slept with a woman he met in a club and got an std (he tried to blame it on me).
He ended our relationship. I wanted to end my life. I did end up in the mental ward of a hospital.

I saw him a few times after that. We even fucked a few times after that. And then it faded to nothing. Last I heard he was getting married to another woman and I think she was pregnant (?). I may have made that last part up.

So yesterday there is an email from him and my stomach is in knots. I open the email and he wants to sit down and talk to me , maybe in a park, so that the kids can play since he has his children for the summer. Oh the irony. I respond asking what he wants to discuss after so many years. He says politics and activism, the same thing that got us talking so many years ago. He suggests next tuesday. I ask where and what time. I await a response.

The good part of my brain tells me to run away. That sleeping dogs should lie. That I have moved on and I shouldn't look back. The insane part of my brain wants to know if he's still as hot as when the relationship ended (damn he was hot, damn the sex was good). I want to know how his story ended. Is he happily married? Is he single? Did he have another kid?

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

You Can't Get it up cuz Your Fat!

Psst...did you know that Obesity Contributes To Male Impotency ? According this published study it does. Besides the fact that this is just another example of the trend of the medical establishment blaming certain health issues on fatness(um how do you explain all the men who are within "normal" weight guidelines who can't it up? If anyone wants to do a study on this some of my exes would be perfect candidates). What the article really raised for me again was the issue on how fatness or perceived fatness can be used to emasculate (remember the boy I was last dating, the misfit, and how masculinity and weight were linked in his mind?)

To read more go to Big Fat Blog

The MapucheRican, my six year old daughter said this was a flower. Then it was the sun. I think it looks like a radiant breast ( I see a distinct nipple). Or maybe I wanted her drawing to be a deep womanist statement since we were at Sisterfire.  Posted by Hello

Tuesday, June 22, 2004

SisterFire - June 19, 2004 Riverbank State Park Posted by Hello

Monday, June 21, 2004

Sisterfire NYC- Saturday 6/19/04 Riverbank State Park. Children making revolutionary chalk drawings against violence against women of color Posted by Hello

Sunday, June 20, 2004

El Mundo es Demasiado Pequeno....but sometimes that's ok

I'm joining a Latina fiction writer's group. I figure it will help me focus and write and then publish more. Turns out that the chica who's starting the group is the live-in girlfriend of a performance poet/musician with whom el dominicano has been playing/recording with a lot as of late. When she and I both realized this we weren't so sure if we wanted to work with each other. But after meeting up for a bottle of wine and Mexican food in the upper east side we got along great. We are different but we share the same beliefs on writing, the Latino writer's market, and how chauvinist progressive male artists and writers are, especially in their relationships with women. It was really nice and refreshing to talk about these things with a mujer.

Part of my issue with dating Latino artists was how much I fed off their energy and passion and how I sometimes would use that to sustain and maintain in a relationship that was deeply flawed and harmful. It's nice to know and feel that I can feed off that artistic energy from another mujer in a non-competitive manner.

Que viva la sisterhood!!!

Thursday, June 17, 2004

Slightly Racist?

Please people tell this white man what is up. As a Puerto Rican woman I would be slammed to saying how fearful I am at the St. Patrick's day parade because if the tons of drunk white men. Or how about my fear everyday of the police, of being raped, etc.

Hmm maybe a boycott of Metro? A protest in from of it's offices? Definitely a write in campaign, at least.


The Ugly Truth of the Puerto Rican Day Parade
By Will Johnson
Metro, June 16, 2004

When I heard that, once again, apartments and businesses were
boarding up in preparation for the National Puerto Rican Day Parade
(as if it were a literal Caribbean hurricane) I, like any fair
person, was offended. Most of us NewYorkers, myself included, are
wise and experienced enough to know that, like every ethnic group, 99
percent of Puerto Ricans are quite all right; good people;
hardworking people; people who just want to go out and have a good
time without being insulted by the plywood covered windows and
mosquito netted shrubbery of Upper East Side rich folk.

My own curiosity piqued by the news, I decided to—for the first time
ever—check out, for myself, the National Puerto Rican Day Parade.

So, after spending several hours in the blazing heat and suffering a
horrible sunburn, did I feel that the Upper East Siders were in
anyway justified in shoring up and barricading their property? In a
word, yes.

It pains me to tell the truth, but the truth is that I found the
entire event to be way too rowdy and way too menacing.

I know that, as a white man, my use of the word "menacing" could be
construed as slightly racist, but what other word would do after my
own witnessing of so much misogyny? Many of the women at the parade
were—in front of my very eyes—videotaped, photographed, ogled,
harassed, groped, cajoled and verbally assaulted. If a female at the
parade so much as rebuffed a young man's crude "romantic overtures,'
she was typically battered with a standard line such as: "Well f-k
you, bitch! You ain't sh*t anyway!" I heard "Well f*ck you, bitch!
You ain't sh*t anywayl" or its equivalent at least 15 times
throughout the course of the parade. The words "bitch" and "ho" by
themselves were so frequently used, I had no chance of keeping count.
Isn't that kind of abuse a little bit too much for our mothers,
daughters, sisters, wives and girlfriends? Why weren't more men at
the parade standing up for their women?

In addition to the rowdy abuse of the women present, there were drugs
everywhere; at every corner, on every block. Marijuana was being
smoked openly in front of small children and even in the presence of
police officers. (I even witnessed a very pregnant young woman
smoking a blunt in front of a policeman.)

So, my question is: What does a rich, slightly prejudiced Upper East
Sider think when he or she looks out his or her window and observes
open drug use and women being assaulted? If I (like many East Siders)
wasn't exposed enough to the real world to know that even the "bad
apples" of a minority group are usually harmless, I would be quite
perturbed by such a scene of misogynistic decadence and would, I'm
quite sure, go to some little trouble to secure my windows and

No one reacts in a vacuum.

What does a rich, slightly prejudiced Upper East Sider think when he
or she looks out his or her window and observes open drug use and
women being assaulted?

Will Johnson is a Bronx based freelance journalist and commentator.

Metro has no official opinions. Views are the author's own. Please
send 500-word submissions to voices@metro.us.


Actually it happens every summer here in NYC, just when the POC parades start rollin' down through midtown and ::gasp:: the upper east side. The hurricane and Rican prood fences and barricades seen all along fifth avenue maybe are just practice for what businesses and high end residences may end up doing during the Republican National Convention.

Post Rican parade on Sunday in Sunset Park was terrorized by police of the 72nd precinct as celebrants returned to their hood. The 72 set-up shop along 5th Avenue from 42nd street to 64th Streets, with 4-8 cops per block even before the parade was over. 19 youth were arrested and beat, even more were maced and harrassed. One 8 year old girl was pushed by an officer, many flags were confiscated, many grandparents watched as their children were attacked.
Are POC communities in the city, already targets of police brutality, now also becoming training grounds for for police terrorist training..or shall I say terrorist police?

In the Lower East Side for the last 3-years on the eve of the 116th Street Festival, and on the day of the National Puerto Rican Day Parade, this neighborhood is subjected to an intense Police presence. Avenue D is cut off from incoming traffic from Houston Avenue to 13th Street, and anyone who attempts to get into the community is asked to show identification, and the Police officers arbitrarily permit or deny access to the street as they see fit.

The Justice Committee of NYC is compiling reports of post parade abuse and intensified police repression in People of Color communities throughout the city.
For more information on how you can get involved or to report an incident call

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

My Weekend Plans- because they ain't no daddies round here

Come out to Sisterfire NYC !
When: Saturday, June 19th from 3-7pm Where: Riverbank State Park - 679 Riverside Drive at 145th Street. Take 1, 9 train to 145th. What: A day to raise awareness and unite our communities to end violence against women of color with FREE food, music, performances, dance, comedy, arts& crafts, poetry, games for all ages.
Featuring Ya Ya, Rokafella, D’Lo, Queen Godis, Colorado Sisters, DJ Reborn, Sista II Sista, Sham-e-Ali al-Jamil, ACB and many more!

Come out to Sisterfire NYC Workshops!
When: Friday, June 18th from 4:00-7:00pm Where: EBC High School in Bushwick Brooklyn. 1155 Dekalb Avenue, J train to Kosciouzko. What: FREE workshops for women of color on arts & organizing.

Sisterfire NYC is a collaboration of women of color artists and organizers from different communities. Sponsored by: Casa Atabex Ache, Center for Immigrant Families, Critical Resistance, Dominican Women's Development Center, Haitian Women for Haitian Refugees, Incite NYC, Ladies on the Mic, Mayfirst Collective, Sistas On the Rise, and Sista II Sista. *********************************************************************** SisterFire reaches women of color of all ages and backgrounds with the message that we’re tired of the violence we endure as women of color, violence is not normal, violence against women of color destroys our entire communities, and we ain’t gonna stay quiet about it… SisterFire is centered on our lives and perspectives as women of color. The intersections of race/class/gender/sexuality/disability/and nation distribute social and political power unequally to us as women of color and they promote violence against us. SisterFire sets out to nurture grassroots organizing and activism against violence against women of color through cultural arts grassroots organizing and performance. SisterFire is a project of INCITE: Women of Color Against Violence and we are building a movement to end violence against women of color in all its forms. We promote linking existing struggles against the violence of poverty, incarceration, police brutality, colonization, interpersonal (domestic and sexual) violence, etc. For more info: www.sisterfirenyc.org

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Teaching Our Children Well (or on Reagan)

Now that the mainstream media will hopefully be shutting the fuck up about Reagan I will comment on his passing. Let me be clear from jump, I am sadder about the loss of Ray Charles than I am about The Gipper’s death. I have no doubt however that Ronnie’s passing is a painful one for his family.

I have been talking about Reagan’s death and his life with many people I know over the last week (how could you fucking avoid it). Most of us were young and not political during Regan’s term in office. All of us expressed instant emotional confusion upon hearing of the 93 year old’s death. We are all used to going into automatic when someone dies. Death is sad and rarely are we like “good riddance!!” when someone is put into the ground. Why all the ambivalent feelings then. One mid 20’s Dominican male told me that he remembers being afraid of nuclear war during Reagan’s tenure.

At a South American style asado on Friday in Richmond Hill the MapucheRican and a fellow 6 year old schoolmate of hers snuggled up in front of the television and watched the California sunset funeral.
“Mami says he was a bad president like Bush is now, “the MapucheRican tells her friend.
I laugh aloud from the other side of the living room.
“No he wasn’t! He was a good man!” her friend replies defensively. “All presidents are good men.”
Her mother frowns at me and tells me in Spanish how she’s afraid her daughter will become a Republican.

The MapucheRican doesn’t know why Reagan was a bad president. One day I will have to teach her about Nicaragua, the invasion of Grenada, Panama, El Salvador, how ketchup will never be a vegetable (this will upset her), Guatemala, gutting of programs for the poor, the resulting growth in homelessness, the growth, ignoring of and misinformation on AIDS and HIV.

Later in the back yard as the adults drink beer, the MapucheRican’s friend snuggles on her father’s lap. Marc Anthony is playing in the background.
“So tell me why does Mala say that Reagan was a bad man and President, “she sleepily asks. The Colombian father briefly explains the cuts in services, the “interventions” in Latin America.
“I understand now, “the little girl replies.

I hope the rest of the world will too.

Monday, June 14, 2004


Happy Birthday to my best girrrrl La Fea!!!!!! I love you to death even when we piss each other off. Felicidades vieja!!!!!

Sunday, June 13, 2004

Rican Weekend

In New York City it is Rican Weekend, the weekend of the now National Puerto Rican Day Parade and all the festivals that precede it.

I must have been five years old when I went to my first Puerto Rican Day Parade. I wore a white sailor outfit and a pava. In one hand I held a Puerto Rican flag on a stick. My other hand was left free. I didn’t even have to use it to hold on to my mother or my father. That hand was reserved for waving to the crowd. I was marching in the parade. My father was the Director of Personnel for the City of New York under Mayor Koch. I’m pretty my father was already having an affair. But I was marching in the parade and I had to smile and wave on command. And I loved it. But I had no sense that it had anything to do with where I came from. It could have been the clown parade for all I cared or knew.

It wasn’t until I was 16 that I attended the parade ever again. I went with my first boyfriend, a half Puerto Rican, half Ecuadorian boy to whom I lost my virginity. I peeled off a letter P and a letter R from a police barricade and stuck them on my ass. This was before I had an ounce of progressive politics in me and being Rican was about living in a Latino hood with my Latino man eating rice and beans on Fifth Avenue at the Puerto Rican Day Parade.

When I returned the next year it was to hand out flyers against police brutality and collect signatures demanding the release of the Puerto Rican political prisoners. I didn’t go to the Puerto Rican Day parade to show off that I was Puerto Rican or to prove that I was Puerto Rican. I certainly wasn’t going to pick up boys. I had learned through mentors like Richie Perez was that being Puerto Rican was a daily internal way of living, of giving to your community, and demanding and fighting for your community on a daily basis.

Richie and the rest of the Congress Patch Kids (what the latest generation on National Congress for Puerto Rican Rights called ourselves) would arrive early to secure a good spot. Then we would split up and hand out flyers about the latest upcoming events, rallies, and injustice committed against the Puerto Rican community. One of my personal favorite parade flyers, and I think it was Richie’s too, was the year we wanted to organize a mass booing of Giuliani as he marched the parade route. We printed these palm card sized flyers with a picture of Giuliani waving and wearing a guayabera (from a previous year’s parade). We printed on the flyers “When you see him pass, boo his Ass”. We all thought it was hilarious. And it worked. You could hear a wave of boos as the mayor moved up the parade route. I even think that was the year someone threw a mango at him.

Of course there was the Rican weekend when women were sexually assaulted. I was thrown into the protest rallies as the token Puerto Rican woman among white feminist decrying what happened. The MapucheRican could be seen in my arms in most of the news interviews I did.

Yesterday morning my sister, her friend and our cousin furiously put on their shortest skirts and as many Puerto Rican flag items on their bodies as they could. I know that they don’t know what the capital of Puerto Rico is though. Or where the flag they so proudly wear once a year came from.

The buildings along Fifth Avenue built blockades and put up wire fences to keep the Ricans off the grass and out of their lobbies. I complained out loud about the fact that that is not done during any other parade. My mother says “That’s because Puerto Ricans are animals. “
My mother was born in Mayaguez, Puerto Rico of Puerto Rican parents. She has two Puerto Rican daughters and a Puerto Rican granddaughter.

Thursday, June 10, 2004

My First Time Working a Grill....too Bad the Memorial Day BBQ was wet and full of drama because everyone got too drunk.  Posted by Hello

Monday, June 07, 2004

Prison Abuse and Murder Has Been Happening for Awhile and Closer To Home than Abu Ghraib-Event

Will you be in the Downtown Manhattan area around lunchtime on Wednesday, June 9?
Maybe you'll be in Sunset Park , Brooklyn around 6 pm the same day.

Support a mother's 7 year struggle for justice. Prison abuse and murder has been happening right here against people of color in NYC for years.

Jose Santo's story
In May 1997, Jose Jr., was in Rikers Island on simple parole violation charges. He was waiting to go before the Judge. But, on June 9th, 1997 his parents, Maria and Jose Santos, received news of their son's death. Rikers Island officials claimed that Jose Jr. committed suicide. That he hung himself from a chair. But we ask how?! There is no moveable furniture in the cells! Where is the evidence? Inmates heard Jose, Jr. screaming in the middle of the night and saw Goon Squad Correction Officers going to his cell. Why were his organs removed without permission of the family? To this day no one has been indicted for Jose's murder. Come join the Santos family as they demand the case be reopened, properly investigated and those responsible brought to justice! There is power in numbers!
Sin justicia no hay paz!

On the 7 year anniversary of his death


Press Conference
NYC Department of Corrections
60 Hudson St. between Thomas and Worth Sts.
A, C, 1, 2, 3 to Chambers Street

Santos Family Residence
438-61st St. Brooklyn
N, R trains to 59th Street

For more information call the Justice Committee 212-353-7825 or email Justicecommittee@hotmail.com

Sunday, June 06, 2004

Jealous of Someone I Don't Even Know or the Trouble With Friends

This world wide web is an amazing thing. I have organized events with it. Communicated with people across the globe with it. Found all sorts of useless and useful information with it and have fallen in love thanks to it.

So the other day I was at the website where the misfit and I met. This site has the option of listing someone else on the site as your "friend". It's like a Latino Friendster except more ghetto. My friends currently are the misfit, la fea (who isn't even talking to me now because she blames me for her boy problems), and an ex of mine whom I hardly speak to but he's so hot and political that how could I not put him as my friend. The misfit had me, la fea, a chica he went to school with, and some other kid (his "little brother"). So the other day I was at the website and noticed that the misfit had a new "friend". She was Peruana, cute, and listened to Latin rock. I got jealous!! Maybe because that's how I found out who my ex was dating, when he put some new chica on his friend list. Shit the misfit put me on his friend list when we started dating. So I sent the misfit a note asking who his new friend was. He told me to relax because obviously in noticing everything else about this woman I failed to notice that she was in a relationship. I felt like as ass.

What have I learned from this experience? Well first and foremost to stop checking on the misfit's friends. He's not my man. We're not dating anymore. It's just gonna upset me. Maybe I'll get rid of my friend list too.

Saturday, June 05, 2004

Am I Too Old to Mosh?

This entry is from last Friday. I have been so wrapped up in writing, trying not to think about my fucked up romantic life, and watching my daughter play a circus dog in a school show that I've been neglecting you my blog readers. To be honest the only thing and the last thing I want to be writing about is the misfit. Maybe there is one more post I can/will write about him but today he confessed finally that he still isn't over his ex so the whole us not dating feels more real to me tonight even though I've known from the get that he wasn't over her. I'll write about how that makes me feel in a separate entry but now let me take you back to a happier more confusing time....last week.

The misfit was running late, as usual. But because of what we had been going through I immediately worried that he was going to stand me up, especially when I called at 10:20 or so and he didn’t answer his cell phone. He didn’t stand me up and I didn’t tell him about my fear.
When he picked me up in his brother’s car I didn’t greet him with a kiss on the mouth. Not because I didn’t want to and not because of the whole “we’re not dating anymore” thing but because I didn’t want to ruin my lipstick.
He tells me about a friend of a woman he had bad sex with once and how according to this corporate friend the woman has been like a hermit in her apartment. The misfit blames himself since after he had bad sex with her he got back together with his ex and stopped calling her. The misfit was the second man the 25 year old woman had slept with. Another reason, according to him, for this woman to lock herself away from the exciting New York City social scene.

La Oveja Negra didn’t have a line in front when he parked the car, the way it did two weeks before when we went to see Pedro Suarez Vertiz singing about his Tren Sexual. We made it upstairs by 11:20 pm and were really surprised with how empty the club was.
Crew members were doing a sound check on the stage and the dance floor was empty. The DJ wasn’t playing music. The few people that were in the club seemed like they were reporters/photographers of some sort covering the event, the others seemed like they were members of the Bersuit fan club. The misfit and I drank beers. He said I looked hot and damnit I did. Too bad there weren’t any cute Argentines for me to flirt with. Too bad the misfit and I aren’t dating.

When the DJ finally started playing music he played the worse of rock Argentino. The misfit and I sort of swayed/danced to the music inching our way closer and closer to the stage. Bersuit Vergarabat in all their glory (damn there’s a lot of them) went on stage after two am despite the tickets saying 1 am but since when are us Latinos known for our punctuality.

The band members tried to make out with women who went up on stage. One fan armed with the flag of Argentina went up on stage crying. Then she just knelt on stage and covered herself with the flag as if she was a table and it was a tablecloth. For awhile Bersuit members just kind of looked at her and played around her. Finally security came and carried her off. Security also kicked out three concert goers who were smoking cigarettes. I felt bad for them because members of Bersuit were puffing away. When I was in Chile people smoked everywhere, even in the movie theatres. In was in South America that I became a hard core smoker. I think Latin rock clubs should be exempt from the city’s smoking ban. The misfit doesn’t smoke, let me repeat, he doesn’t smoke unless he’s with me because I always have cigarettes.

The club was crowded or at least felt crowded by the time the band began to play. It could just have been that since everyone was moshing and stepping on my poor feet it felt like there were more people than there were. As I jumped around with the crowd I remember distinctly thinking, “I’m 27 with a child nearly 7 at home. Am I too old for this?” I hadn’t moshed in a while. Moshing still remind me of when I was in high school going to bad Regis dances (all the Regis dances were bad). The misfit tried his best and it was downright adorable and sweet the way he tried to protect me from getting slammed too badly by anyone. There were moments that it felt like we were still dating like when we would give each other light kisses or reach for each other’s hand.

The show ended a little past four, and the sun was just beginning to peek through the night darkness. The misfit drove me home and left me at the back door to my building with a familiar kiss on the mouth (we’re not dating though!).

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Ok I'm really pissed

I just spent a substantial amount of time writing a long post about my first night out "not dating" the misfit complete with links and then I got this stupid internet explorer error message and I lost everything. I am too tired to redo the whole thing...Maybe I'll be in the mood tomorrow. I know some people have been waiting for an update.

I did just finish a short story though!!!! woo hoo!!!

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

Pitches and Revisions

He picks me up exactly 22 minutes after he texted me he would. The misfit has it down to a science. I step into his brother’s car with the New Mexico plates. His brother, a journalist, I found out two weeks ago has a house in New Mexico. I greet the misfit with a kiss on the cheek, the way friends do because that is what he has made me now, just a friend. I place my left hand inside my inner thigh. My thumbnail picks at a small callous at the tip of my pointer finger. I do this to keep from touching him which is what I really want to do. He’s lighter, the happiest I’ve seen him in the last two weeks. He begins to tell me about a new story he is working on. It has nothing to do with her, the haunting ex.
I begin to scribble notes in my moleskine. He drives with a certain determination. He obviously has a place in mind. We drive through Brooklyn and over the Williamsburg Bridge. I don’t ask him where we are going. We park in the east village, a few blocks from nyu where we both went. I recognize the bar he wants to go to. He’s mentioned being there with his friends before. We don’t go in because there are too many servicemen in uniform and that makes us both uncomfortable so we walk in a perfect circle. I show him where a former lover of mine used to live, the afghani filmmaker. I show him where la fea likes to drink.
“Wanna hear a movie idea?” he tells me. He wants to write a screenplay and make a lot of money. I listen as he tells me his idea. It’s a good one, very commercial. He even has it cast in his head. I showed him the all boy catholic school where la fea and I would go to pick up boys in uniform. We don’t talk about the “note”. Occasionally he puts his arms around my shoulders or my waist. It feels awkward, the way it did when we first met. It feels like a first date.
We end up back at the bar he originally wanted to go to. The servicemen have left. We find a table towards the back and he goes to get us beers. I must try some Belgium beer he tells me. I try it and am not that impressed.
Finally we talk about it. He says he didn’t dump me. He just doesn’t want to hurt me. He feels inadequate as a writer, as a man. He feels fat, ugly and balding. He can’t give me what I deserve, what I want. It’s because he knows I am falling in love with him that he says all these things. That’s why he wrote the “note”.
I ask for boundaries. Tell him I need them. It’s obvious to the both of us that we will still see each other, “hang out”.
“Can we kiss?” I ask
He laughs, “Yes. I am very kissable,”
“Can we fuck?” I ask. He doesn’t answer. He’s obviously not sure about that one.
I give him money to get us another round which we drink quickly before leaving to smoke a cigarette.
He’s hungry. I’m not really but I suggest we get something to eat because I don’t want to leave him yet. We go to Chinatown. It’s close to 1 am. We eat Chinese food and the he drives me home. He walks me to the side door like he always does and we kiss goodbye on the mouth.
“See you at 10 tomorrow night,” he tells me. I just nod my head.
It still feels like we’re dating.