Saturday, May 29, 2004

Hiding Behind the Written Word

While I was calm in my newfound perspective on my relationship with my misfit Peruano, meaning making a conscious decision not to expect anything and maybe even open myself to looking in other people and places , he was writing the classic " It's not you it's me/I'm dumping you but still we can be friends" letter. Well it wasn't exactly a letter. It wasn't even an email. It was a "note" (which is sort of like an email) within the cyber-community where we first met.

I read it as I was getting ready to go to bed early since my herby misfit and I were going to a concert the next night. As I read the "note" and how he loved me but wasn't in love with me and I was a distraction to his evolution(or deevolution- he hasn't decided)and but that he really cared about me. I started shaking, not crying. I was angry that he had chosen this coward's way to dump me.

This sort of thing has happened so many times, with the artsy, creative men I have dated. It was happened so often in fact that I have a soundtrack that I burned for just such an occasion.

I called la fea, my best girl to cry. She pissed me off by talking to the man (boy) she's dating in the middle of my recitation of the "note". I hung up on her.

I sat in my bed, with a red novena candle that I had bought en el nombre del Peruano, dangerously tucked inside my bent knee. I listened to my discman, singing along and crying and writing. I was not drinking. Nor did I take anything.

My first response to the misfit came in the form of a text message: "Does this mean we're not going to see Bersuit?".
He responded via text that it was up to me, since I had the tickets but that "Please" could we. That he really wanted to go but he understood if I didn't because it could be awkward. And " If only I could prove to you how much I care"

That was our first "conversation" after he dumped me.

I texted him back that he could prove it to me by speaking to me instead of sending notes, Im's , and text messages. That this was one time that the writer needed to stop hiding behind the written word and use his voice. He texted me that he was going to call. I asked if he didn't think it would be better for us to meet. After some hesitation and complaining about the cold he texted me
" I'll be there in 22 minutes"

Next installment: Pitches and boundaries

Friday, May 28, 2004

You wanted drama.....pues TOMA!!!

Some of my loyal blog readers, and I love you all really for reading, have complained that lately my blog has been um boring. You all like when I'm suffering don't you?

It started yesterday morning, the sadness and the distance that the misfit was unbearable and I told him so, well I typed an instant message telling him so. It was obvious that he was pushing me away and thoughts of me just throwing in the towel and dating other people began dancing in my head even though deep down that's not what I wanted. Me puse raviosa, rabid, angry. I almost broke my computer because I punched it so hard where I had tapes a picture of me kissing him on the cheek. I have since taken the picture down well because I can't break my computer damnit! That moment seemed so long ago anyway even though it was only a month ago or so. We don't seem like the same people. We both look so content, so at ease with what we have. What happened to us?

It took a glass of cabernet and a calmante (just one...before someone tries to lock me away in an institution) to get me to stop crying, screaming and throwing shit around in my apartment. When the wine and little pink pill finally kicked in I had decided to find more patience and just be as supportive as I could of the depressed writer. He was and continues to be worth every emotion I am capable of feeling. And I wrote him a little note in the same online community where he first approached me to tell him so.

Ah but it wouldn't be Mala's life if it all ended here.
Mas to come...

Tuesday, May 25, 2004

Morning Marketing

Some peeps have been complaining because I haven't had a real update in awhile. The picture I last posted of random scribbles the man I have been dating wrote on my body a few nights ago in my lobby didn't strike most as interesting. I apologize. It's not that things haven't been happening in my life. It's that so many things have been happening that I've been busy doing things besides sitting in front of this computer.

Specifically for all NYC gente...is it just in my neighborhood, or is everyone being bombarded by people handing out flyers and free newspapers in the morning when they take their kids to school or are on their way to work?

This morning after dropping off the MapucheRican (who is coming down with a cold), I was bombarded with people handing me those free morning mini-newspapers (are they hiring? DO they need a single latina mama columnist?). Seems like the main competitors on my strip are Metro and AM New York.
Fresh Direct was in effect on four corners handing out flyers. There was even some poor soul dressed as a piece of cheese and a woman dressing up as either a tomato or a strawberry ( I couldn't tell really. I hadn't had my coffee yet).

Free samples. Start giving out free samples of shit I could use (which at this point is everything and anything) and then I won't mind having papers shoved in my face before 9 am.

Sunday, May 23, 2004


Written on the Body Posted by Hello

Saturday, May 22, 2004

I had a dream with him last night

. It was the type of dream that makes your sleep uneasy, that wakes you every so often because it’s so uncomfortable. He was leaving and it felt very permanent, kind of like it is starting to feel in reality. In the dream he was going to either Peru or Argentina and he was avoiding me, avoiding having to say goodbye. I spent most of the dream searching for him, reaching for him, as I am now. By the time I reached him it was too late. I finally caught up with him in an airport. I found him standing in front of a magazine kiosk. He was wearing a suit. We stared at each other, neither one daring to get too close to the other. It was one of the saddest dreams I have had lately.

When I told the misfit about the dream he corrected my subconscious on two points.
#1: he would never leave without talking to me
#2: he would never wear a suit (this I know…he doesn’t even own one!)

But the dream reflected how I was feeling, like he is on the edge of ending the whole thing, something that has just begun without being fair to it. Fuck being just to me. Be just to the process; let it take its course. He has suddenly become afraid, detached, and distant and it hurts. I was literally crying today as we im’ed each other.

Ha imagine if we were “official”?! The sad thing is that the more vulnerable he is, the more attracted I am. The more a reflection of me he becomes. The more I know he can understand me.

Do not get attached Mala. Do not get attached. I have to repeat this to myself because I will forget.

Update:

We spoke about it and he’s confused. Seems to me that there are lots of confused men running around this lovely city of ours. He says men demand more from a relationship and that men need more to male them happy. Don’t know if I buy that but I was too drunk from organic bbq chicken to argue. Bottom line to all the men and women who are unsure about what to do with that other person in your life: It’s fear! Confront it or run away!!! Wishy washiness is not attractive and it makes me sad.

One thing that my dearest misfit is not unsure of is going camping with me. Now I just need to figure out where to go??!!!!

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

Something I Take for Granted

I just read this article
and I was very disturbed. Not just because of the near sexual assault I recently experienced but because it made me think of the many times I have drunkenly stumbled into cabs. Most of the time the cabs I have stumbled into are livery cabs, hailed in Washington Heights or another barrio. A good number of the cabs have been called by me or people I have been with. Only a handful have been yellow cabs.
Many a driver has talked it up to me, both when I was drunk and sober. Slipping me their number for more than just a taxi.

The "alleged" (I hate using that word but I am faking objectivity) sexual assault should serve as a reminder to women to always be vigilant and maybe indeed there is no safe space.



Mourning Weddings

U.S. Reportedly Kills 40 Iraqis at Wedding Party
By SCHEHEREZADE FARAMARZI, Associated Press Writer

BAGHDAD, Iraq - A U.S. helicopter fired on a wedding party early Wednesday in western Iraq (news - web sites), killing more than 40 people, Iraqi officials said. The U.S. military said it could not confirm the report and was investigating.

Lt. Col Ziyad al-Jbouri, deputy police chief of the city of Ramadi, said between 42 and 45 people died in the attack, which took place about 2:45 a.m. in a remote desert area near the border with Syria and Jordan. He said those killed included 15 children and 10 women.

Read the entire article here.

I Invited Violence Into My Apartment

I let him in because I needed to let someone in. The bottle of rum was calling. The rattle of a bottle of painkillers rolling underneath the palm of my hand was soothing and he knew this. He said he came to comfort me. He said he still loved me but still partially blamed his breaking up with me on the symptoms of my insanity.

I let him in because I wanted him to get his shit out of my house. I want to make room for beautiful things and beautiful people.

"You were doing so well," he cooed as I cried into his designer suit. I had forgotten how tall he was and how that height made me feel protected and safe. I had been doing well until now.

He didn't comment on the picture I have taped to my computer of me kissing the misfit on the cheek. I saw him see it though.

He followed me into the bedroom. Or did he push me in there. I can't even remember. I do remember being pushed onto the bed and held down and saying , " No, No " as I pushed his mouth away from my mouth, his hands away from the waistband of my pants, his hands from underneath my shirt. He had at least 4 pair of hands and my own felt as if they had been amputated, useless stumps.
" Is this what it feels like before you are raped? " I asked myself.
Then he stopped.
He asked for his things: his hair gel, shirts, jeans.
He said he'd been thinking about us getting back together because his life was falling into place again.
He left and I was left shaking.

Should I have called the police? A part of me wanted to. But he hadn't actually raped me but I still felt violated. I had no bruises where he held my arms down. Him older white professional man vs. me poor single Puerto Rican mother. The power dynamic is heavy.

Nunca mas....nunca mas. I will not invite violence into my home.

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

Trying to Root Myself

Willow
WILLOW
You are compassionate and independent. You're the
kind of tree who wants to help other trees find
themselves in a crazy world you know all too
well. You love the gentler side of nature and
like things simple and elegant. A night owl,
you like things peaceful all the time and are
often vexed when others invade your solitude.
You love the water as much as the land, feeling
at home in both. Often shy, you always want to
do things right, and crave attention every now
and then. You fear that what you love most may
one day turn on you, but it doesn't stop you
from getting close to others. You are a good
listener and other trees often come to you for
advice or someone to talk to. You admire others
who freely share themselves. When you leave the
world, you want others to remember your example
and follow it.


What's Your Inner Tree?
brought to you by Quizilla

En Su Memoria...La Lucha Continua

I was introduced to her through a fellow Puerto Rican student when I was in college, still the infancy of my political development. Lately I had been reading her and thinking about myself, colonized woman, displaced woman, mujer loca-labeled clinically insane.

Descansa en Paz

Happiness is…

Walking with someone on a warm Spring night and not talking about anything and talking about everything.

The smell of that person

The feeling of that person’s arms around you

Kissing that person

One armed pull ups on scaffolding

Browsing through the condom aisle in the local 24 hour pharmacy and discussing which ones you want to try together.

Making future plans with that person

Monday, May 17, 2004

White Weddings

I went as my mother’s guest. My mother went as la jefa, the boss lady of the mother of the groom. The groom is Guatemalan. The bride is Italian. They already have a four year old child together.

Weddings make me think. They make me deconstruct. They make me think about gender, race, class and privilege. Weddings make me sad.

This wedding was all about showing off. The parents of the bride paid for the affair overlooking a bay. There was fog and lasers and at least five video presentations including a show of baby pictures of both the bride and groom. There was a choice of four entrées and the Viennese hour began with the lights being dimmed and four tables aflame with torches and sparklers being brought out to the song “Eye of the Tiger”.

I am 27 years old. According to some standards I am at perfect marrying age. According to other standards I am past perfect marrying age. Some would say that I am outright unmarriable because I am a single mother who had a child when she wasn’t married. My aunt refers to every man I bring home “un candidato”, a candidate. My mother tells me I need to start thinking about settling down and finding someone who can provide for my daughter and me.

I thought I found that person. He was older. He had a stable good job. He had been married before and had a child. He also had a house in suburbia and he was white.
His racist jokes and relatively sheltered life were things that I swallowed for the sake of security. My mother would advise me to tone down my radicalism. He was the ideal candidato.

They called all the single women to the dance floor. My mother elbowed me. I reluctantly walked to the center of the room and joined half a dozen other women. I hated the feeling of desperation that accompanies this moment. Women throw themselves on the floor and on each other for a bouquet. They all want to be the next one to get married, to live the fantasy they have been prepared their whole life for. It is sad really. The bouquet of white flowers including calla lilies falls near my feet. My mother loves Calla lilies. I stare at the flowers. I don’t pick them up. In fact none of the women I am standing with dive or even lean toward the arrangement. The room falls silent. I don’t want to get married. I have no one to marry. I’m unmarriable. The man I am dating isn’t in love with me (yet?). We just started seeing each other. He won’t even call me his girlfriend. The man I thought I would eventually marry had a midlife crisis and left me, his younger exotic girlfriend. Now I am starting over. I look at the bride who is looking at us single women with a mixture of horror and confusion. I cal almost read her mind.
“Don’t you want this?” her eyes ask us.
A part of me wants to jump on the flowers and stomp up and down on them. I want to throw a tantrum.
“No I don’t want your fucking flowers, your storybook ending!”
Doesn’t she realize that some couples can’t get married? Yes my mind starts thinking about all my gay and lesbian friends that can’t get married.
The other part of me wants to snatch up the flowers and run home with them and put them on my altar along with my candles and incense and pictures of my ancestors and mentors who have passed. All of them were married.
I want to cry.

Finally another single woman steps in front of me and picks of the bouquet. I can hear the bride sigh. The guests cheer. I step out to have a cigarette.

I hate weddings.

Saturday, May 15, 2004

Rockera Soy



I admit that me and la Fea were being bad and judgemental. I really did want to go to this concert with the misfit but we were skeptical. I had downloaded some of the Peruvian rockeros songs and the misfit had put some on the cd he gave me for my birthday. Some were good , some were silly, some made me roll my eyes (What the hell is a "Tren Sexual" and can I get unlimited rides like I do with my NYC Transit Metrocard?)I also checked out Pedro Suarez Vertiz's website and while I found him very sexy (sessy)I also found that he came across in his pictures and videos like a gay porn star..in silly poses that just made me giggle. I forget sometimes that the misfit reads my blog and online journal. He was a little bit pissed that I said in a post yesterday that I thought the show was going to be "cheesy". Misfit baby...mil disculpas.

But I looked hot....I opted for this outfit The misfit was lured to me thanks to a picture of me wearing that shirt. The misfit (and my mother) weren't sure of the skirt saying it was too short and I would get myself into trouble. So I fucking wore it anyway. And the the misfit and everyone else thought I looked wonderful.

La Oveja Negra is a small club on the fourth floor of a sports club (gym) complex in Astoria, Queens. It screams South America, at least thats how both la fea and I felt when we first went there with the misfit. It reminds us both of small Southern Hemispheric clubs we've danced in.

The misfit and I drank and danced until the concert started. The misfit was so excited, checking his cell phone every few minutes to see how much longer till Pedro went on. As soon as Pedro did go on, everyone crowded toward the stage. The Misfit wrapped an arm around me and sang along loudly to every song. I did the best I could. I had spent nearly the entire day listening to Pedro Suarez Vertiz songs so that I didn't look like a fool and yes to impress the misfit a little. Pedro is very sexy I must say and gave a good show. He is not at all like he comes across on his website, which the misfit and I agree means that he just needs a new stylist. The musicians were incredible, especially the lead guitarist, an older Peruano who rocked like a brown skin Keith Richards with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth (keeping it South America baby where crazy no smoking in club laws would never fly). I got my feet stepped on, beer spilled on my head, and I was sweaty as all hell, but I had a great time. Pedro played for two hours non-stop which by any standards is incredible. And the whole two hours the misfit screamed, danced, and held on to me, kissing me occasionally. Being so close to him, being that sweaty just made me want him more. Fuck all my confusion before. I know I want to be with him for as along as he wants to be with me...that's all the matters.

On the way home we ate greasy drive through. I didn't want to get out of the car. I just wanted to stay all sweaty and sleepy next to my man (that's right, that's what I called him). But the misfit eventually kicked me out, well ok walked me to the door.

I woke up too early today (single motherhood puts a cramp in your social life...I'm kidding ok!!!)I will be my mother's date at a wedding she has to go to tonite. All I really want to do is get sweaty with my misfit.





Friday, May 14, 2004

And I’ll Spank the Police Too!

The MapucheRican’s class was the last to be dismissed today. According to the petite Colombiana it’s because our kids’ class has a substitute today. Whenever there is a substitute the children are late mostly because of a lack of mutual respect between the students and the substitute. They also just don’t know each other’s style.

When the children are late the parents, grandparents, and other caregivers have to engage in conversation far beyond the usual “Hey, how’s it going?” and “Nice weather we’re having” politeness.

“I didn’t know the class bully lived so close to you. I saw him the day after your son’s birthday party,” the Brazilian dad commented to the petite Colombian. We all knew who the class bully was without having to say his name. All of our children have complained about him, how he plays to rough. He hits, pushes, threatens and curses. We all have spoken to the teacher about him. The MapucheRican and he were in summer camp together and he was difficult then too. My sister was his pre-school teacher and she used to complain about him daily.

The Brazilian man’s wife, the Brazilian woman chimes in, “It’s that his mother doesn’t do anything. He just needs a good smack.”
I swallow hard. I know where this is going.
The Brazilian woman lets out a loud laugh as I look at my watch
“My son told me that the next time I hit him he’s going to call the police on me. “
I remember my sister would scream the same thing to my mother. It would only get her hit harder.
La Brasilera continued, “I said go ahead and I’ll spank the police too!”
The other mothers and fathers laugh.
“I was hit as a kid and I came out fine. You don’t hit them on the face just on the legs, butt or shoulders,” la Colombiana explains.
I was hit as a kid too. Mostly with a belt. Sometimes with a chancla. I was even slapped once.
“You should see how the boys run when I raise my hand, “the Brasilera laughs. The others join in.
“I don’t believe in hitting,” I finally speak up.
They all turn to look at me like I’m crazy. Like my statement was an indictment. Maybe it was.
“I don’t want my child to be afraid of me. I want her to respect me and she’ll learn that by me respecting her,” I say not looking any of them in the eye. They all think I’m strange anyway. I’m the only single mother in the group.
“That’s because you don’t have boys. If you have boys you’ll see, “they all warn me.
I think of my Ecuadorian friend raising two boys. She hits the boys. The father hits her.
Statistics say that they will hit their partners.

Finally our children come out of the school. They are all hugs and kisses and screams and running. I hug and kiss my daughter. The same I would my son. I would probably hug and kiss him more.

Thursday, May 13, 2004

Pure Delight and yet…

The misfit was at my door soon after and I greeted him happily with a kiss on the mouth, inviting butterflies. He have me a birthday card and a cd he made for me. I’ve been listening to the cd since I woke up and it’s made me smile, laugh really loud, and cry.
The card said he was happy I was in his life, that he was lucky to be with my on my birthday, that there is no one else in the world like me and that I shouldn’t doubt how special I am to him.

Ditto baby…. A million times over ditto.

We decided to go into the city because we don’t spend enough time in Manhattan.
On the ride over the Williamsburg Bridge I confessed that I had dinner with the Prince of Bushwick and that he had invited me over and that I declined because I wanted to be with him, the misfit. I wanted him to know that I made a choice. The misfit admitted to knowing I was with a man because I didn’t say I was going to be with the fea. He seemed pretty amazed that I could have a civil relationship with an ex. He said he couldn’t imagine spending a birthday dinner with his ex.

We settled into an outdoor lounge that seemed to be filled with more hipsters then Williamsburg. We ordered mojitos after waiting forever to get the waitress to acknowledge us. He looked so hot with this brown button down and his sexy glasses. He seems to favor brown. I took a few pics of him with my digital camera. I could look at him forever and want to.

He said I looked sad. The Prince of Bushwick said the same thing. I admitted being sad to my misfit. I was so delighted (his favorite word) to be with him and so sad dwelling on the lack of possibility he had planted in my heart in our earlier conversation.

I told him how I couldn’t just date him. How it was impossible because of the type of person he was, because of his creative, sensitive soul. All his issues are what make him real, human and all the more beautiful to me. There is nothing false or disguised. He is pure vulnerable nudity and open wound wanting to heal yet begging to be kissed. He is so much like me.

After two drinks I was done. We walked back to the car talking about Latino playwriting. In the car I took off my shoes and put my bare legs up on the dash. He accepted the unspoken invitation and touched me. The ride home he tried to teach me the words to the Nelly Furtado and Juanes song Fotografia so we could sing the duet together loudly. I was too drunk and tired to absorb the words. Once in front of my back door, where he always picks me up and leaves me, I unbuckled my seat belt and rested my head in his lap.
It feels so safe there, on him, in his car. I could live in that one spot, in that one position; forever listening to the music he plays and be happy. We kiss, make out. He walks me to the door. We kiss, make out some more. I moan when our mouths are together, I can’t help it.

I slept so well.

Today he tells me he wishes he were superficial, that it would be easier, nicer.
And I’m sad again. For him. For me. For us.

Meanwhile Back at the Ranch

It happened soon after I left. The MapucheRican was half asleep in my bed when according to my mother she let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“It came flying from the window. It was the same thing I saw when I was baby and mami had to hug me. It was this big, “the MapucheRican says with her outstretched arms trembling.

My mother thinks it is a spirit. A ghost. An ancestor. Maybe Titi Lucy. It’s true the spirits show themselves to the MapucheRican. She has told me but she has never expressed fear just curiosity as to why the veil between this life and another is so thin for her.

A half hour later with the MapucheRican resettled in my mother’s bed it shows itself to my sister and my mother in the living room. They show themselves. They are not as big as the MapucheRican’s outstretched arms but they still make my mother and sister scream, two huge fucking bugs.

It happens every year. They come in from this hole between my air conditioner and my bedroom window. They aren’t roaches. I think they are cicadas or crickets since I have a tree right by that bedroom window.

My mother and sister weren’t able to find them or kill them despite chasing them with a can of bug spray and jumping from the sofa to the loveseat, to the kitchen chairs. I am sure when I clean today I will find them dead somewhere, probably with my magazines and newspapers. That seems to be a favored resting place for bugs.

I came upstairs to pee after dinner and before seeing the misfit to find my sister, mother and the MapucheRican looking scared and urging me to stay until I found the unwanted visitors. I just shook my head and left again.

It feels like summer….yummy

Birthday Sinverguenzuras

I have a lot of fucking nerve but how the hell was I supposed to react. Ok ok it’s my own fault that I decided to ask the misfit what he wanted. I should have asked him before we started sleeping together and that fact that I hadn’t, and the fact that I am falling hard for him, and the fact that it was birthday made me say why the hell not. Never ever ask a question unless you are really ready for the answer but I needed to get out of limbo. Are we dating just to date and fuck and hang out or are we dating to maybe build something?
He’s the type of person that I’d like to build something with like the Colombian surfer dude was before he ran off to California. The misfit is having a crisis. He thought all he wanted/needed to be happy was someone like me but now realizing the fat misfit never really existed except in his own head and that now he has some critical life decisions to make he won’t figure out where I belong in that picture. Why every does every creative sexy beautiful Latino man that I want have to be going through a crisis when I meet them? Why don’t they want me to be with them through their crisis? He says to me that you can’t build something on a fucked up foundation and I want to tell him how fucked up my own foundation is and I want to kiss him and hold him and make it all go away so that he can just say yes to me. Just say si to life. Why do creative Latino men take so many risks when it comes to their work but not when it comes to their relationships?
And you know what not to be conceited but I’m a fucking great person to be with. I am sexy, I am brilliant, I am talented, and I am loyal. I am the best woman any man or woman could ask for and people realize it when it’s too late, when I’ve written them off. I don’t want him to let me write him off.

And that’s why I said yes. That’s why I decided to accept the Prince of Bushwick’s invitation to dinner. It’s evil passive aggressive bullshit but I was hoping (still hope) that if the misfit saw how other people want me that he should want me too and hold on tight, not let me slip away. I spent my last birthday with the Prince of Bushwick but the last time I still held illusions. I thought he would be with me and get rid of the shampoos that belonged to all the other women who passed regularly through his shower. Last night I had no illusions. I knew I would have a good time, get a little drunk, enjoy flirting and yes maybe have sex. I never erased that from the list of possibilities. I was going to use the good raw fuck that I was guaranteed from the Prince of Bushwick to distance myself emotionally from the misfit. It would be the point of no return for all of us.

But the misfit sort of saved himself. He knew I had pending dinner plans. He never asked who with but he had to suspect it was with another man because I didn’t say otherwise. He called me just as I was finishing painting my nails a hot pink. He asked if I wanted to get together after my dinner. I said yes without hesitation. I wanted to be with him anyway, someone that I still have illusions about, someone filled with the light of possibility.

To be continued……

SHHHH

Yesterday was quite a day..I'll write about later. Right now the birthday queen rests because tommorow the sinverguenzuras continue!!!

Gracias to all of you who sent me birthday wishes. I will wrap them each up and carry them with me throughtout the next year.

.

Wednesday, May 12, 2004

Finding the Fat Misfit

There is so much for me to write about. Thoughts, news, fears, revelations and sadness but for now I begin with this.

The other day the misfit..That's what I'm calling him for now. That's what he likes to think of himself as so I'll give it to him. I'm all about self identification. So the other day after delicious sweaty day before my 27th birthday sex and before he served me a lunch that he cooked for me(Peruvian food..Keeping it South American baby), he started talking about weight and his body...again. I asked if he would show me pictures. He once said that pictures were his proof that the fat misfit existed. I wanted to see the fat misfit that haunts the man I am totally into. I want to unwrap this thing and see it for all it is and then dissect it and find out how it was born. So he fingered through some photo albums that included pictures from him since he was a beautiful baby. As I watched him grow up through these photos I saw him realize that he was never fat. Someone, more than one someone had planted that in his brain and in that same brain his body grew. I witnessed him becoming shocked and sad with himself.

He asked me one late night if I would be shocked if he developed anorexia or bulemia. I told him frankly no.

This among other issues is affecting how we move forward and today on my birthday, for this reason I am sad for him, for myself, for us.



Do You Know What Today is?

Yes it's May 12. Yes it's Wendesday. It's my birthday! My mission today includes maybe getting a manicure and pedicure and getting a birthday crown to wear around for the next few days as I celebrate and act the fool.

I was invited to dinner tonight. I won't go if my misfit invites me to do something with him.

My first birthday wish came from the MapucheRican's father who called from Chile. My first card came from my father whom I don't speak to.

My best chica, la fea, came over and we ate sushi, watched a Spanish flick, and drank my favorite red. This is why I love her.



Tuesday, May 11, 2004

Where there was once comfort

Now nerves and fear have set in. It's been exactly a month since we first met in person, reached out from behind the safety of our computer screens. Today I will ride the bus to his house. Maybe stopping on the way to pick up condoms. He's suppossed to make me lunch. Everyday that we speak, see each other, another layer comes off and still so many layers to go. I am not afriad of the ghost of the ex anymore. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of not being interesting, sexy, talented enough. I am afraid of him growing bored. The initial delicious taste of newness , that top creamy layer, we're past it. Now comes the center, the limbo, the place I hate most. I feel nameless, placeless. I just am. And for all my years of studying Buddhism and meditating and therapy and trying to be happy just being, it's fucking scary. and that's why so many times I end up running back, running back to the safety of being the slut, of being the alcoholic, of being the crazy girl. Anything but nameless, placeless. Why is happiness so scary? I am enjoying this, him, my life, my writing. But none of it feels safe. Anything can happen. That should excite me but instead it has me trembling inside. Hmmm. I don't know if these are post-menstral thoughts, pre birthday anxieties.

I need to breath.

Monday, May 10, 2004

Selfish Moment- Birthday Wishes

My birthday is a few days away and even though many people who read this are people I do not know personally and would never get me a birthday gift, nor would I expect one, these are the things I want for my 27th year of life:

Music- burned cds, emailed mp3’s, songs that remind me of you, songs that remind you of me. An mp3 player would be really nice but that’s pushing it

Clothes-funky fun stuff to wear on all the dates I’ve been having, shoes, jewelry too!!1

Books and paper- stuff I should read, stuff I want to read, stuff you think I should read, your writing. Paper to write what I should be writing, paper to write to you. Get me subscriptions to magazines and newspapers I like.

Cash- to use at my discretion, to take you out with, to pay my bills, to take my daughter out. Adopt a bill, pay it for me.

Love and sex- kiss me, fuck me, make love to me, do me, hold me, cuddle with me, tell me how hot I am, suck me, eat me out, tell me I’m yours and only yours. Tell me you love me. Tell me you need me. Tell me you respect me. Sleep with me. Accept me as I come to you and as I am.

Take me out- to the movies, to concerts, to shows, to museums, dinner, to meet your parents, to play with your children, to bookstores, to cafes and wine bars.

Talk to me-Tell me about your childhood, your identity issues, where you came from, where you are going, tell me your dreams, nightmares and fantasies. Tell me about your family. Tell me about you lovers and loves. Tell me the last good book you read and the last good movie you saw. Tell me what you want from me. Tell me what you hate about me.

Pamper me- Get me a massage, a pedicure, a manicure

Now is that too much to ask for???

Sunday, May 09, 2004

Playing on the Escalator

We always seem to end up in a big name chain bookstore 15 minutes before closing. I had been trying to avoid those places before I met him. I was trying to support local indy bookstores but truth be told at this point I would follow him inside anywhere.

We sit in front of a stack and read first paragraphs of books and criticize jacket covers and author pics. We both dream of our own eventual books and each others.

He gets chastised by the security guard who warns him not to play on the escalator because it's dangerous. It's so funny that I have to turn away to avoid laughing in the young security guard's face. He gets irritated with me for not defending him like he didn't defend me the night before at a club when a man was staring at my ass a little too much. He wouldn't even put his arm around me in a protective way signifying some sort of relationship between us. I shouldn't read too much into it, but I inject meaning into everything that hasn't been clearly defined for me. It's part of my insanity.

I tell him I want to sleep with him, not just have sex with him but fall asleep with him, He smells good, really south American. I don't ever want to get out of his car but I'm so tired. We always see each other really late at night, after the MapucheRican is fast asleep. We stay together for hours at a time, most of the time spent in his car. Being with him, in his car, had become a comfy place for me. I shouldn't get too used to it.

Oh yeah and happy mami's day to all the mamitas out there.





Friday, May 07, 2004

I am the Best Mami in the World because...

My daughter painted a small flower pot and planted a bright fragrant orange/yellow flower in class today and gave it to me as a mother's day gift. She also made a card that said " You are the best mother in the world because you have a wonderful child".

Damn isn't the MapucheRican sure of herself...as well she should be.



Thursday, May 06, 2004

Mami Has a Boyfriend

I didn't tell the MapucheRican that I was dating someone new, much less say I have a boyfriend but she saw me kissing his cheek in a picture and of course to a six year old people kissing in any way shape or form means they must be partners. She sees me giggling in front of the computer screen. She hears me giggling on my cell phone. She knows something is up even though she doesnt know with whom.

Over coffee yesterday my mother tells me that out of nowhere the MapucheRican brought up my ex.
She said she was mad at him for not coming around anymore,
I couldnt blame her. My ex would take us out to eat and slip her dollar bills for good grades or for reading a book exceptionally well, things that at the time I couldnt afford to do. He promised her fishing trips and other outings well beyond the range of my 7 day unlimited metrocard.
But she also mentioned you having a new boyfriend, my mother continued.
Shed seen me date creative types before. They rarely lasted long enough to be considered for a visit with my daughter.
He knows you have a daughter right? She asks.
He has a son mami, I divulge. My mom smiles. This obviously makes her feel better.

It never made her feel better knowing that the Dominican man I used to date/fuck had a son. He was too dark, too Latino. Maybe it was just the fact that I became pregnant when I was with him and had an abortion. She felt I was at my sluttiest when I was with him.

Have you met Mamis new boyfriend?my mother asks the MapucheRican. My mother has already met the man I am dating (note I am not calling him my boyfriend). Her needling my daughter for information about my love life is nothing new. It downright pisses me off however. I wish my mother would just ask me instead of making my child a spy. It makes me reluctant to introduce my daughter to anyone, not just men Im dating.
I have male friends that Im not fucking. Dont tell my mother that though. It would ruin her image of me.

I havent met him yet, my daughter responds,but were going to set up a meeting
I have never mentioned a meeting, not to the MapucheRican, not to the man Im dating.
It all seems a little too soon, especially given how angry my daughter still seems to be about my ex disappearing without as much as a goodbye to her.

The MapucheRican has never had a steady man around in her life. Her father has appeared twice briefly. He exists through emails and jpgs and Victor Jarra songs sung to her as lullabies and nostalgia for a country where she was conceived but has yet to know.
I wonder if she feels an absence, a void. I wonder if she gets jealous when I date. I wonder if maybe I worry more about these things then she does or ever will.

Additional Things: The following thoughts weren't going to be paraddingday's entry but I'm addding them on because they need to go in today. I usually spend time writing a little earoundbout a theme rolling wround in my head. These are just little extras.

This one is probably too much information but I'm really excited that I got my period today and not just because it means that I'm not pregnant and that my body is working the way it should. I get to use my keeper!!!!
I have been using those Instead cups for awhile but I like the idea of using something that's not going to contribute to the garbage of the earth. It was super easy to use.

I got the butterflies!!! Last night we met and when I met him at the door and we kissed I got that bubbly feeling in my tummy. Canvasfly.....how does that fit into your theory???

I will not watch the series finale of Friends...it is not high art as M. (carajo please give me a nickname for you!!!) and my sister have argued. It's pop culture. Much like Sex and the City, I can't understand a New York City without people of color. Ok yes I know that there are many white people that really don't have any poc friends. Ross dating two woc during the run of the show does not cut it for me. Those are not my friends. Anyway something that is so overhyped..as this finale is turns me off. I'll eventually watch it when it's out on DVD and Netflix gets around to sending it to me.

Speaking of movies, I saw Dirty Pretty Things the other night and thought it was well done.







Wednesday, May 05, 2004

Exhibitionists Sometimes Forget

I forget sometimes who is on the other side of this virtual world. I forget who may be reading this. Family members are probably scandalized by my activities (although not lately. I’ve been behaving). Former partners and lovers find out what I really think about them and who has taken their place. Current partners and lovers gain a better understanding about what goes on in my head. I have committed perhaps the greatest of all writing sins: forgetting who my audience is.

I had just finished having a brief visit with M. (he says I should nickname him gordito and he will call me flaca. I refuse to play into that). I log back onto my computer and my friend and former lover im’s me. He says he misses me but sees that I have moved on to new horizons. I forget that I had shown him my blog about a month ago, to show him the piece I had written about another lover of mine. I didn’t think he would remember the URL. I didn’t think that he would be reading it as a way to decipher my recent lack of communication with him but that’s what he did.

I don’t know why I felt like I owed him an explanation. I don’t why I felt bad. He had done it to me before, suddenly not returning pages or phone calls because he found another activist in our circle to sleep with. I’m not sure I even have forgiven him for his treatment of me after I had an abortion after I got pregnant by him.

Remember?

Brown Baby Wishes

For F. and the baby we never had together

Brown baby wishes
And DominiRican dreams
Got left behind at Queens Plaza,
Right on the # 7 line.
I thought I could save him.
I thought you would show up late,
As you had so many times before,
And I would miss the appointment.
I hoped that you would come off the train
From El Barrio
And ask me not to do this.
But you didn’t.
You came on time and rushed me off.
You made jokes and wrote music
Between watching Jerry Springer
As I had blood drawn,
Had a sonogram,
And given what was called counseling.
I wanted to tell you
That our baby was 9 weeks old
But I didn’t.

Brown baby wishes
And Afro-Latino dreams
Conceived on my kitchen countertop.
Life created in the shadow of death.
Didn’t you think that was a sign?
I did.
For weeks I felt my body making room
For weeks I asked if you thought I was getting fat,
But as long as I was naked
I don’t think you cared if I did.
For weeks I carried our baby to rallies and marches,
Sang in the sun
And danced in the rain with our baby.
I screamed and yelled for justice with our baby.
I wanted to tell you that I had named our baby.
S.,
After your boy who was killed by the pigs,
But I didn’t.

Brown baby wishes
And Nuyorican dreams
Got lost in an anesthetic haze,
Got lost in a moment of me spread open before a stranger,
Got lost in the banter of nurses,
Got lost in me being called by a number
Instead of my name,
All for the sake of confidentiality
But I didn’t want this to be a secret.
I didn’t want us to be secret.
I wanted the whole fucking world to know
That I was too fucking weak to say no to you,
That I was too fucking weak to send you to hell
With your so called unpreparedness to be a father again
Despite your eagerness to fuck me again
And again
And again,
With your complaints of to many other tragedies happening in your life,
I wanted to parade in your shadow
From El Barrio to Washington Heights
With my belly getting bigger.
I wanted to follow you to gagas
And raras
And ceremonias
Wearing a t-shirt announcing my sexual status with you
And its result.
Fuck confidentiality,
Secrecy,
And modesty.
I wanted to scream at the doctors
My name and your name.
I wanted to scream,
“STOP!”
but I didn’t. I fell asleep instead
asking forgiveness.

Brown baby wishes
And maternal dreams
I never dared utter.
They got lost in the waves
Of physical and emotional pain.
They got lost in anger because you didn’t insist on taking me home.
They got lost in anger because you never said you were sorry.
They just got fucking lost,
Like you got lost for two weeks
Never calling to see how I was,
Never returning a dozen pages.
I smiled when the doctors put me on the pill.
I smiled wider when you wanted to see me again,
Now that I was cured, physically healed, and fully fuckable again.
I forgave you when you apologized for not knowing what to do
And doing nothing.
I slept with you over and over and over again.
I told you I loved you.

Brown baby wishes
And all my dreams
Live in the limbo
Of my vacuumed womb
Live in every time we fuck
Live in every prayer said
Live in every offering made
Live in every little brown baby I see
Live in every pregnant belly I meet
Live in every unanswered call
Live in every request for a sibling from my daughter
Live in every period I’ve had
Live in every birth control pill I’ve swallowed
Live in every condom I didn’t make you use.
I wanted to tell you all of this.
So now I am.
Fin.


He said he wasn’t surprised to see I had someone new. The last time I lay naked on his Washington Heights futon he predicted this would happen. He said it was my personality. I don’t know what he meant when he wrote that. Did he mean I was fickle? Did he mean I was always seeking out the next thrill? Did he mean that he was jealous? He admitted to being jealous.

Just last week, my most recent ex-boyfriend turned 39. I had long ago promised him a drink. He came looking for it and I was avoiding it, mostly because I knew he was seeking more than a drink. I had just met someone to whom I wanted to give and deserved all my attention and affection. My ex got the hint pretty quickly and has stepped away. The chit chatty im’s have nearly disappeared.

So to all my friends, lovers, partners, and family members……this is a disclaimer.
I will write about you. Take it or leave it.



Tuesday, May 04, 2004

The Yankee Cap has been Saved

For those concerned about the fate of my ex's Yankee cap, I am happy to report that I have successfully negotiated its release in exchange for a pair of silver earrings my ex still has.

I will have more drawer space since he will be picking up his jeans, sweats etc.

He said he didn't want the new guy to get jealous! Ha!

MM

Damn Yankees

My New York Yankees cap, hanging off a hook in my closet, disturbs him.
“It makes me think of obnoxious Italians,” he told me a few nights ago.
It reminds me of obnoxious Italians too, like my ex-boyfriend who gave me the cap.

I will throw out the cap (ok maybe just leave it in the basement so that someone in the building can use it. You wouldn’t believe how many of my neighbors are walking around in my unwanted clothes). I am not just throwing it out for him but for me too. I will throw out all the clothes and toiletries my ex left behind because the relationship too has now been left behind, in my heart and mind.

I should have known better then to date a Yankee fan. What good could come out of dating a white man who cheered for a team whose name represents conquest, invasion and rape to me? Yeah I know it’s just a baseball team but how could I ever be expected to listen to the Star Spangled Banner while watching the Yankees? It seems so unpatriotic to me. I hear Yankees and I want to stand with raised fists and sing La Borinquena.

He thought himself as a savior. He saved me from stripping. He saved me from becoming “too spic”. He saved me from my radical identity and feminist politics and for awhile I was happy to be saved. I reveled in the domestic suburban fantasy he held in front of me including weekends in the Hamptons and of course good seats at Yankee games. My mother adored him. He was “un buen candidato”, candidate for marriage. He accepted the fact that I had a daughter. He had a son from a previous marriage. I was going to trade my metrocard in for a driver’s license and move to Long Island.

Then I heard the racist jokes and I worried about my daughter hearing them. Then he started to reach out and grab a roll of fat that would hang over my jeans when I sat and I thought about my daughter’s body image. Then he said I was lazy for wanting to write and not selling out in a corporate job. He said my diagnosed mental illness, which seemed to be getting worse was just me making excuses. Then I remembered why I usually don’t date white men. But I stayed because it was what was good for me, for my daughter, and our future, or so I had been taught.

He left me months ago, emasculated by a potential loss of income from a lawsuit stemming from a deal he entered on behalf of the woman that came before me in his life.
He wouldn’t be able to provide the life he had promised me and my daughter and I for one was grateful. But he only stopped seeking me out last week when I told him I was dating someone else.

Sweatpants, hair gel, deodorant, brush, Yankees cap. My room is emptier and I feel lighter.

Sunday, May 02, 2004

He is a runner

From this site In a study of 43 male body builders, 48 male runners, and 48 male martial artists, the body builders reported

More body dissatisfaction
Higher drive for bulk and thinness
Increased bulimic tendencies, more perfectionistic traits, lower self-esteem, greater use of anabolic steroids and a more liberal attitude toward the use of steroids. (Bloun & Goldfield, 1995)

No breakdown by race/ethnicity

Root of all evil

I made the connection, found the root of his self hate. Writers are so revealing of themselves in their work. I knew this before personally of course. It was confirmed after he sent me two stories. Fat is emasculating. That is a message he was given a long time ago. I am sad for him. I wonder what information is out there specifically on body image and Latino men.

I want to be near him tonight but he is working on a paper.

My best girl came over while I was with a student. We went browsing through the stores, got sushi and watched Amelie...which I loved. He would love it too.

DON'T TOUCH ME!!!!!

That's what it felt like he was screaming at me by pulling away. Last night after a long day that started with karate, continued at a local street fair and finished with a perverted clown telling me to touch his "pajarito" in front of a dozen or so children, I admit I wasn't in the best of moods but I wanted to see him, to smell him, touch him. Last night he was hyper, his ideas all over the place and he was the most distant I have known him to be. We stopped for arepas con chicharron at 3 am (mmmmm) and I lifted his shirt a little to put my arms around his waste and he got super concerned that the lihing was so bright and everyone would see his stomach. I just had to step back but I resented doing so.



Saturday, May 01, 2004

Vendiendo Recuerdos

"Vendi tu recuerdo y compre otro deseo...y no estoy hablando de vos"

that's what he wrote in this blog after he read about my feelings about his ex. He was quoting this Peruvian Rockero , Pedro Suarez Vertiz, whom it looks as if we will go see the weekend of my birthday.

We had a wonderful lunch yesterday at this cultish place (and yes I mean that literally...the guru has his own reserved table, elevated just slightly over all the others). It was serene, painted in sky blue with meditation music playing as I ate this yummy fake duck(it doesn't sound yummy when I write fake duck though does it?). He actually ate well.

It was delightful, as he would say, eating and talking politics and the politics of writing. He showed me the house where he grew up and then he scribbled notes on his paper placemat. We showed each other how we would sign our books when they came out. We went to the post office and talked about his body/eating issues.

My 6th grade student was hours late and I had to have a whole discussion with him about respect that just made me feel sad and old.

I spent too much money of a birthday gift for a classmate of the mapucherican and on body care products for myself (mmmm cocoa butter). I started getting my NetFlix films in and I got my keeper. Almost makes me can't wait for my period. Ha!!!!

I don't know when I will see M. Again. He has papers to write this weekend and honestly I feel like I have been distracting him from what he needs to do. He calls it a beautiful distraction but it is what it is.

I have to get dressed of else I'll be late taking the MapucheRican (who is hitting me with a foam ball as I write this) to karate.