Who are we?

Behind closed doors, deals are made. Bargains are struck. Hearts are broken.

Behind closed doors, we protect ourselves from the public eye, the humiliation and exposure therein.

Behind closed doors, we can take the easy way out.

But we can also take a stand for what's right. We can dig our heels in, set our jaw, take a deep breath, and get ready to fight the good fight--the fight for justice, for fairness, for respect; the fight for the good parts of history to inform the future.

Behind closed doors, a person's true quality is forged.

my tangible spirit...

..might soar through the sky, with its proverbial head in the clouds. It might zip through a crowded city street--or a wide open road. More likely, it will trip and scrape its knee on the dirty gravel while others just fly on by. But this spirit is mine, and I am taking my time. Scabby knees and all, I am enjoying the ride.

Life is a poem,

A musical,

An Alice in Wonderland carnival,

If that stops, all will be lost.

It saddens me

to think people have stopped

seeing,

thinking,

breathing

m e t a p h o r s.

When we stop finding new ways of

seeing

understanding

experiencing

the world around us

I believe the very essence of life is lost.

The day I wake up

and don't have a new thought,

a giggle,

a day dream,

The day I settle

for the same old cliche,

the easy word,

the things I already know,

that will be the day that I've given up on me.

Breathless

When I think about what could have been, my breath runs away from me...

Your face smashed into my mind a few days ago, after a long and quiet absence.

He sat there at the bar, your friend, another face from that time, and I fell fast, back into that swirling, slippery space that I thought I left behind.

And, immediately, I was lost again, breathless again

about you.

Again

Amiga, amiga.

Good price for you.

Almost free today.

Bonita.  Guapa.  

Whistles.  Kiss faces.

Honking.  Waving.

But then there is 

The poor woman, 

sitting demurely

outside the church.

Skin dark, wrinkled,

like leather,

curled into the rough, rocky wall, 

her hand quietly cupped,

silently asking for help.  

Can this be called begging?

She utters not one word.

Not one sound escapes her lips.

She never raises her eyes to meet ours.

But, then again,

mine never stooped to meet hers.

We were both there, 

in that moment,

quietly avoiding 

the other's

eyes.

Both

crying inside.

Wondering why Fate

placed us together in 

this moment

on opposite sides.

I am haunted by these images,

by the outstretched hands, 

the crumbled humanity that

surrounds us all.

I am paralyzed by my brain.

By the thinking-too-much-

syndrome.

Will they use this money for food? 

For drugs?

Are they truly poor?

Is this just a front for greed?

For laziness?

I hate that I dare to think these things.

How dare I assume anything about 

anyone. else.

We all have our own issues, 

our own challenges,

our own demons.  

Here I stand, again.

Plagued with guilt, again,

Because I turned a blind eye.

I looked away.  

Walked away.

I kept my bleary eyes up, again, 

when Need sat quietly below.  

Daily haze.

Mist.haze.humidity.moisture.molecules.

nestle into the sometimes cozy,

sometimes rocky

curves and crevices of 

Mexico's landscape.

Daily this haze

comes and goes,

hiding sometimes,

and revealing sometimes

the beauties,

the maladies,

always the realities

of the land.

In one look it is there,

and the next,

it is gone.

What is writing to you?

The physical manifestation of my inner voice.  It is the questions, the taboos, the mistakes, the discoveries that happen all the time, all at once, in my mind.  It is the deafening white-noise that needs silencing.  It is the phantom pain that needs treating.  

It is the hunting and gathering, the trapping and holding of these ideas.  

It is also the planting, nurturing of a beginning, of an itch, and the watching it, helping it, encouraging it to grow into a developed and complex being, ready for harvest, for consumption. And then it is ready to compost and begin again.  

Writing is a way to make real, to make tangible, the invisible--but paradoxically, more real--existence that is all around and within me.  

Culture

I am worried that this is lacking, in this country, but more importantly, in me.  So many times I find myself and those around me looking to OTHER cultures to identify with.  We are fascinated by THE OTHER. 

Latino cultures seem to have such vibrant color, such spice, and that steaming hot salsa running through their veins.  Black cultures--African Americans, people from the Caribbean, and sundry other places--have blues, jazz, and hip-hop; slavery and repression fueling them, pulsing through them.  The gay culture has banded together under a flag filled with rainbow colors and togetherness.  Some bigot calls them a fag, and the community owns it, turning that defamation into an affirmation.  

I am white, really white, blue-eyed, upper-middle class, and I grew up in Small Town, CT.  

Boring.

I long for a culture to call my own.  Culture, which seems, in so many ways, synonymous with color.  Flavor.  The spice of life.

Judging by my hometown and my skin, I am the nutrition-less, flavorless, over-produced and empty slice of white Wonder-bread.  

But if I identify with my italian culture, my irish culture, I can be feisty, worldly, culturally rich.  It doesn't matter that, in truth, I am mostly English--and my blaring, white skin shows it--I want to be more like my spicy side.  

It has more depth.  More flavor.  More color than the bland little ol' white girl from Little Town, New England.  

Free-writes with my students....

In preparation for their college essays, I spend a class period offering free write topics, encouraging self-reflection and exploration.  This semester, the activity fell directly in the middle of my own personal disaster.  In some ways, I feel like I am at a similar place as many of them, on the horizon of a change, of a new direction.  Through this brainstorm, I reminded myself of some key elements that comprise who I am.  I'm not sure exactly what I will do with this information yet, but I'm thankful to have generated a beginning of a new direction.  

____________________________________________________

What is your strongest personality trait?

• My go-to attitude.  I am a doer.  I don't sit around and wait for things to happen to me.  And when problems occur, I like to think I jump to action and help drive a situation to its conclusion.  I believe I get this from my mother.  I get much of my drive and determination from her.  I am the living, breathing result of a 1970's feminist child. 
•  (Interesting, I now feel frozen and indecisive.  Will I be able to make a change in career?)

How would your friends describe you?

• She is driven.  She is a bubbly person.  She always tries to do what is right and helpful by everyone else, which can sometimes be detrimental to her sanity.  In the process of doing what is expected or asked of her, she sometimes loses sight of her own needs.  She is someone who has a lot to give, but sometimes doesn't know how to balance the pieces of her life to allow for that generosity to truly take effect.  She doesn't know the meaning of the word, No.

What is a favorite book, movie, piece of art, etc?  Why?

• Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Dreams.  I'm not really sure why this is a favorite.  Maybe I just read it at the right time in my life.  Maybe I liked the relationships between the characters, the sense of loss and rebuilding of a life.  I also really love the importance she gave to the place, its healing properties and magical, dream-like qualities.  
• In general, I love things that make me look closer, once, twice, or twelve times.  I love pieces that have an immediate but lasting emotional effect on me.  Sometimes these effects and these pieces are unexplainable.  I just want to be made to FEEL.  I want my gut to respond.

Have you ever reached an epiphany in your life?

• Yes.  RECENTLY.  I realized that I have a tendency to get stuck in INERTIA, in a pathway that was my choosing and is respected/supported by everyone in my life, but then I realize that it may not be the right pathway for me.  This is true in my professional and personal life right now.  But at the same time, these questions fly through my mind:  How dare I stand up for me?  For my feelings?
• I must begin paying attention to me.  NOW.  Or forever hold my peace.

What are your greatest accomplishments?  Why do you consider them so highly?

• Being a part of Samantha's life (my little cousin who ended up spending a year with my family, in a time of turmoil for her)--and I regret not being as strong presence in her life currently.
• Helping my grandfather and grandmother during his illness--I was able to be useful and caring and use my strengths to help them with things they struggled with.  And I regret not spending as much time with my Grams now that she is alone.
• Going to school and doing well.  High school, undergrad, and graduate school.  For so long this was all I knew or expected of myself, and I committed to doing well.
• Creating groups of friends and communities in various facets of my life.  I regret losing touch with some or many of them.
• Right now....the fact that I am actively and verbally admitting unrest.  This is a first for me.  I hope that I take this beginning and create the life that I really want.  The time is now.
• Next...I hope the next big accomplishment will be making the change.  Or, at the very least, beginning to make the change that I know I need to make.

What activities do you do outside the classroom that define you as a person?

• Directing/choreographing plays--I see these as vehicles for mentoring kids in an arena sometimes more meaningful than in a traditional classroom.
• ABC House--I am daily helping five boys in a very real, very tangible way.  I am helping to provide comfort, family, and support to inner-city kids trying to find A Better Chance than they might find in their home neighborhoods.
• Ballroom Dance Club 
• Advocating for a Theater and Dance program in a public high school.  
• (......all of these activities are directed towards populations of kids who don't have an existing outlet in their communities or schools)

In what areas have you struggled and succeeded?  Struggled and failed?

• BEST portfolio--to be certified to teach in CT, second year teachers face UNREAL pressures.  I passed this portfolio, but not without much turmoil.
• Directing my first musical at this high-powered public high school.
• School, through all the levels.

• I don't have as many failures, but I think this is because I've played it safe.  Maybe I need to stretch out of my comfort zone.  For once in my life.  

What are some difficulties you've had to endure and how have they changed you?

• This might be one of the most difficult things I will have to do--to break from INERTIA.  I fear that this decision will help define me and my life hereafter.  I just hope I make the right choice.
• I am proud of the difficulties I faced with Sammi and my Gramps--I love myself most when I do the right thing by me AND others.  

Where and with whom would you like to be?

• Outside, walking or running with my puppy, with a notebook and my ideas in tow.  Then, I would take a break, a long one at that, to play, bound, rest, and let my words flow.  I want to let the writer's life take over.  I want to commit to it, in combination with some yoga and dance.  The more I think about it, the more I realize it could be. the. most. perfect. and. powerful. scenario.

How do you define success?

• Happiness.  For me and for as many other people as possible.  In thirty years, I don't want to doubt my path.  I think I might if I staid in teaching.  At least in an artist's life or a writer's life, I would have the opportunity to change and develop my focus, what I am working on.  Could I go freelance?
• Success, to me, equals me as an old lady, sitting around a porch surrounded by my family (blood and gathered), laughing, telling stories, and loving life.  
• I want a world of options and inspirations.  A wealth of interest and knowledge and curiosity.  Always.  For my whole life.

Last night, the moon stole my breath away. I stopped and stared for a mini-eternity before getting into my car. Then, behind the wheel, I had to tear my eyes away to watch the road instead. A New England harvest moon, full to its brim with wonder, chilling, shining, captivating. Slicing through the ice cold air with a cool confidence unlike any I've seen before.

BLUES

A sad song, seemingly simple or small on the surface, but teeming with complexities below. Melodies and harmonies and counter melodies intertwining, weaving in and out, soar through our skin and touch us at the core. The sounds pervade any verbal or physical language we might try to use. They speak to us in a way that we've never heard before and will never hear exactly in this way again. Each experience with the blues is unique. I feel the landscape of emotions, of music, of history, deeply and differently each time. And that is beautiful to me.

FORTIFY

My defenses. Make them thick and heavy and strong. Build them up, proactively preventing future illness, attack, or hurt. If I prepare for the worst, I will never again feel the pain I've felt so many times before. The walls will be built up. Nothing will get in. Nothing will tear them down. I will be protected, and safe, sitting up high looking down at the world scurrying around below me. Untouchable. Unbreakable.

But then, I wonder, who will be there with me?

I forgot, in all my brilliant planning, to consider my heart. And in all of this defensive fortification, I've managed to shut out not only the negativity, but everything else too.

I'm fortified. I'm strong. And alone.

BRICK

Brick houses withstand far more than any other kind. But when they crumble, they fall hard. Crashing to the ground, crushing everyone and everything that hid inside. Amidst the dust and rubble, we might uncover pieces from a life turned disaster. Archaeologists, we pluck the memories, the artifacts, the physical manifestations of what came before. We pluck pieces from the wreckage and start to build again, brick by brick, a new life--one that holds the fallen bits close, but is unafraid to push forward. Fearless, the brick house stands stronger than ever. It simply exists, stoic and brave. It experiences each moment and then lets it go. Through tragedy, this brick house finds peace.

The following are a series of free writes...

...sprung from these prompts:

PRIDE

POWER

"Power corrupts; Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

The plight of the Average Joe

Such a slippery slope, this idea of power and corruption. The Average Joe begins his life. He steps out of his door on a perfectly regular sunny day. He breathes in the fresh air and smile smears his lips. He plugs in his iPod and sets out for the day. There is a positive pep to his step. Average Joe realizes that the day is new and the possibilities are endless.

His happiness spreads, infecting those around him. His whole body smiles, his eyes twinkle with the promise of this new day, beginning today. The people passing by would normally ignore the everyday man passing in the street, but today, Joe's energy pervades the typically separate space; the distance that stretches between complete strangers in the street is closed with a single smile and nod.

As time passes, however, and days begin and end and begin and end, Joe's inclination toward good, toward the simple and pure tendencies, start to cloud with desire. The materialistic, shallow, superficial pull of this sick and twisted world we live in begins to poison his purity, his happiness. His kindness disappears. Greed enters. The power-hungry mantra--more more more mine mine mine--echoes in his ears, drowning out the peppy positive tunes of before. And the picture perfect Average Joe descends down the same old tired slippery slope of corruption and power gone wrong.

Everything in moderation...

Pride fuels positivity in life, individually or collectively. But too much pride sews the seeds of evil and corruption. Pride then becomes a suit of steel, an eyeless mask, a thick brick wall separating good intentions from execution. And as the divide widens between what was what was intended--the compassion and understanding and truth that is essential to change, to growth in this world--and what ACTUALLY happens, the world falls into the deep dark recesses of despair.

Too much of anything is a bad thing. Gulping, inhaling, greedily ingesting the chicken mcnuggets of truth, we choke. We suffocate. The body rejects this excessive inhalation of sustenance. The stuff that the body needs to survive becomes the weapon that brings it down. A small piece gets stuck in the back of the throat. It sprints, it speeds recklessly by the gag reflex and throws the mind into panic mode. The lungs scream for air. Tears sting the eyes. The blood rushes to the face, trying to save the day, in vain.

The only hope is from the outside. A helping hand. An everyday hero. A friend. A foe. Another human being who knows what to do, is willing to do it, and who doesn't hesitate. In this case, the speed helps. But it is connected to kindness and care, not selfishness, self-indulgence, gluttony, greed.

Haste in that vein may end well. But haste driven by the needs of self, of the individual only, can only ever end in tragedy.

I am so sick of people thinking they know what is best for everybody else in the world. If I am different from the person next to me, across from me, behind me, across the country and across the world from me, then the same solution or approach is certainly not going to work for each of us. Somehow we have to find our common ground, because I still believe--perhaps stronger now than ever--that among our differences, there are even stronger similarities.

Let's start with being human beings, being living breathing beings who need food and shelter and love and care. We need support and community. We need challenge, intellectually, emotionally, physically, spiritually. All of these things are true for all people, despite the surface level differences. So why can't we look past the different colors, clothes, tastes, languages, customs, and see a greater connection. One that supercedes the one and only, the great and powerful, the holier than thou, the my way or the highway.

As I get older, my anger gets quieter, but it hasn't disintegrated completely. This nausea that I feel in the pit of my stomach tells me that the anger is still here. And sometimes it wants to burst free. It wants to spew forth in a loud and putrid way.