Thursday, November 29, 2012

Goodwill Towards Men



Whenever people say to me that they don't like Christmas, they follow it by saying that it is a Hallmark holiday designed by retailers for you to spend money that you shouldn't spend on gifts you don't need. Creating a Christmas list might seem to fall in line with this thinking. Wanting something for Christmas might give these skeptics some support. Black Friday does no help to dismiss what Christmas Haters believe, especially when you see fights breaking out at Victoria's Secret over underwear that is no more on sale than any other time of year. I mean, come on people, I need underwear as much as the next person but a fist fight over panties??? I would like to point out here though that, like all things, there are people who always take things to a whole new level. These people don't define a situation, they are the exception to it.

There are so many more people that hold the spirit of Christmas very close to their heart during this time of year. I agree that maybe we shouldn't wait until we're putting up the tree at the end of November to feel goodwill towards men but that's another topic to tackle another day. There are people who stand on street corners collecting money for the Salvation Army. There are people that hold toy drives for cancer patients, that mobilize choirs to sing in Elderly homes, that send care packages to soldiers. None of those people are out shopping like greedy monkeys for the best sale, they are helping to care for one another, so why don't we ever think of them, Christmas Haters, when we make your judgements about Christmas?

Maybe you, yourself, haven't been on the nice list in a while. So I dare you to go out and do something kind and tell me that Christmas doesn't seem a little more hopeful, a less less Bah Humbugish and Grinchful after having done so.

At least 10+ years ago, my mother was driving me to New York City after Thanksgiving to visit a friend.

When we pulled up to pay our $0.35 toll, the collector asked us, "Do you know him?" Pointing to the car that had pulled away.
"No."
"Well, he paid for your toll. Said Happy Thanksgiving."

That has stayed with me ever since. A stranger doing something kind for people he doesn't know and will never meet? He would never even hear a thank you for the goodness he extended to us, but he wasn't in it for the thank you.

A few years ago, I remembered this kindness. I went out for the first time on Black Friday to a nearby department store to see what this sale fuss was about. When I was done collecting my Christmas inventory I stood on line... about a 1/4 of the way around the perimeter of the store. In all of my years of visiting amusement parks, I had never seen a line this long. As annoying as it is standing on line for that long, people made the best of it. I was talking to the ladies in front of me and behind me. Because there were no shopping carts available, I was holding everything in my arms, so the lady in back offered me to put my things in her cart so that I was more comfortable. After waiting almost an hour, the lady in front noticed the time and started realizing that she would still be in line when it was time to pick up her teenage son from basketball practice. She hadn't anticipated being in lone this long, I assume because I never could have imagined it either. I remembered back to the toll man's kindness and instead of $0.35 offered my time.

"I could hold your place," I offered.
"Really?" She asked. "I wouldn't be long."
"Yeah. That's fine." I nodded. "Go ahead."

She dashed out of the store. Time ticked on and the line kept moving and I started to get nervous because the register was getting closer and closer. And then I was at the front of the line. But no sign of teenage son's mom. They called me to the register and I made a quick judgement call to let the woman behind me go. Then they called me again, and I let the next person behind me go. Call after call I let shoppers pass me by as I waited for teenage son's mom to return. As I saw it, I had two options here: tell myself that I had done a good enough deed and had waited longer than I needed. Then buy my things and go home for some left over turkey dinner in front of the television OR actually do good enough and wait. Besides, where was I going anyway? To eat left over turkey dinner in front of the television?

Obviously, if I had taken the first option, I wouldn't be telling it to you in this story.

I waited. And waited. And waited. To be honest, at times, I did think about leaving and then took a look to the infinite line that I couldn't see the end of and imagined this poor lady, rushing to pick up her kids and rush back to get back in time to buy her Christmas shopping for her family only to get to said department store and have to wait on line all over again - after already having waited an hour. I told myself that she wouldn't, she couldn't  be angry with me for leaving. After all, I too had things to do - turkey leftovers... Mmm. I could have left her things at the register for her so at least she wouldn't have to lose her stuff and she would have understood that I was busy also and needed to leave, but that just didn't seem to sit well with me. It's Christmas I thought... goodwill towards men (and women shoppers) and all, right?

Teenage son's mom finally arrived dragging her teenage son through the store, "You're still here?" She asked in total and utter surprise. "You waited?"
"Yeah. I just let some people go ahead.
"Oh my gosh. Thank you so much," she gleamed.
"No worries. I had nowhere to be," was my response.

We paid for our purchases exchanged Merry Christmas-es and said goodbye.

Its funny how just doing something good, can instantly make you feel better. Oh that Oprah... always right!

So here's my thought to Christmas Haters... what if instead of looking at a Christmas as a greedy wanting for something holiday, we look at it as something we can hope for, something we can look forward to, something we can do for others.

Ask yourself, what very simple, kind goodness can I do for someone else this day? What can I do for someone else without the thought of what someone will do for me? Give up my seat on the train for a prego? Pay someone's (now doubled to $0.70) toll? Let someone with only one can of cranberries in front of me on the grocery line? Buy a Starbucks gift card and leave it for the next customer? (Ohhhh... I like that one.) Use my gift card to buy presents for others because I'm low on cash (yep! I've done that one before in my broke Graduate School days.).

Maybe if we start to act in goodness, with goodwill towards men we can forget the notion that Christmas is a want, want, want holiday that makes more money for people that already have it. Maybe we could remember that giving isn't just a verb but an action, something we consciously do. I don't give on Christmas for anything in return. I give because it feels good. I give because I like it. And then maybe, juuuuuust maybe, we could keep somethings, like Christmas, out of skeptical scrutiny and keep them innocent of Corporate America and just wonder and awe at the spirit of it all, at the twinkling lights of a tree that you see through a window, as the snow starts to fall on Christmas Eve.

What good things have you done for others or what can you do this Christmas to show goodwill towards men (and women and dogs)?


Monday, November 26, 2012

This is My Grown-Up Christmas List

Dear Santa,

It's been a while.

I haven't written you in sometime but we both know I've never lost the faith. In fact, I'd like to think that I've done my share of spreading holiday cheer wherever I can.

My daughter is one. I think about how soon she will be writing her own letters to you and and leaving them on the tree for you to pick up and bring to your elves that work endlessly and whole-heartedly in that magical workshop of yours. She will be scavengering the house, looking for hidden presents, hoping to find something early. She will find wrapping paper under my bed and not understand why mommy and daddy have the same wrapping paper as the presents under the tree from Santa do. I will have to explain to her, as my mother did to me, that Santa can't lug allllllll of that wrapping paper AND presents around on his sleigh. So he leaves the wrapping paper up to the individual parents and wraps them when he gets there. Duh!

But as I mentioned, Santa, Rafaella is only one and cannot write you a letter. So I've decided to write my own grown-up Christmas list. It is a far cry from the lists I used to write as a kid, though I must say, I was never disappointed. You always got me everything on those lists... and more. Remember that year I asked for you to bring my grandparents home who were living in Florida? I got home from school just as my mom was getting home and "unloading the car." She asked me to help and up from the backseat popped Abuelita and Abuelito. Voilà! There they were! I ran around the car and down the street screaming with excitement! That was a good trick Santa! However, I never did get that skateboard I put on my list one year - though I feel my mother had some intervening on that one.

In no specific order:

#1 - Headphones 
Everyday when I work on my writing, I have my Mac, my idea notebook, and my headphones. At some point last year, my headphones started making a fuzzy, snowy noise. So I switched to another pair I had laying around: my JetBlue airplane headphones. They are quite comfortable and since most in-ear headphones make my ear feel like a much needed massage, I haven't found it necessary to switch. With so much use, however, my JetBlue headphones have started to break apart. The wires at the connector tip are starting to pull out. I fear this could be dangerous in a rainstorm. I've heard that these in-ear headphones are quite comfortable and quite easier to travel with, even against airline headphones.
Skullcandy Ink'd Headphones ($20.99) in purple or red picture from Best Buy.com
Koss ruk-20 Headphones in blue-pink ($19.99) picture from Koss.com

#2 - Underwear
I know Santa, I know. I never thought that I'd be asking for this myself. In fact, I am only bringing 2 pairs with me on my trip back to NJ so that I HAVE to buy a whooooole new set when I get there. No excuses. I don't know if its the water in Santo Domingo, the humid weather, or drying my clothes by line instead of a washer but all of my underwear and bathing suit bottoms are starting to streeeeeeetch out. They're wearable but hiking up my underwear every 15 minutes doesn't make for the most dignified sight. I haven't decided where to buy my new underwear yet but I can't wait.

Oh, how Christmas lists change with age...

#3 - TOMS
What I love about TOMS is what everyone says they love about TOMS; you buy a pair and they donate a pair to a child in need of shoes. Can it get any better around a season that is known for giving? I bought my first pair last October and instantly fell in love with a basic Olive Green pair of TOMS. Comfortable, simple - and my favorite of all - easy to put on... sssssslip and Go. I meant to buy another pair this summer when I was back in the states but a little surprise pregnancy changed many of my plans. Any of these patterns will do in a size 8.5 please, Santa.

All pictures from TOMS.com
How cute and retro and perfect to
match my red polka dot bathing suit!
Snowflakes? SNOWFLAKES!
To always remind me of the bestest holiday!
 Moms?! Seriously?! Seriously adorbs!
 #4 - Rose Gold Watch
I've never been a watch person so spending a lot on a watch is very hard for me. I have loved this accessory for a year now but can't ever seem to find the right one within the right price range. Still haven't but maybe you can Santa. The two MUSTS that I have for this watch is that it is Rose Gold and that it has a thick band, almost makes it look like a man's watch. These are two options that I like that work in a decent price range - both are $135 compared to the $250-$300 watches that I was seeing.

All pictures from Fossil.com
Stella Stainless Steel Watch - Rose Style # ES3198
Stella Stainless Steel Watch - Rose Style #ES 3211
#5 - Aura Coin Drop Necklace
My BF Laura has been working as a stylist for Stella & Dot for the last year or so. This summer, when I attended one of her trunk shows, I was torn between a great pair of earrings and an awesome necklace. Because I had purchased a somewhat similar necklace a few month prior, the earrings won out and every once in a while I think about that necklace. For me, that is always a sure sign that you should buy something, if months later you are still thinking about it. I just looked for this necklace on the website and found out that it is ON SALE!!! I might not wait for you on this one Santa... don't want it to get sold out before you could bring it to me on Christmas Eve.
Aura Coin Drop Necklace - ON SALE  $24.50
Picture from Stella&Dot.com
#6 - Anything Striped
A few years ago I was packing for a girls' weekend to Delaware. While I was packing my friend asked me if I noticed anything strange about my choice in clothes. I did not. She picked up a striped grey and white tank top and said, "Striped tank top." She picked up a yellow and white striped long sleeved light shirt and said, "Striped shirt." She picked up a black and white striped dress and said, "Striped dress." Well, I think you get it. She picked up shirt after tank top after sweater after dress and said, "Thin stripes, thick stripes, one stripe, two stripe, red stripe, blue stripe." The moral of the story is I like stripes. Click the pinterest image to view my Es Mi Estyle page to get an idea of my Stripefatuation.

Es Mi Estyle page
#7 - Boring Gift Cards
I love shopping. I like just going to the mall and trying clothes on and looking through Pinterest to imagine what, if maybe, I would buy if I had all the money in the world. Major downside to island living - NO GOOD SHOPPING. Most shopping here is done online. Many of the local hire teachers that we know wait to go to the states over Thanksgiving or Christmas or the summer to load up on clothes and bring them back. So when I go home, I love the mall. I LOVE the mall. Yes, perfume lady, I might even let you spray me with your barrage of perfumes as I walk through the cosmetics section because I love the mall so much. With that said, being a teacher's wife and stay at home mom doesn't exactly scream BuYinG FrEnZy! It screams maaaajor budget. So, yeah. Gift cards are awesome.

#8 - The Boots
The boots. Pronounced THEE boots. For years, at least 5 years, I had a picture of thee tan, knee length, comfortable heel height, right priced boot that I wanted. When I went to Macy's with now husband one day, I saw them on display. He said to me, "Wait on them." I didn't like his advice then, but I did wait on them... and I never found them again. I searched every internet engine known to man but I never found quite the right boot. Eventually, I settled for a similar pair but not the image in my head; the tan, knee length, comfortable heel height, right priced boot. Thee boot. But tonight, as I sit here and write my Christmas List, Santa, a Christmas miracle has occurred. I found thee boot... and ON SALE for $104.99! It's hard to rationalize buying boots when you live on an island, so I asked Husband. You know what he said, Santa? He said, "Wait... eventually we'll live somewhere cold." Done!
Thee Boot - by Naughty Monkey "Park Avenue"
 Picture by zappos.com



So that's it Santa, my Christmas List of 2012. It's not fabulous or glitzy, although if you have an extra iPad or ticket to Oprah's Favorite Things episode, I'll take one of each, but it's my list. Just a few things that would be nice but nothing that I actually need 
...besides the underwear
...definitely need the underwear.
What about you? What would you ask Santa for? 

Saturday, November 17, 2012

A Hope for a Little Christmas Cheer

Maybe its because I’m pregnant again or maybe its because I miss home or maybe its because I feel the holiday season approaching or maybe its because I feel the holiday spirit sooooo deep within me that Christmas music at any time of year is music to my ears or maybe it’s because I live on a tropical island where most days of the year I appreciate warm weather, but during the holidays it just makes me miss a warm coat, a Hazlenut hot chocolate courtesy of Starbucks, and a cozy couch or maybe it’s a collection of all of these things, but this year the holiday season is really jumbling me up.

A few weeks ago I went to Casa Cuesta, a popular home furnishings store here, because I had heard that they were all dressed up and ready for the holidays. In the Dominican Republic, they set up for Christmas on my timetable, the end of October. You would think that this would help my Christmas spirit but it actually makes me miss home even more.

When I walked into Casa Cuesta, I was excited to be taken over by the magic of Christmas. What I got instead was this twisting, heart squashing sadness. My heart felt heavy. It was so overwhelming that a few times I thought I, a grown woman, was going to cry in the middle of the store.

Christmas makes me emotional on a normal day. I have been known to cry just thinking about it but that’s an I love Christmas so much I want to hug it kind of cry. That wasn’t this cry. This was a Christmas dream slipping away kind of cry and it was very foreign to me for this time of year.

Maybe it’s the pregnancy or the combination of one too many things but what I started to feel was that this idea of Christmas, my magical, spirited, hopeful idea of Christmas or what I had always dreamed of Christmas being was becoming unavailable. Like in Back to the Future where Michael J. Fox looks at the picture of his family and they are slowly disappearing. That’s what was happening to my Christmas.

I have a very clear picture of Christmas in my head: a house FULL of decorations from years and years of collecting, a Christmas table set with our Christmas tablecloth and Christmas plates and glasses and candles aglow. A full Christmas tree that smells like pine with strings and strings of light and homemade or quirky ornaments that we've collected from different places. Snow and cold weather - so cold that its too cold to go outside so we sit inside and bake cookies or cook meals and drink warm chocolate and listen to Christmas music, preferable in front of a roaring fireplace. And this is all happening next to a Christmasy, snowy town square where they have town tree lighting festivities and  cut your own tree famrs that you then carry home through the snowy path. It looks like this:



I know I am too big to fit inside these plastic molded Hallmark Christmas Village Squares but I swear to you that since I was a little kid, I have dreamt of living here. Saying Hi to Parson Brown, the Sleigh Ride attendant or Jimmy, the newspaper boy as we walk with our hats and mitten to chop down our tree and see the Christmas Choir sing Silent Night at the Square. I am aware that this sounds slightly silly but I have always imagined it. And right now, I couldn't live further away from Christmas Village:



See that’s the thing with life. What I have gained in time off to write, house being cleaned by maid, and beaches in December has replaced hot chocolates, snowstorm school closings, and a reason to wear scarves. My new life includes drastically hot weather, constant need for A/C, and no foreboding threat of a snow storm. It also doesn't include stability and I don't mean stability in a am I provided for? type of way.

 In the life of an Abroad Teacher you are on the move, always thinking of the next place you’re going. Its one of the things that I love about being abroad. I love that our apartment has plenty of storage space, mostly because it isn’t overstuffed with trinkets and boxes and unnecessary stuff that I always found necessary to keep. But because of the beauty of living minimally and on the go, the opposite also happens. There is no room for saving trinkets and boxes of ornaments and unnecessary stuff that I always want to keep. So when I walk into Casa Cuesta and see a beautifully decorated Christmas table with elegant holiday plates and stunning candle holders, I feel a loss. Maybe I’ll never have that. Maybe now that we’re living abroad, I won’t have Christmas trinkets that will become family heirlooms. Maybe I’ll never have my own house filled with Holiday Cheer beyond a few strings of lights and a makeshift Christmas tree.

And that, for me, is just unbearable. It just can't happen. Traditions can come in things you do together but they can also come from pulling out an old ornament and saying Remember when we got this at that little market our first Christmas together?

When Husband and I started dating we started our own holiday tradition. In the beginning of December, we would both take off a day from work and travel into Manhattan, my favorite Christmas destination. We would spend the day walking around with our bundled up coats eating honey roasted peanuts having soup for lunch and trying to keep the tips of our nose warm. We would walk around looking at the famous window displays of Macy's and Saks and Tiffany's. We would stop by the Rockefeller Tree and take lots of touristy pictures and wonder at the beauty of such a tree. Somehow we would always end at St. Patricks Cathedral for a moment of warmth and stillness. Perfection. 

Last year, with all of our obligations, we were barely able to see Manhattan. We ran in for a quick dinner, I hopped out of the car for a Starbucks treat, and the tree - well - we weren't even able to see it from the car. Even my plan of bringing Baby Rafa for her first NYC Christmas was squashed. Not enough time. 

And so again, that's the thing with life. The grass is always greener, you can't always get what you want, and blah blah blah - other such sayings. To have somethings you have to give up others but you just have to find a way to make the really important things possible. I may not live in Christmas Village (...yet) but what I do have right now is home. There's a reason that there are so many remakes of the song "There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays." 

I’m married. I’m a mom. I’m 32 years old. And I still want to be home for Christmas. Why, I wonder? Well because home is where these traditions and these images still exist. My parents still put up their same trees that we've had for 32 years. The table is still set with the same double-sided, quilted placemats of Santa flying through the air with his reindeer and the gold deer candleholders. Our beautiful Christmas plates and Christmas glasses wait patiently to be used on Noche Buena (Christmas Eve) where my mom will fill the house with the smell of roast pork and yuca and arroz con gris and other yummy things to fill my belly. I'll come home from the mall and wrap presents on the same floor that I've wrapped presents on for the past decade or two, carefully positioning the presents under the tree so that you could see my masterpieces of wrapping paper and meticulously twirled ribbon. Outside the air will smell cold but inside the air will smell like family, like warm love.

So, for now, until I find my own Christmas Village, I'll take that and work on the rest of my Christmas Village dreams one magical holiday season at a time. 

We will have time for this this year.
Outside of Macy's
Macy's
In the Manhattan Library

View of the bustling NY streets from inside the library 
There she is... my tree at Rockefeller
St. Patrick's Cathedral
Silence and warmth in St. Pat's

Thursday, November 15, 2012

The Man of Little Words


My dad is a man of little words. After a few Coronas he might get "chatty", but he is and always has been a man of very little words. Most, if not all, of my previous boyfriends would share with me, "I don't think your dad likes me very much. He doesn't say anything to me." And my response, ever the same, would reassure, "Don't worry about it; everyone thinks that. He's just not much of a talker."

Sometimes we think that because someone hasn't got much to say that they must not have a story to tell. Quite the opposite. Sometimes those who stay quiet have very loud stories. Stories that need to be told.

My dad is not a man of many words, so he doesn't brag or share his story unless he's asked. And even then, I, who have asked, have only gotten the full story through 32 years of stitching together small details, open conversations, short answers, and candid retellings.

I am the talker that my dad is not.  But telling this story has brought me a lot of anxiety. How do you tell a story that changed not only one life but singlehandedly altered the life of a whole family? How do you tell a story so centered around who you are that it has inspired you from childhood to write a book about your family's history? How do you start that story and do it justice? 

Well, I guess, you turn up the Old School Cuban playlist on your iTunes (What? Not everyone has a Cuban playlist?) and think Cuban dicho, Andando se quita el frio (Moving will keep you warm) and get moving.

* * * * *

For many of us, we could probably, mas o menos (more or less), point to a time in our life: an age,  a series of events, an era when our lives, our path, entirely changed its course. But how many of us could pinpoint to a specific day and say This day. This solitary, single day was the day that altered my life, and my family's life forever, in a Robert Frost "The Road Not Taken" kind of way.
November 11, 1966 was my dad's day
46 years ago this week, on a Friday night at 7:00, when many people are deciding what party top to wear out dancing or what bar to meet their friends at for a drink, my dad was preparing to leave his country of Cuba for the rest of his life. He would leave Cuba, his home, and his mother only 20 days after turning 16 years old.

My father turning 16 was a big factor in his story. A 16-year-old boy in Cuba, was turning the legal age to be involuntarily recruited to the servicio militar obligatorio (obligatory military service). What this meant wasn't that you had to serve but that you must register; be there and be ready to serve. What this really meant was that at 16 you weren't going anywhere. You could kiss any hope of leaving the country for the next decade goodbye. You were in the military's service until you were 27. For my dad, many of his relatives were defecting or had already defected but his age now made him an anchor. Cuba would never let him leave and my grandmother would never leave without him. 

I can only imagine that to make the decision my dad made, he felt like he had to be faced with no other choice at all because if you know my dad, you know that he ain't no kind of military man (a chapter in the book I am writing). 

In Cuba, each neighborhood or block had a vigilante known as the Comittees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR) in charge of "guarding communism's enemies." I've heard people tell stories of playing American music quietly in fear of it being reported or throwing the scraps of their meal away in a distant garbage away from their house to avoid the CDR knowing what they ate for dinner for fear of being asked where they got that "extra" steak from. People learned to keep their doors closed and their mouths closed even tighter. Anything you said could be used against you and you never knew who you were talking to. 

On the afternoon of the 11th, my father along with 2 other companions, went to the house of their fourth companion where they would begin their escape. They arrived one by one because coming as a group might cause rised suspicion with the neighborhood CDR and the last thing they needed was attention. 

My dad was from Caimanera, a small fishing town in the province of Guantánamo that in this instance had many perks of being close to the U.S. Naval Base in Guantánamo Bay. The base was so close that if you lived in Caimanera, it was said that you were either a fisherman or a Base man.
   
Half of his friend's house was perched right over the water. By lifting the floor boards of the house, the boys would have easy access to the Bay without being noticed by anyone. Their plan was to stay in the house until the evening, when the sky was dark and the tide was high and then make a run for it a swim for it. 

But the plan become a bit hairy when their friend's unknowing father came home. The boys had to hide under a bed waiting very still and in silence until he left again. Like I said before, you learned to keep your door closed tight and your mouth tighter. I can't say if they didn't tell his father for fear of being told on or just fear of not letting them go. My father hadn't told my grandmother either. He knew she would fight him on it and that she had no chance of convincing him out of it. So he told his great aunt, Concha with specific instructions:
You must not tell her that I am leaving until after I have left. In the evening, she will start to ask around for me and wonder where I am. Don't let her ask to many questions or get too worried. It will only call attention to our absence. When she starts to ask if you've seen Rafelito, you can tell her then that I am gone.
As he sat and waited to leave, I wonder what he thought about. Was he sad that he'd never be back to his home? Was he scared to leave his mother? I'm 32 years old and still grow a lump in my throat whenever I think of leaving my mother. And I know that I'll see her in a few months time at the most. Like all people that left Cuba in this era, when you left, you left with a small suitcase and for good, not knowing when or if ever you'd ever see these people again. 

Did he think about not going? He could have changed his mind at any time. There was a fifth companion to the story that had decided at the last minute not to go. I wonder if companion 5 ever regretted that decision. My mom shrugs it off to my father's age. You have to do crazy things like that when you're young and not thinking because once you get older and think about consequences you make very different decisions. 

After all 16 year old courage is quite different than 30 year old courage because the list of consequences has exponentially grown.

But I don't know. My dad never having been a man of many words has always been a man of action. He doesn't talk, he does. He doesn't argue, he reacts. And his 16-year old mind, as absent to consequence as it might have been, had enough sense to intelligently plan an escape armed with both the knowledge he needed and the courage on his back. 

He knew what time of night was the right time of night to leave. Being from a fishing village, he knew the water. He was practically born in it. He was a natural swimmer. A strong swimmer. Often times, scaring me as a kid how far in the ocean he could swim out. He was as much a fish as the ones the fishermen caught. When you are from a fishing town, you know when the tide will be at its highest. You know at what time during high tide you would have the right amount of ebb and flow in the water where your swimming would be minimal and floating with only your face to the moon would be at its most possible. Swimming had to be minimal because you couldn't be seen or you'd risk getting shot at.

Many other kids, from Havana, the capital, had come to Caimanera attempting the same plan and had died not knowing how to follow the ebb and flow of the channel, not knowing that if you made one mistake and got caught in the current at the wrong time, at a time when the water was too strong you would be washed out to the sea and have no chance of making it back. Being from Caimanera allowed my father the inside knowledge of knowing these things. He knew the Coast Guards were watching but he also knew that on that specific night two of the Coast Guard boats were broken allowing for less guards on duty, less eyes to find you. 

"You had to know the area," my father says simply. 

When the time came, my father and his companions, lifted the floor boards of the house and one by one dropped themselves into the water like sinking rocks. 

Was he scared? Did he know he'd make it? Did he even have time to think about these things? 

They bobbed in the water for only a moment before beginning their 4 mile journey. They had to be smart. When do we swim? When do we float? And when I say float, I remind you that I don't mean relaxingly with a noodle or even on your back, legs and arms stretched out to all four corners. The purpose of floating here was only to breathe, keeping only your face above water. Everything else had to be quietly working underwater, like a duck, steady and still up top, legs paddling like an engine below. Minimal movement. No talking. 

Just thinking about it now makes me feel suffocated. I don't even like floating on my back in a pool. 

Once they were floating in the open water, faces to the moon, with guards patrolling, they couldn't look around or call out to "fulano" (Cuban slang word used frequently meaning so-and-so, referring to a person.) to make sure they were together. They had to keep quiet and keep calm on their own path, and, I imagine, have enough faith in each other to not cause a scene or call attention to the area if they were overtaken by fear of being a bobbing apple in an 12 by 6 mile barrel or fear of being swept out to the ocean.  

"Floating wit onlee yoor neck abof de water for tooh miyals ees a laht harder den you tink," my dad said once. "Yoor neck stars tooh cramp but you can' moof. The floating was mush harder den sweemin."

I remember when my dad had said that and thinking at that moment how that was something I would have never thought about before. Floating always seemed like something people did to relax. But when you're doing it to survive and without being able to make sudden movements it becomes a different thing entirely... and two miles?!

Four miles doesn't seem like a long distance to me because I'm usually traveling it by car. But when you're swimming two miles and floating face above water for two miles not able to kick or make noise of flail your hands for the lifeguard to save you with his little doughnut because, quite simply, your life depended on it, four miles, heck, two miles becomes a very looooong distance to travel.

But I guess you consider the alternative...

Knowing that all they needed to do was touch American soil, in this case, the Naval Base in Guantánamo, and they would be free was enough to keep them on course and focused on the end in sight.

They knew that there was a light at the Base that lit up when anyone arrived, alerting the officers that someone was approaching. They were expecting it. But what they did not expect when they arrived was that the light would not be working. Instead, they heard a truck full of screaming guards roll by with the sound of rattling guns. They feared the worst. They had been caught. 
Well, at least that's what they thought they heard. 
"The fearful mind is a funny thing," my mom says when she tells me this part of the story, "It sees and hears what it wants." What they actually heard was a truck full of loudly talking Cubans roll by with the sound of drums. In my father's group's scared shitless defense, lots of Cubans in one place are known to sound like they're arguing and screaming when in fact they're just talking loudly to one another.

They had gotten to the base, all of them, and were taken in by the U.S. officers to eat and sleep for the night. Tomorrow the next step of his journey to the United States would continue...

* * * * *

Sometimes, when I ask my dad about that night and what he remembers, he shrugs his shoulder and lets out a "Pshhh. You know." Like what he did was the most natural, common thing in the world. No, dad, I don't know. I've never escaped from communism... or anywhere. Sometimes, he'll remember pieces and retell parts of the story I've never heard before or sometimes he'll chalk it up to being so long ago that he has trouble remembering all of it. Man of little words, remember.

I think sometimes he doesn't want to remember. Or sometimes he really does think it was the most natural thing there was because for him there was no other decision to make.

My dad's decision trickled down years later. He would declare his mother, who because she lived in Caimanera, a small town, was stuck there for four years. That's the problem with small towns, I've heard; everyone knew what had happened and so they didn't openly make it difficult for her to leave but difficult enough to take four years. My dad would then also declare his father and his half brothers and sisters who would also eventually make it to the United States.

My Uncle Joe, not a man of little words, will at almost every family party, have a few drinks and talk about his brother, the hero, with excessive pride. He'll retell the story always adding how "None of this," drink held high to the ceiling and cheersing the family, "would be possible without Rafelito." How "none of us would be here had he not done what he did." As my Uncle ends with, "That takes balls, man." I look at my father in these moments.
Still humble. Still little words.  
Still not knowing what the rest of us know. Because maybe he doesn't have the words to say it,
but I do (and so does Uncle Joe)... not everyone is capable of that kind of courage. 
And that is what makes a hero.  

A year or two after arriving in New Jersey

My dad with a few of his siblings






Wednesday, November 7, 2012

When Breastfeeding isn't Best Feeding

I want to start this post by saying that although this is something I have been open about, I'm not sure I've ever been this open about it and it is something that was excruciatingly, stomach turningly hard for me at the time. There's nothing to agree or disagree with but please don't take any kind of defense in what I write. I write this for the mothers that were in my shoes and the mothers that will inevitably be in my shoes and were sad, mad, embarrassed, hurt, unsure, upset, pissed off (list of emotion continues......) about being in those shoes and didn't know how to take off those shoes. This is to help someone feel a little better about their shoes.

"Don't worry. It will come naturally. You'll see."
"It bonds you to your baby."
"You will never give your baby anything better."
"It's the most natural thing there is."
"It is the most a important thing a mother could do for her baby."
"It will give your baby the best possible start."

I heard all of these things from well intending people when I was pregnant with my daughter. And in truth, I wasn't worried. I did think it would happen naturally. I knew I was going to breastfeed and that was all I knew. Even when the pediatrician told me that first night that I had an "inverted nipple" (who knew that was a real thing?) I wasn't worried. He told me a few tricks I could try and that buying a nipple shield would help to breastfeed and I was solid. Good to go.

I had done some light reading about all things baby, delivering baby, breastfeeding baby, but wasn't over the top about it. Husband read more than I did and relayed the messages.
Me: Husband. I have a burning feeling in my chest.
Husband: Oh that's probably just heartburn. They say that could start happening around this month.
Me: I wonder how big she is right now.
Husband: At this many weeks, she's the size of my hand from head to rump (I want to add that "rump" is the word they used in the book, not his own vocabulary. I always thought this was an interesting choice of wordage.) And it also says that she's about the size of a mango (I also found it interesting that all of the comparisons to the baby's size are foodtual.)
The point is, I wasn't stressed or concerned with having a baby or any of the things that came with it, so I wasn't stressed about breastfeeding. It was what Husband and I had decided we were going to do, so it would be fine. After all, "it is the most natural thing a woman could do," right?

When breastfeeding began, I imagine I had the same thoughts that all women had:

Is she getting enough?
Am I doing this right?
Is she still hungry?
Will I know if she's still hungry?

I wasn't thinking these thoughts maniacally. They were normal thoughts.  Like all new things, you wonder how you are doing at it.

After the first week, we took our daughter to her first doctor's appointment. As is normal, he said she would lose a little bit of weight the first week and then start to gain it back. I still wasn't sure that she was getting enough but when we went back the second week, she had gained back a half ounce so we figured we were on our way. I was hopeful.

The next few weeks would prove otherwise.

She seemed to always be hungry. I would feed her for no less than an hour, sometimes an hour and a half. And since she had to eat every two hours starting from the time you had last started, I would get a half hour break before she was hungry again. Thank GOD we bought a comfortable chair that I could fall asleep in because I spent more than half my day - literally - in that chair. But people said this was ok and that that was normal in some cases. Husband would bring her to me after I had enough time to shower and comb my hair and say, "Hey babe. I think she's hungry again." At which time I would rip his head off and try to swallow him whole since I hadn't had enough time to shower and eat.

We talked to friends who were sympathetic and agreed that breastfeeding wasn't that easy. We reached out to women from La Leche League who made house visits and supportive phone calls and who told us that "the most important thing is to keep going. Don't doubt it is working." I was encouraged that I was doing fine, that all women get nervous and think that their baby isn't eating enough but to rest assured, "All is well. Keep going."

I remember taking a nap and for the first time in almost three months that we had been on this undeniably hot island, I covered myself with our down comforter. I thought at that moment, there has to be something wrong. I'm freezing! Sure enough, there was something wrong. I had a fever and had developed my first case of mastitis. I say first, because I would develop mastitis again, a second time, all within the first month of breastfeeding.

To be honest, I was with fever and not feeling at all well, but slightly happy because I thought maybe now, someone will see that breastfeeding is not working for us and tell me to stop but even through my month of mastitis and taking antibiotics and drinking Fenugreek, a natural vitamin to help produce more milk - if that was even the problem - and feeding this poor baby every minute of the day, people kept smiling and hoping and encouraging that this was just a rough patch. Breastfeeding will get easier, you'll see, and you'll be happy you stuck with it. There's no more important thing a mother could do for her baby.

Well, jeez... how do I argue with that? What kind of mother would I be if I gave up and wasn't doing this most important thing for my baby?

My mother, having stayed with us for the first 3 weeks after our daughter's birth, was there through most of it and being the amazing mother that she is was the most helpful shoulder to lean on. She didn't want to be too pushy at that time because she knew the conflict, the war, that I was already having with myself so she would remind me that she didn't breastfeed my sister and I because - at the time - formula was the new rage. She would quietly and only once tell me that breastfeeding or not breastfeeding didn't make you a good or bad mother. She would point out that breastfeeding wasn't easy when I needed her to support our decision to breastfeed and argue that those women from La Leche League are fanatics when I needed an ally against breastfeeding.

The problem through this, as I see it now, was that Husband and I never had a backup plan. Since breastfeeding came so naturally, was what bonded you to your baby, gave your baby the best start, how could we decide anything else? What kind of mother would I be if I already gave up?

Well, I'll tell you that the kind of mother it made me to not give up was an unhappy one. I was tired. I was sick. I was emotional. I was resentful. I was questioning why I ever thought I'd be good at this. I remember hearing her cry and wanting so badly to help but feeling like I couldn't do anything. What good was I? So Husband would take her from me and leave the room with her and then I'd cry into my pillow because I was the worst mother in the world.

I was my own worst bully, kicking my own ass all the time.

Not to mention, the "bonding." I was so confused, so deflated, so utterly over breastfeeding that there was no such bonding because when I was sitting in my comfortable chair for the 19th hour that day, I was mad I was there AGAIN, and when I wasn't in the chair I was sad that I sucked at breastfeeding.

I don't know at what point I knew for sure it wasn't working but I remember feeling it and knowing it in my gut. But as I mentioned, Husband and I never thought we'd do anything else so I wasn't sure what to propose we do. And Husband, bless his optimistic and Go-Team-Go kind of enthusiasm just wanted to be positive. So positive that most of the time I wanted to kill him or not look at him or bite his head off because you haven't been sitting in this chair all day. I didn't have the heart or courage to tell him that I didn't want to do this anymore. So I waited because what I wanted was for him to tell me that I didn't have to do this anymore. But he didn't. And he wouldn't. And I knew that. But I kept waiting...

My mom had recently left back to the states and after talking to my sister's mother-in-law - an experienced nurse - my mother called me. She must have heard the desperation in my voice and finally decided that the time for supportive words and friendly reminders was over.

She said, "You know, you don't have to do this."
"Do what?" I asked, pretending not know what she meant because I needed so badly to actually hear the words.
"Breastfeed. You don't have to do this to yourself. You have to do what's right for that baby and you. And if you don't think that this is working, well then let it go. It's not the end of the world. I didn't breastfeed you or your sister and that didn't make me any less of a mother."

I knew she was right. Because no one could be more mother than my mother.

When Husband got home, I talked to him about my conversation with my mother. He agreed that what was best for me was best for all but still wanted to see if there were "more avenues we could try." I nodded but knew that my days with breastfeeding were at its end.

We went back to our pediatrician for her month appointment. The nurse measured her and weighed her and noted down the information in her little card and then the doctor came in. He's the kind of pediatrician that makes you wish you were a sick kid. I trust him. So when he came in and said, "We've been killing her" I knew it was bad.

She hadn't even gained back her original birth weight. Thank GOD, I thought. Not that we'd been killing her, of course, but that I'd been right. For a month, I had been doubting what I knew to be true, what I knew as a mother. And these words gave me the confidence that I needed to know. It was painful and heartbreaking and the hardest month of my life but I had learned the most basic and simple truth of being a mother - that no one knows better than me what is best for my kid. Opinions and well intentions are great, but my instincts, my gut feeling has to be the last word. PERIOD.

We decided after that visit, with the doctor's advice, that we would continue to try and breastfeed while also pumping and then supplementing with formula wherever we needed. Even still, even after the "we were killing her" words came out of a professional's mouth, we still got well intended advice from people to "stick with it" and that "pumping is never as good for milk production as breastfeeding and once you start pumping..." blah blah blah. I had heard enough. Mute.

Our daughter quickly grew into the eater she is now and starting scarfing down everything we gave her. She was drinking more and more milk and my body was soon only producing a certain amount. It wasn't enough to keep up with her ever growing appetite and it wasn't long before we were supplementing more formula and less boob.

One afternoon, a month later, after pumping in front of the television for 15-20 minutes, I looked down, and there was nothing in the bottle. Not one drop. Where as most women will tell you that weening off of breastfeeding is hard, my body found nothing hard about it. It was the most natural thing there was.

Months later,  a few friends would email me or tell me that they were pregnant and asked me what they could expect. I would give them this advice:


  1. Have a backup plan. Even if you know you want to use disposable diapers, or make your own food, or breastfeed, have a Plan B just in case. Holding yourself down to one decision and one decision only makes it incredibly hard to change your mind later.
  2. Don't feel that you are not "mother enough" because you can't do something or don't want to do something the way another mother does.
  3. Don't get hung up on words. Know that "natural" means many different things. A mother making sure they are doing whatever it takes to feed their child, no matter how they're fed, is just as natural as breastfeeding. 


Tuesday, November 6, 2012

A Big, Poofy Slightly Uncomfortable Dress with Elastic Band Sleeves Kind of Birthday

To say that birthdays, to me, have always been special, would be the understatement of the year. I don't remember a time that I didn't celebrate a birthday month (JENuary) with weekends full of ME activities. I don't remember there being a New Year's Eve where the countdown to my January 20th birthday didn't start immediately as the clock struck midnight with all of the glitter and sparkle of New York City's Time Square. Look at all those people celebrating the new year, the new January, my birth month! 

Growing up, my sister and I always had great big birthday parties full of friends, family, music, food, and big, poofy dresses...always big, poofy - slightly uncomfortable elastic band sleeves - dresses that my abuelita bought for us every year from El Bambi on Bergenline in West New York. You could tell whose birthday it was by the size of the dress.

Exhibit A
Exhibit B

I remember our themed birthdays clearly: Rainbow Brite, Annie, Popeye, Raggedy Ann, Mickey Mouse. My parents would transform our garage into magical birthday zones with every detail of the themed decor hung up, laid out, and placed upon: balloons, streamers, table cloths of our favorite character, piñatas... ooooh the piñatas. Our friends waiting anxiously in the garage with hands full of confetti as we made our entrance - yes, we made an entrance - in our big, poofy, slightly uncomfortable dresses elastic band sleeved dress. When we would enter, my father would play our "Happy Birthday" record followed by the record's side B of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" and our friends would throw enough confetti at us to drown in while yelling Happy Birthday as only excited 6-year olds can. These weren't surprise parties; we knew what we were walking into. My parents just had a flair for the dramatic when it came to birthday parties... and I was a dramatic so I loved it.

Since becoming a mother to our sparkling, little Rafaella, I've realized so many things about myself, but the biggest thing I've learned is that you could love something so much and have no idea how to do it well. I had a hard time with Rafa's first few months. I wanted to be the mother I had imagined and was having a hard time being the mother I actually was. I was not cut out for staying at home all day. Breastfeeding didn't come easy, if at all. Being a mom to a newborn wasn't one of my strong suits.

As she started getting older, I understood that not all phases of motherhood suit everyone of us mothers. I tried my hardest to succeed as a small baby mama and I had done well. I also tried my hardest in Logic 101 in college and still pulled only a D (and I have a slight feeling Professor Logic only passed me because he pitied my incredible attempts at getting help only to dramatically fail every test).

But when her 1st Birthday was rolling around, I lost all insecurities. This I knew how to do. I knew how to throw a birthday party.

I decided that her theme would selfishly make me happy too: autumn. You never think that you'll miss the cool weather but after having lived in the Caribbean for over a year, sunny days begin to wear you down just the same as your tenth snow day. Our party space, thanks to my friend, Mariella, was already beautiful so no decorations were even needed but I began shopping in late August for anything fallish looking. Invitations were made in small paper goody bags that had a picture of the birthday girl, lollipops, the information for the party, and sunflowers; all tied with ribbon. It's these moments that Husband wishes I were a bit more simple, "Hey Jen. Maybe next year we could hire a skywriter to write out her invitation... ooooor just send out an email." (Update: her 2nd birthday party was no less grand. Sorry Husband.)

We made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cut them into maple leaf and acorn shapes and ordered pumpkin cookies, and teeny tiny pumpkin and apple spiced flavored cupcakes. Her cake was a delicious carrot cake with the most delicious buttercream icing complete with too many calories but who's counting? Our apple dipping station was a success with the kiddies and the chicken, cheese, and spinach pastelitos were amaze! To bring even a little more taste of home, the goody bags were little wicker baskets with apples and homemade (by yours truly) candied almonds with a little note that read "A Taste of the Big Apple." (Many of the yummies provided for by my fave coffee shop in the capital, Guli's Goodies )

I thought that she might be a bit young this year for a face full of confetti and because it was a pool party I wasn't sure if the big, poofy, slightly uncomfortable dress with the elastic band sleeves was appropriate but Tia Yaya (Aunt Shayna) pulled through with the next best thing. A big, poofy, purple polka-dotted dress with NO sleeves.

I wasn't trying to make up for my flaws with this party, I just knew it was something, a part of parenting that I could do well. Obviously, I love her and feed her and change her and would give my life for her but sometimes the selfless day to day mother thing is a major fail. But a party.. that I can do.

When one of our straight-shooting friends who typically doesn't notice kid birthday parties said to me, "You really f*cked yourself now... how are you going to top this next year?" I gave myself the mom seal of approval that I had been denying myself for the last year.

Maybe I can make this mom thing work...

And now for next year's birthday party. Don't worry Husband, I won't make you manually hole punch confetti to match the invitation color scheme...

And for mom... here are the pictures of Rafa's 1st birthday. Late but better than never.