On The Streets, They Call Me Iris Chacon

This morning, I hobbled into the spin room at the gym. Sore, hopped on the bike, to the right of the instructor. I turned to my Sunday morning spin comrades, and told them I barely made it in. I had skipped Pilates, unable to scrape myself out of bed any earlier. Before they could ask me why, I told them. I danced for two hours straight, closer to two and a half. My record is four hours, but that was some time ago.


“I had to, don’t you know on the streets my name is Iris Chacon?” I clipped onto the bike.

The Latinas in the room howled.

“I’m Iris! Didn’t ya’ll know?”


I learned to dance watching those that know how to dance.

I spent hours of my childhood mesmerized by Iris Chacon. Watched her shake her big ass on the screen, dressed in a body stocking, while the lights of the stage caught the glint of every sequins placed across her chest. A cleavage, that plunged to big breasts, a tiny waist, and round hips. Her bright red hair as wild as her dance moves. Iris looked like a goddess.

Born in Puerto Rico, Iris was known in all Latino homes. Her variety show that she hosted weekly in the 1980’s on Univision was never short on viewers. Mami walked by the television and screamed the word, fresca at the screen. Her eyes glared at me, and then landed on Papi. Papi peered from his newspaper or looked up from his typewriter, and then settled on Iris. I turned towards Papi, and watched his eyes dance across the stage in step with Iris. If only I could grab everyone’s attention like Iris. Glamourous in her high heels and red lipstick, and with each sexy rumba shoulder roll. While, my hair puffed with frizz, thighs stuck together, and forehead resembled a potato.

Comparisons drawn, I felt defeated, and soon wandered from the sala, in search for something other than the truth. I was not beautiful like Iris Chacon. I grew use to the absence of attention, and looked elsewhere. School became my stage, and books the sexy dance moves I could impress those around me with.


I learned to dance watching those that know how to dance.

Mami has two left feet, and I’ve never seen her dance ever, not even a quick bounce to a catchy commercial tune.

But, Papi, well he was born to dance. Before being confined to a wheelchair, Papi never sat down for a song. Papi sang the lyrics of every song like he penned them. And, in between the lyrics he whispered, que letra, pero que letra. Driven by the poetry of the words, hand wrapped around a can of beer, Papi’s body pulsated with every beat. Tia Lola, Papi’s youngest sister, often danced alongside him, salsa, merengue, and vallenato, but it was their cumbia that they were best known for. People circled Papi at parties, and cheered him on. But, when it was brother and sister, and La Pollera Colora came on, it was like the Colombian Ginger Rogers and Fred Astire. Silence came over the room, and all eyes made their way towards Papi and Lola. More than once a long flowy skirt was chucked at Lola, and she slipped it on, her pollera. Smiles broad, Papi and Lola’s bodies picked up every call of the drums, melody of the Native flutes, las gaitas, and the European composition of the music. Souls swayed back and forth in response to a time long ago. And, though it was just the two of them circling around each other, the space between their bodies held room for all those that had come before them. Papi danced as if all his ancestors were inside of him, and his moves told a history of Colombia.

I learned to dance watching those that know how to dance.

It was the last summer we would be in Colombia together. And Joann’s last. Maybe, somewhere deep inside Joann knew that, and willed herself to learn to dance. We were seventeen and fifteen, I held a book in my hands, but peered above the pages at Joann. I watched Joann dance with her yellow walk-man as her partner in the first bedroom at Abuelo’s casa. A stand up fan in the center of the room whirled, as Joann moved to the beat that spilled out of her headphones. In midst of the heat and mosquitoes, Joann’s confidence grew, and she danced every chance she had afterwards. During college she entered local salsa club contests and won. She competed with dancers that took years of lessons, her dance studio were those parties.

I learned to dance watching those that know how to dance.

It was in Zumba classes that the basic steps to salsa were broken down to me. Side to side, front to back, a count was given, and my instructor shouted at the class to listen to the beat. And to feel the music. I already learned to dance with music, but  Zumba taught me how to dance to the music.


Yesterday, I went to my madrina’s 80th birthday party. I handed my godmother a small bouquet of flowers, and held her hand as she told all her guests that I was her god-daughter. “You look like your Tia Lola,” My godmother stared at me. Madrina and Mami had been comadres decades, and knew each other’s family members.

A compliment.

I chuckled to myself. Several weeks ago my sister and I did our makeup in the same hotel bathroom mirror.  “Oh my goodness, I look like Lola,” I looked at my reflection, which smiled back at me. My eyes moved to Joann’s reflection, her eyes traced over my face, and she shook her head. “You do,” she nodded.

Armed with a fresh gel manicure, winged eyeliner, bright red lips, dressed in all black, and knee-high boots, I was ready to face a Latina party. Small talk, a part of life, like bees in a summer outing, an annoyance, but expected. Saved by music, pulled onto the sala dance floor by the first few chords of Joe Arroyo’s En Barranquilla Me Quedo. I spun on my heels, swung my hips, and shook my shoulders. I belted out the lyrics, like I had written them, and smiled. Tossed my head back and laughed, as some gathered around to watch me and the other two Colombians at the party.

Colombia! Colombia! The cheers by a room of Cubans.

Transported to my year in Colombia. In those early months I watched those around me dance salsa, and longed to join the crowd. Later, after some shots of aquardiente, I found the courage from the licorice flavored alcohol, and danced. Unsure, I stared at my feet the whole time, and cursed Papi for not having taught me to dance.

But, I was wrong all those years ago, Papi indeed taught me how to dance. You let the letra, the lyrics, tell your body the story, and then you feel it, not just your feet, but deep inside of you. When you do all that, everyone will look up and notice. Because you have told a story.  And, everyone loves a story.

My story is: Yo Soy Connie!





I hear this word bounced back and forth, goals. Below a picture posted on social media, the word goals appear. Or beside it, an all cap hashtag of #GOALS. The words blink back at me, I make eye contact. Note that the first letters of the words make a complete word, GO, and that beside the A, and L stand at attention, and it ends with an S, not rounded or straight, but curved. GO, stand, beware that no path is straight. The word itself, a reminder to do, to be, and accept. 

Never having thought in goals, the word seemed foreign.

Yes, goals is part of my lexicon. I can spell it, pronounce it, define it, but never understood it. Yes, they are the goals that I love to cheer in soccer. My arms pumped in the air as I jump in place. Pulsated by the energy that my daughter or son’s team has made a goal. If it’s a goal by Colombia , I prance around my living screaming gooooooaaaaaaaal, like a veteran broadcaster.

Then they are the goals that I have my students write out at the very beginning of the year, then again in the middle of the year, and one last time at the end, under the guise of hopes and dreams. Also, the goals my IEP students have to meet as part of their individualized educational plan. But, I never made goals for myself, maybe during my three trials at Weight Watchers, but not really. Weight Watchers, set my weight goals, based on their formula, where five percent of weight loss goal is based on the initial weight of a member.

No, I have never made goals for myself.

But, it was goals that lead me to myself.

A year and a week before I started this essay challenge, I dragged myself to the gym. Heavy with depression, I found myself drowning on land. Inspired by a meme posted by my friend on Facebook, I signed up for a spin class up the block at the NYSC. Exhausted before I broke a sweat, I bargained with myself, I just needed to get through the class. And, if I did, my treat was to climb back in bed. This was my compromise at first. Excited that with every class, I felt less out of breath and less sore, I loaded up the gear, and my endurance grew. I soon found myself studying the gym schedule, and spin classes nudged into my weekday, and not just my weekends. Propelled by results I could measure, I added yoga to my weekly work out schedule, then another, Pilates and boot camp followed. I wondered how long I could keep this up, motivated by each completed week behind me, I looked ahead at the weeks. Time measured by small increments, and strung together, and a year unfold before me.

I created and completed goals, without knowing.

Not a week of the gym was missed that first year. A blue print.

As this essay challenge comes to a close, with forty essays written, twelve more essays to write. Reflection drapes over, and I find myself lost in thought more than ever. I think when I started this challenge I was hesitant and unsure, worried that the challenge was a great undertaking. And, my personal space would be encroached, time tugged away from my manuscript. Who does she think she is? A question that I sure blared on the mind of others, made me anxious, afraid to disappoint. But, what helped me push past those pin pricks of self-doubt was the thought: it’s one essay, another after that, then one more, and…  When unable to think in whole essays, I thought in words, a word at time. I looked towards the word count at the bottom of the document increase.

Goals became the frame my mind saw through. Sacrifices were to be made, and truths to be told.

And, while yes my television watching was cut three-folds, once thought a great injustice, I found it a relief. My manuscript continued to be written alongside the essays, as my stamina grew. Because before these essays I wrote very little. I worked on my manuscript a few days a month, and spent a lot of time fretting about its’ completion. Unable to understand that writing is a practice, that with practice comes progress. Prefection became my enemy, revision my ally, and discipline was formed.

“When you tell yourself that you are going to write and don’t, your subconscious takes note. It stops believing you, like a kid whose alcoholic parent serves them false promises. The subconscious will stop showing up. Discipline comes from habit.” Salvatore Scibona.

This summer I spent a week at the NYPL Cullman Scholar Writing Center, a week of writing for teachers. My writing teacher, Salvatore Scibona like all good writing teachers dispensed advice in conversation and not lecture. His words drifted with ease, and circled. And, only months later did I realize they sunk and burrowed.

These essays forced a discipline on me, one that I never had before. My manuscript, is better because of it, not just the stamina and practice that has come with the challenge, but the layers I have folded back with every essay. Submissions and writing risks seemed less scary after I hit published on my WordPress week after week. Vulnerability still hard, I no longer believe that it will tear me open, and death will ensue.


I sent my writing buddies, Yesenia and Elizabeth my writing intentions recently. A list of what I want, and am willing to work for as a writer. I told the universe too. Some of my intentions I even posted on social media, because what a public way to whisper to the universe.

And, now.

I persist.

Saved By Story

“Some people don’t know why they are put on earth,” said Yaffa Schlesinger. ”I do. To tell good stories, and to tell them well.”

Story is what saved me as a child. Countless books taken out of the public library as I became lost in the world of the chapters pressed together, and held sturdy by a spine. And, story is what saves me now. Hours spent writing on my laptop in a corner of my apartment, my face propped by the heel of my palm. Words long ago stuck in my throat, loosen, and unclog.

Mornings are the hardest. An assault of questions and request fired at me by Holden and Rubencito. What time will you be home from work? Can you pour me another cup of orange juice. Don’t forget my soccer practice ends later today. Do we have yogurt? We need more contact solution. I pad around my bedroom in acupuncture sandals, in an effort to combat the hands that have climbed up my chest and rest on my neck.  The sun a thin glimmer out my window. I fix my bed, open up the towels on the mesedora in my room, and find solace in these simple acts, as the day awaits behind the windowpane.


Cafe con leche in hand, my husband sits propped on one of the arms of the sofa, the morning news on. I  walk over to the kitchen, dressed, makeup applied, in search of caffeine. I look at the clock above the stove, not even seven am, and I feel besieged. Coffee in hand I make my way into the bathroom. The small stones of the acupuncture sandals pierce the bottom of my feet, and the two claws on my chest retract, some. The bathroom, my escape room since the early years of mothering, I suspect mothers across the world discovered this before me.  I sit on the closed toilet seat, phone in hand. I scroll. First personal email, writer’s email, and last work email, this is the order I check most mornings, only five minutes alloted. I scan: a meeting to be reminded of, curriculum links, a message from a parent. Then, an email from a colleague about the latest essay on my blog.


I was  just about to snap off my computer and your essay popped on my FB feed. I’m so BAD about reading anything on FB, (I just scroll), but just read it… SO good, Connie. SO GOOD and not just that, I can’t believe you are DOING IT, like writing so damn much. You have my total and complete admiration. Dayum girl.



I read it twice. Smiled. Resumed with the rest of my morning. D’s words surrounded my thoughts, as I kissed my husband good-bye, gulped the rest of my cafe, and washed the breakfast dishes. Wished my daughter a great day as she walked herself to school. SO GOOD, invaded my mind as I drove my son to school, and then turned on Fourth Avenue to drive myself to work. And, as I got closer to work I composed a list, never intended to be voiced to my colleague. Yeah! I must be good, I got into VONA twice, didn’t I? My writing mentor thinks highly of my writing, his words, not mine. I got into Christina Garcia’s Las Dos Brujas. Salvatore Scibona said I was a wonderful writer, surely he did not say that to many. I have a near complete manuscript. One of my blog essays back in August got over 160 plus readers. There was that editor from an imprint of Penguin that liked my sample writing. Also, the essay that was picked up by an anthology of Latina writers. Of course I was good! And, as quick as the cockiness overpowered me, so did the self-doubt. It wasn’t that impressive who was I kidding! Only later did I realize that the list was not for my colleague, but for me.


In high school I once wrote a poem about love. Inspired by Carlos I submitted it to an anthology in search of nation wide high school poets. Several weeks later I received a letter from the competition. My poem was accepted, and if I wanted a copy of the anthology a ten-dollar check was needed to cover the shipping and handling. Checks and credit cards were held with great suspicion by Mami, and a money order was sent instead.  The anthology came in a huge manilla envelope with a generic congratulations letter. Excited to see my words in print I tore the package open. Bible thick, a cover like melted rainbow ice from the pizzeria, a swirl of colors, more blue. I searched for my poem and flipped through the pages like a mad woman. My fourteen line poem in the corner of a page. Name underneath. Read and re read that poem several times that day, clutched it to my chest, sure that it was the first of many.

That was twenty three years ago. Decades have elapsed since then. My publishing credits are near nonexistence. What proof do I offer the world that I am a writer?

Another student wrote how her grandfather told his dying wife a funny tale so she could make God laugh. ”It’s gold!” Ms. Schlesinger said. ”


Mid college one of my sociology essays became part of an anthology. My professor, Yaffa Schlesinger whose class, Introduction Sociology, I took my second semester at Hunter College. Mesmerized by Yaffa’s lectures and passion for art, life, and teaching I became a groupie. I took several of her classes over the next four years. Quoted her to friends, and waited for them to marvel at her wisdom. And when they did I unleashed more pearls at their feet, but when they shrugged their shoulders, I scooped back Yaffa’s discarded words. Overjoyed by her selection of one of my essays, an interview of my paternal grandfather. Embellished and decorated to sound better than the real thing, I wrote what I thought it should be. I confessed to her after class that I wanted to be a writer. That I wrote fiction.

“It was a great essay,” Yaffa nodded.

“I have a story I’m working on, would you read it?” I rushed to ask.

“It will be my pleasure,” Yaffa smiled. She tucked her short brown hair bob behind her ears.

“I will bring it to you next class.” I said and with my books pressed close to my chest, and my back pack heavy on my shoulders I skipped out of that classroom. “I’m going to be a writer one day,” I whispered to myself.

Next class I brought the first pages of what would later become my first manuscript. Delighted I slipped them into a blue folder and placed them on her desk. Days later she returned the folder back to me, and once I walked out of the classroom I pulled out the pages and looked through them. Yaffa marked them with words like: nice, lovely image, great description, and at the bottom she wrote: Keep Writing! Disappointed I wanted more. Now, I understand what I craved at that moment was something Yaffa could not give me. But, what I needed the most, to believe. I needed to give myself that, believe that I could tell stories. And be a writer.



This week I spent my drives to and from work listening to videos from writers on writing. Stephen King’s thoughts on writing, And, Keyese Laymon. I also listened to J.K. Rowling. This is how I armored up to protect the creative soul housed in my body. The one that has to deal with staff meetings, writing report cards comments, laundry, an evening of trick or treating, my son’s homework, lesson plans, chats with my daughter about makeup and boys and life, trips to soccer practice, phone calls to my Tia Lola, best friend, and sister. Because everyone one of those things mentioned must be done. I am a mother, wife, a teacher, a daughter, sister, a friend. And, sometimes writing is paused, and unlike before I’m vigilant for bits of time when I can take my finger off the pause button. I now write because I cannot not write.

And, on a day like today that I was able to read a lot about writing, work on this essay here, and read Yesenia, my home girl’s short story and offer feedback. I cannot think of anything better, writing in between house chores, a dinner of gyros, and reading beautiful work that make me think, me too. And, I think of my writing, my words are good. Maybe even, so good, but I know believing is the hardest. But, I have started to believe.

Prayer Warrior

A loved one told me a few weeks ago that it was a waste of time to pray. That my waking up early in the morning to do so was futile.  I thought of my tattered prayer-book that I tuck under my pillow, within reach, in both the light of day and the dark.

Enraged. “I have been praying my whole life,” I answered


While true, there was a time I stopped. Ceased prayer, as if God could be extinguished. Then prayer made its way back to me.


The first time I remember praying I was five or six years old. Scared, I crawled under my bed, looked up the wooden slats, and whispered a Hail Mary, and then another, and one more after that. Bed sheets hung down low, it was hard to see the world from this place. I heard Mami’s voice in the distance. I turned on my side, and burrowed myself.

It was Mami who had forced me into hiding in the first place.

When I first heard the term rageoholic, I recognized my mother. Never a time that Mami was not prone to rants, which turned to the wild fires of rage. Mami’s voice forever sounded an alarm in my chest, but when she hated the world, well a convoy blaring engines pulsated through my body.  Calm, steady, and reasonable, seldom occupied Mami’s state of mind. But, on that day in particular, Mami’s sand colored face was smooth and even, at first. Then, taunted and insulted, an argument ensued with Mami and our neighbor Angela’s home attendant.

Mami sat down to have cafe in Angela’s apartment. I circled around the women in the kitchen, a broom in hand. Mami bragged to her friends that I loved to clean. And, forever in search of her approval, I told myself I loved to clean, and grew to believe it.

“I pray all the time,” Mirian pressed her hands together in prayer. “But, I only pray to Jesus. I don’t believe in La Virgen.”

Mami’s eyes bulged.

My heart joined. La Virgencita, Mami had always insisted was more of a mother to her than her own. And, Joann and I were to hold La Virgen with the same adoration, and to do anything less was criminal.

“She’s a common woman. Why would I pray to her?” Mirian shook her head back and forth, as if the motion explained her blasphemy.

Glued to Mami’s reaction, unable to push the broom, I held my breath.

“You must understand one thing and one thing only,” Mami slammed her hands on the table. “Con la virgen no te metas.” Her voice thundered.

“Ok, everyone is entitled to their opinions,” Angela said. She sat between Mami and Mirian in her wheelchair. The pancreatic cancer had scooped her hallow, within months Angela would succumb to the disease.

Unable to be reasoned with. Mami shouted her love to the Blessed Mother with the fervor of a Menudo fan in the 80’s.

Mirian, unwilling to acquiesce, repeated her opinion over and over, each time a bit louder.

Rattled by Mami and Mirian’s voice. The heat that rose from the space between their chest and throat. I worried that I’d be engulfed by their flames. I bolted out of the apartment unnoticed. And hid. And prayed.

After the uproar about the Blessed Mary, Mami discovered Catholic vigils in honor of the Holy Mother in Bayside Queens Angela’s youngest daughter, Licey, swallowed by the grief of her mother’s death, accompanied Mami to the first vigil. Licey a self proclaimed former wild child had found God, as Angela was dying, was now devout. Deemed Catholic and legit by both Mami and Licey. Joann and I attended the next one alongside them. Licey’s husband Bob, drove us in his run down Chevy, on a Friday evening. Quiet the whole ride there, the only sound to escape Bob was the inhale and exhale as he smoked countless Marlboro Lights.

Once there Bob pulled close to the main entrance of the park. An Irish Catholic bartender, Bob didn’t join us. Bob preferred to nap in the car till it was time to drive back home. Mami and Licey unloaded the trunk: lawn chairs, a coffee thermos, and blankets. I looked towards Joann and wondered how long this vigil would be. But, neither of us dared to ask. Mami and Licey slapped crocheted doilies on the top of their heads, both dressed in long skirts, and each with a strap around their neck. Mami a pair of binoculars, and Licey a Polaroid. I looked up at the night sky, and felt the urge to laugh. This made no sense. I clamped my lips shut. The absence of light meant I could not read, and I could not pretend to be somewhere else.

Loud speakers were set up all along the park, and on stage a small brown-haired woman recited the rosary. Mami said her name was Veronica and that Mary had appeared to her. I opened my eyes wide, old enough to disbelieve, but to young to understand why. Throngs of people gathered around the stage, and the click of rosary beads filled the air. Joann and I trailed behind Mami and Licey with a fold up chair under our arms. I looked all around me. It was spring, so the evening air was brisk, and I noted that many had on sweaters and thin jackets. Mami had insisted we wear long sleeves, a sweater, and on top a jacket. I tried to wiggle out of the jacket, but too tight I got nowhere, as the layers beneath restricted me. Annoyed I looked at Mami, steps ahead. Mami marched like a solider intent on obeying orders, back straight, gait fast, and her hands at her sides, Mami was never at ease. Even at this religious vigil, Mami was extreme.

Mami parked herself under a tree, pulled out her silver rosary, and began to recite the rosary a loud in Spanish. Licey bilingual, prayed in English, her arms open like a priest at the altar. Joann and I set camp beside her. We entertained ourselves playing with the flyers about Veronica’s life story that were passed around. I folded them into paper fans or fortune tellers, and hoped time picked up speed. But, in between the incessant rosary chant, Licey and Mami took pictures. They both titled their heads back and snapped pictures at the night sky. Seconds later their wrists snapped, fast back and forth, and then waved the photos to expose the image. Their heads pressed together as they studied the pictures. Most of the time they said nothing, but sometimes they let out short gasps. They examined every inch of the photographs, and only then passed them to Joann and I.

I expected to see the silhouette of Mary, perhaps Jesus in the night sky. But, instead they were ribbons of light that curled and lined the dark. No pattern or shape that formed any type of letter, no great revelation. Once those ribbons formed what looked like three number sixes, Mami and Licey shrieked in horror, and showed those around them. I watched them excited to find answers, but not privy to their questions, I just looked away. I composed my own questions. Why couldn’t Mami be normal? Why didn’t Papi try to stop Mami from these schemes? Why would La Virgencita appear in a park in Queens of all places? And why did Mami need to believe so bad?

But others seemed to enjoy Baysider vigils simply because the ritual made them feel close to Mary, Jesus, and God in a way that traditional Catholic services did not.


If you were to ask Mami about those vigils now she would hold firm that the Virgencita was there in between the trees, in the beats between each Hail Mary recited, in the way everyone walked around and shared stories about Mary. How La Virgencita had interceded on their behalf, and now were believers. Saved. Perhaps even in those pictures that captured all the dark, but one sliver of light.

We went to those vigils for months. Once I even went dressed in my Communion dress. And each time Mami snapped pictures at the sky like a paparazzi, recited the rosary with the piety of a cloistered nun, and waited for an apparition with Linus like belief, but instead of a pumpkin, Mami waited for Mary.  I hated those vigils. Beside that they were long and boring, and that I wished to be home watching that night’s ABC lineup of sitcoms, those vigils scared me. I worried my mother had lost her mind. Now, I know it wasn’t that at all. This was how Mami saved herself. How she kept herself from being swallowed by her life. A past that hung heavy on her back. A present that threatened to capsize her.

This summer my writing teacher for a week at the NYPL scholars and writers Cullman Center, Salvatore Scibona said, writing at its best is a holy experience. Yes. I nodded my head. He knew. And, that’s a lot like my writing these days. I go and write, and hope to be saved.




The funny thing about memories, they haunt you, sneak up from behind. Perhaps I have kept certain memories a secret from myself, all along. Hopeful that in the dark they would grow weak, and never make their way back to my consciousness.


Then on short car ride through Sunset Park you saw a Peruvian restaurant. Called out to your son, how tasty the rotisserie chicken looked. And you point to the picture of the chicken with floppy hair next to the name of the restaurant, Pollo A La Brasa.


“You like Peruvian food, Mama?” Rubencito’s asked from the back of the car.

“Yeah, it’s really good. They season the chicken,” Red traffic light, a steady pulse. I turned back and rubbed my hands, and thought of the juicy and flavorful chicken. “You can get it with yucca frita or these papas they make that are really spicy.” I thought of the first time I ate papas a las huancaina, the spicy creamy sauce that made my mouth hot and eyes water. My ex boyfriend’s mom had made them one night, held a dish of potatoes covered in an orange-yellow sauce, sliced eggs on top, and red specks of aji everywhere. And, like I did for her son, I feel hard for those potatoes.


Let’s call him Carlos, I met him through my ex best friend junior year, Sally. Carlos was Sally’s lab partner, she bragged over the fact that he had a crush on her, but busted her sides laughing that he couldn’t spell triangle. I chuckled, but wondered why boys didn’t like me the way they liked Sally. At the time I was sure it had to do with my glasses, my thick thighs, and the fact that I hid behind baggy clothes. I skipped over the facts that I spent most of my free time in the library, kept my eyes to the ground, and pulled my curls over my face like a stage curtain. Never did I consider that I walked around with an invisible do not disturb sign held out to the world. That revelation came later.

It was late in the fall of junior year that Carlos asked out Sally. Met with a firm no, Carlos moped through the hallways the next few days. With no classes in common the only time we saw each other was lunch, and on those days after his failed attempt with Sally, Carlos sat next to me.

“So, is it true?” Carlos asked. His head hung down.

“What is?” I looked up from my book.

Carlos glared across the cafeteria. “Sally? Is she with Frankie?”

“Why do you even care? That’s what I heard.” I rolled my eyes. Sally had dumped me for her new boyfriend. No time for me. Frankie and straightening out her bangs seemed to only matter to Sally now. Gone were the countless hours we watched Jean-Claude Van Damme movies together, listened to Tribe Called Quest, and ate grilled cheeses loaded with mozzarella cheese.

“I thought she was into me,” Carlos shook his head back and forth.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Sorry,” I smiled.

“But we could still chill, right?” Carlos smiled back.

And for a second he didn’t look so sad. Then for the briefest moment I didn’t feel so sad either.

Lonesome for company, Carlos filled all the empty spaces that took up residency inside of me. It was more than just losing my best friend at the time to a pimply boy, who wore his pants real low. Like those chain reactions that are illustrated in science text books, Sally’s abandonment triggered all the sadness that existed before. The one in the shape of Papi who came home late and drunk every night, and when he was home, well he was far away. Behind a wall of newspaper, hand written notes, a type writer, and a stack of white paper. The noise of univision or telemundo on, and the endless phone calls between him and his buddies, filled the silence that crept through our apartment. And while Mami was in bed most days by ten in the evening and only drank water and coffee. She had left a dent too. Punched in deep by her fits of rage, and the ache Mami carried around.

The day that Carlos asked me to be his girlfriend I felt relieved to finally be liked by a boy. Didn’t matter that he had asked out two of my friends. Nor did it matter that he was two years older than my sixteen and in the same grade.  That he couldn’t spell triangle, that I was in honor classes, and he wasn’t. It wasn’t Carlos fault.  Placed a grade behind when he came to America from Peru, and held over another year, he was older than the seniors.

Our first date was to see the Tom Hank’s movie Philadelphia. Later as we walked towards the bus he pulled me to an alley where we kissed for a long time with the snow beneath our feet. Soon after we spent all our time together at school and on the weekends. And hours on the phone when forced apart. I made mixed tapes of my favorite songs for him, wrote him letters in pretty pink stationary, and beeped him besos late at night. Carlos held my hand, whispered he loved me, and sang me old ranchera songs. I loved feeling wanted. So, I thought I was in love.



“Mama, the light,” Rubencito screamed out.

Green flashed in front of me. “Calm down,” I said to the car that honked behind me, my son, and to myself.

“Everyone was honking,” Rubencito said. “What were you doing thinking so hard,” He placed a small hand on my shoulder. “How was work?”

“I was just thinking about someone from long ago.” I placed one hand over his, while the other gripped the steering wheel.



It was the end of junior year of college that Carlos began to drift away. Together five years, Carlos was prone to small bouts of sadness and quiet. But, this was longer, darker, and distance claimed its place. Worried. I pestered for an answer, enraged by his silence I threw a colossal fit. Carlos sat on his bed, and I was on the swivel chair that was part of his makeshift desk.

“What is it?” I bounced my knee, unable to keep still.

“I have something to tell you,” Carlos took in a deep breath.

I braced myself.  Certain that he was breaking up with me. Unsure why, we seldom fought, and when we did it was about my insecurities. Afraid that I would be left one by one by everyone that I loved, I clung to Carlos. Needed to feel tethered to someone at all times, as if alone I could not exist. “Ok,” I managed to whisper, my throat dry.  I composed a list in my head with examples that made me an amazing girlfriend. It was his loss.

“When I was a kid…” Carlos trembled.

I stared at his face. The lamp in his room cast a shadow over him, he was hidden.

Carlos took a deep breath. “When I was a kid. I was raped. It was my cousin.” His voice steady and calm as if he spoke about someone else.

I cried.

He didn’t.

Those words were the start of our breakup a year later.


“Who mama?” Rubencito’s voice pulled me from my memories. We were a few blocks from home.

“My ex boyfriend,” I answered.

“Oh. He was Peruvian? So, that’s why you like Peruvian food.” Rubencito said. He moved up to the front seat as I stopped on a red light, and waited.

I spoke. “It’s really good. We need to eat it one day.” Memories like chewing gum on a shoe refused to peel away from me.

“Why did you break up?”

“He cheated on me.”


I knew months before I confronted him that he was cheating. He had grown distant. Avoided me. I blamed the social worker at a Manhattan Catholic Charities Office we spoke to. She turned Carlos against me, made him see my weakness and all the uncertainties. Days after Carlos revealed his sexual abuse I sought out someone for him to talk to. He went, but was reluctant. I spoke most of the time. At first it was about Carlos and then it became about me. Mami. Papi. My shop lifting. Complusive lying. And the fires too. It all spilled out of my mouth. And, when it was time to leave, the social worker reached for my arm. Carlos was at my other side.

“I understand you came here to support Carlos. But, what happened to him while terrible, he has dealt with somewhat, and is dealing with. But you…”

I shook my head.

“However, it’s my professional opinion that you speak to someone about your own issues. You seemed to have a lot of undealt trauma.”

“I’m fine.” I felt the heat rise to my neck. Angry. Ashamed. I turned towards Carlos and linked my arm with his. “Let’s go.”

“Carlos, here is a list of support groups you might find helpful.” The social worker shoved pamphlets in his free hand.

I was quiet the train ride back to Brooklyn. My mind seethed as the social worker’s words replayed back to me. And, I hated Carlos right then and there. Because though he was raped as a kid I was still more broken than him. And when I finally spoke, I said: “I’m sorry Carlos. I’m sorry that lady couldn’t see what happened to you is so fucked up. But, I do.”

I was twenty-one at the time, and for nineteen years I believed that I could hide my broken behind the shards of others. But, that works as much as trying to hide the sun with your hand.

Later when I found out Carlos was talking to a handful of girls through chat rooms on AOL, and even went to visit one in California. I was sure it was because of me, I was not enough. Only now can I see that Carlos had to prove something to himself with his conquest of online women.

But, yes. We were both broken at the time.



The Facts and Romance of Colombia

I’ve been accused of being a Colombiana de Bibloteca before. An insult to slap me with the truth that I’m not a “real” Colombian. A Colombian-American shaped by the proses of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the lyrics of Rafael Orozco’s vallenatos, and the docu-dramas that Carcacol favors, and I watch on Netflix. My defense, five words: I love all things Colombian. Arepas, palmeras, futbol Colombiano, Shakira, Juanes, Grupo Niche, Los Carnivales, los indios del Caribe y los Chibchas. I spent most of my childhood summers in Colombia damn it! Lived there for almost a year after college hijueputa! I have dual citizenship to both America and Colombia, both blue and brown passports to prove it too. That’s not a Colombiana de Bibloteca!


And for the longest time I was so certain of my position as a Colombiana. But, a Tuesday evening a few weeks ago, a memory from the past, and something my daughter said, has made me reconsider. Perhaps, I’m neither Colombian or American, but a bit of both, and something in the middle. I’m still trying to figure it out.


This was the weekend I was supposed to be in Bogota at a U2 concert with Mike and his girlfriend. And, for a few hours on a Tuesday evening in mid September, it almost came true, but facts and romance collided. And my dream to travel to Colombia disappeared.

“Have you ever had a pipe placed in the back of your head?” Ruben asked.

We were in Mike’s living room. The Yankee game on the big screen television illuminated Ruben like a spotlight.

I sat on an ottoman with my legs tucked under me. The air conditioner buzzed in the back, a reminder that summer still clung in the night air. Mike and his girlfriend on opposite ends of the couch, the space between them where Ruben just sat. Bracco, retired for four years already, sat in a corner, able to see the whole scene as it unfolded. The original grade 5, the three of, having taught years side by side, always came together. Dinner, brunch, even a late lunch squeezed in, and pow wows when one of us sent out a Batman signal.

“Well?” Ruben asked again. His hair sweaty from the motorcycle helmet he had worn.

“What kind of pipe?” Mike’s girlfriend flashed a wicked smile.

“A pistola mujer!” Ruben said in Spanish, though only I could understand him. “You know what it’s like to hide because someone shows up waving a gun.” Ruben looked down at me.

“Yes, but…” I pushed away the memory, and turned to Mike and his girlfriend.

“We are going to stay in one of the best hotels,” Mike’s girlfriend waved her phone to show a blur of color on her screen. “I read the reviews.”

“Reviews? Ha! You don’t know Colombia like I do,” Ruben shook his head back and forth, and slapped his forehead. “Four times I had a gun pointed at me in Colombia. One time coming off a bus in the middle of the day. Do you know what they wanted?” Ruben looked at us.

I knew the answer: a Casio watch. Cheap plastic hand me down watch. Ruben had told this story in front of me several times, but I watched the others become transfixed by his words.

A warm week day night, similar to the one now, crept it to my mind. Eighteen years to be exact.

Bored by a long hot day of doing very little. Sophia pointed the video camera I had brought with me from New York. We passed the time by making videos of our adventures in Colombia. Inspired by the endless hours of MTV Real World we both watched like devotees, Sophie and I taped the snippets of our lives. This way we fooled ourselves, that we were doing important things in Colombia, like soul-searching, and cultivating experience. And, not hiding from life.

“We should go out tonight?” I said as I did my makeup by the glow of the veladores on the altar Tia Delia had for Francisco. His picture in a silver plated frame bounced the light of the flame that flickered in front of him. Next to Francisco was my Abuela’s framed photo, having died two decades before, it seemed less ominous.

“Yeah,” Sophia nodded. She laid across the bed stretched on her back, eyes closed, and arms crossed made a pillow rest under her head.

“I will call Ruben at work,” I said. “He will know a spot for us to have fun.”


Colombia is broken up by classes, and the color of skin tends to fit that structure like in every other country. The lighter folks sit in the high estrato, status acquired by money. Nightlife could be found in all the estratos de Barranquilla, but El Norte was the it place. The bars, restaurants, and nightclubs were modeled after Miami’s South Beach. Populated by rich kids, tourists, and the likes of me, American-Colombians killing time. I took taxi cabs from San Roque, Abuelo’s neighborhood, to El Norte several times a week. I ate lunch in La Cafeteria Americana, strolled the huge department store, El Super Ley, and looked at the latest t-shirts and dresses at the clothing store called, Tennis. I had even gone clubbing at clubs with names like: Macondo and Frog Legs. All while I stretched the monthly allowance Mami sent me. For the first time I felt rich, that I was in Colombia, a detail I learned to accept.

El Norte was as safe as Colombia could get, and I was not in the least worried when three men barged into the bar looked around and left. The crowd in the bar had dwindled down, not even ten in the evening, and it was near empty.

Buzzed, by the four Cuba Libres I had just down, the world around me felt magnificent. I laughed at Ruben’s jokes. And, belted the lyrics to Ricky Martin’s Vuelve with Sophie, our heads pressed together and arms around each other’s waist.

Algo me dice que ya no volverás. Estoy seguro que esta vez. No habrá marcha atrás. Después de todo fui yo a decirte que no. Sabes bien que no es cierto. Estoy muriendo por dentro.”

I pulled apart from Sophie and pressed my fist to my heart, pantomime the heartache of the lyrics. My eyes shut, I popped them open, and saw Ruben’s face transform. No longer tipsy and laughing, Ruben’s face became very still, and in the calmest voice he told me to go to the bathroom.

“Go now, both of you.” Ruben ran over to the bartender.

“What’s wrong?” I looked around. The three men were back again, but carried rifles over their shoulder, as if it were nothing more than a gym duffel bag. I grabbed Sophie’s wrist and ran to the bathroom.

“Don’t come out until I get you.” Ruben called out.

“Are we going to die?” Sophie looked at me. Her eyes teared, her eyeliner smudged.

“No,” I answered. I reached over and wiped Sophie’s smudged eyeliner with my thumb. I strained to hear, with our bodies pressed against the door, and listened for wails, broken glass, or bullets. But, only Ricky’s voice rushed to my ear.

“What just happened?” Sophie asked.

“Those guys came in. They had guns,” I said. My brain answered, my voice spoke, but my mind played scenarios. I worried Ruben would be dead by the end of the night. And, with nothing to do but wait. I prayed to El Divino Nino.

Thirty minutes went by before there was a knock on the bathroom door. “It’s ok you can come out.” Ruben said.

I pulled the door open, Ruben stood before it. “Oh my God, what happened? I thought you were dead.” I flung my arms around him.

“Some guys had beef with another guy here last night. They thought they saw him. Came to settle things… They looked all over the place, couldn’t find who they were looking for, and left.”

“What if they hadn’t left?”

“Someone had to have the bartender’s back.”

“You? What about the cops?”

“La policia here is not like in Los United.”Ruben grabbed my hand, and put his arm around Sophie’s shoulder, and steered us towards the door.

“Hombre, I like how you think. You were fast.” The bartender said, as we walked by.

I looked at the counter where two shot guns were laid down.

“Want a drink before you leave?” The bartender pulled a bottle of aguardiente and three shot glasses.

“Next time,” Ruben said.


Later on, the story of hiding in the bathroom while three armed guys almost shot up a bar, seemed less terrifying. It became an example about how wild and scary Colombia could be, and how I lived there for almost a year. It was badass. I was badass. Now years later, I sift through that memory, and think not how bad ass. But, how sad. Sad for Colombia, and sad for the people in which violence is part of their everyday, and survival instincts are developed alongside the terror. And, how every summer on those last days of August I got to climb back on plane and head home. New York. Where cops are called from the smallest to the biggest incident, sometimes late, but they do come.

And that year that I lived there was a blur of dancing, musica, aguardiente y cerveza, and day trips to the beach. Long evenings rocking back and forth on Abuelo’s porch with the stars above me, as the night breeze rushed past my arms. But, there were a list of facts I tucked away. Refused to dwell on, that my watch was locked away, that I never took the bus by myself, and that before eight in the evening you had to be locked inside. That I hopped on a chair and unscrewed the light bulb above the porch light, and helped my cousin Clarita drape blankets over the windows so no light from the inside spilled out. An invitation to los rateros.


“So, are you going?” Holden asked me a few days later. She knew about this possible trip to Colombia.

“No, tu papa says it’s dangerous. He’s afraid something will happen to us if we go.” I rolled my eyes. “Colombia is safer than it once was.”

“Mama, don’t you get it.” Holden shook her head in my direction.

“Get what?”

“Haven’t you listened to all of Papi’s stories.” Holden’s eyes searched my face.

I looked at her. She seemed so grown up right there in the kitchen table dressed in her soccer uniform. Apple sauce cup in her hand.

“He knew a lot of people who died over there. It wasn’t just Francisco for him that was killed. He was just the one that mattered most.”

“I know that,” I sighed.

“Ok, then give him time. You keep pushing Colombia on him.” Holden scooped apple sauce in her mouth.

What if he’s never ok? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. Later that night in bed I thought about the trip that never was. Ruben thought of Colombia in facts, and I thought in romance. I wondered if we would ever meet somewhere in the middle.




Drowning On Land

The word itself, is like a ragged blanket, one you wrinkle your nose at, as it lays unfolded at your feet. Taking my cue from those around me, I have kept that part of myself the most hidden. And, in order to build distance, I laugh and joke, as if depression has a sense of humor. Smiled in its face, hopeful that my dimples will force a grin on its somber face. It never has. These “funks” have plagued me since I was as young as three or four, unable to escape the shroud which enveloped me, night terrors invaded my sleep.

I didn’t have a name for it until much later. But never tired of all the different ways I could describe it.

  • Drowning on land, the ocean my thoughts, and emotions the waves.
  • A dark tunnel, like the ones that take you on a ride at Six Flags, but endless with no euphoria in sight.
  • An exhaustion that comes from the fuse box of your soul. And sleep is all you can hope for.
  • A sadness so heavy and thick, it wraps around you like burlap. You wrestle to loosen yourself, but the ache of melancholy grows tighter.

The evening news triggered my nightly decent into despair, my heart hung low, close to my stomach. Late at night, laid on my back with my hands folded between my heart and chest, my fingers pressed the space, and willed the pain to subside. I was ten, maybe eleven when I realized that the sadness on the screen crept around my throat and left me mute.  Weeks later I gave up the news altogether. But, already contaminated, sadness had infected me, a zombie bite to my soul.

Sadness like any emotion is sticky, it clings to you, settles into that part of your brain that stores memories, and comes to keep you company. And for most of my life, sadness sat the emperor of all my emotions.  The reason I love heart wrenching ballads, dramas that make you weep till your eyes are sore, and poems that make you wince. As a teen I video taped episodes of Life Goes On and 21 Jumpstreet and watched the super sad ones over and over. I cried over dreary scenes, soundtracks that matched what unraveled on the screen, and emotional dialogue, which all gave me permission to cry. The first time I watched Platoon I balled as the character of William DeFoe got shot as he ran from the Vietnam jungle and towards the helicopter. I saw the scene several times over, feeling connected to the pain on the screen, awakened. Numb free, if only for a brief moment. I knew this fascination with heart-break was odd, so I kept it a secret.

My last summer in Colombia with Francisco being alive, I was fifteen, and he was in his early twenties, the Spanish translation of Platoon came on canal RCN. It was late at night, Francisco sat in front of the television. His bare feet on the floor as he pushed himself back and forth on the rocker. Uncomfortable on the orange couch, but near Francisco and the television, I sat and read. A novel propped in my hands, lost to the world of the pages before me. I looked up when Francisco began to quote the character of Charlie Sheen. His eyes closed and fist balled in the air, no longer in Abuelo’s sala and on that rocker, Francisco dug into his own sadness. Francisco became Chris the hero in Platoon, as he rode high on the helicopter and looked down on the chaos that was Vietnam.

And when he finished his performance I clapped. “You are so good!”

“I’ve seen this movie so many times. It’s my favorite.” He smiled wide at me.

“Everyone thinks I’m weird because I love Platoon. I also like Born On The Fourth of July too.” I thought about how I had read the book as well. “I guess I like war movies,” I said.

“Nah, your like me. You like sad movies.” Francisco rocked back and forth, his eyes straight ahead.

“I like sad songs too,” I said.

“The sadder the better,” Francisco now faced me.


Francisco stared at me for a long time before he spoke. “Because we have a lot of sad in us.”

I nodded. I didn’t realize until much later, that the attraction to sad things, was the shine of a flashlight against the silhoutte that was us.

“You and Joann are my sisters. But, you and me, we are the most alike.” Francisco eyes clung to me.

“Claro,” I agreed with him.


In many ways, Francisco was right. A lot of sad existed in him and exists in me. If I search in my past I can come up with a long ass bulleted list. But, I suspect there is more to it. A predisposition fortified by this sensitivity that has me feel things in only two frequencies: deeper and deepest.

Recently when I told a friend I felt sad. I was asked: Why? That I needed to think of the misforntune of others. I became quiet. Said nothing because the retorts were on the tip of my tongue. But, I no longer want others to understand me. I seek to accept myself. Of course I know why. I’m a writer, and articulation of feelings is what writers spend endless hours cobbling. The misforntunes of others? A keen awareness of other’s has always been my greatest burden, but it’s the reason many confide in me, and share details of their life with me. At forty, I realize these truths about myself cannot be hidden, es como tapar el sol con la mano.

Here it is: I’m mad sensitive, and I over think, and I live in my head way too much. I seek art, to be punctured by its beauty, because it moves me. I get into these funks, and always have, since I was a little girl. The waves don’t batter me like they use to, when the current pulled me under and left me breathless. I have learned to defy the waves, turn my back against them and ground my legs. Also, I have learned ride them, lay on top of them, float. When you see me quiet and lost in thought, know that I’m on my back riding the waves, my eyes on the sun. The sun, so merciful, it bows down everyday so that the darkness can be illuminated in its absence.



Doc Martens 

This past Thursday I had a rare ninety minutes to myself. Ruben was at soccer practice, Holden at her best friend’s volley ball game, and my husband late at his office due to the company move. Laundry was in the wash, chicken cutlets fried, baked beans and a salad were the sides. I thought of going home to wait for the clothes to be done, so I could toss it in the drier. All in an effort to save time later in the evening, and maybe in between, watch the season premiere of This Is Us on my DVR. But, I found myself driving to Park Slope, in search for a new pair of shoes. I needed something comfortable and practical for work. I sped through the Belt Parkway, merged onto the Gowanas, and then the Prospect. Sun, hung low in the sky, as it threatened to disappear. Pandora was on blue tooth, the Eagles station, forever hopeful for Hotel California, instead Tommy Petty’s voice came on.

She’s a good girl, loves her mama

Loves Jesus and America too

She’s a good girl, crazy ’bout Elvis

Loves horses and her boyfriend too
Windows wide open, my hair wiped over my face, with one elbow propped on the window, and the other on the steering wheel. Those four lines, transported me to another time. A time when ninety minutes to myself was not something I snatched and stole, but owned. I thought of being in college and dressed in a bright orange Charlie Brown shirt, green baggy pants, and the latest shoe trend at the time on my feet. Converse, Adidas shell tops, Timberland loafers, Nike high tops, and Doc Martens, once I stepped into them I became someone else. Cool. Artsy. Anyone but myself.

I parked by a shoe store in Windsor Terrance not far from my old high school. Bishop Ford no longer a highschool, closed down for the last two years, now a labyrinth of a charter school and a handful of universal pre k classes, maybe a public middle school too. The store was empty, all except one client at the register.  I walked in, a giant timer was set in my mind, time quickened its pace. A fast look of the displays of shoes, and I saw nothing I liked. I should be at home, midst a juggle of wiping down the kitchen, answering emails, and planning lessons for school. Forever in a mad dash to finish before ten, so I could have some writing time. I turned on my heels to leave.

“Can I help you?” A sales woman asked. She walked over to me and smiled.

I flipped around to face her. I really did need a new pair of shoes. “I need something for work, practical and comfortable. I have the flattest feet ever, can you help?” I asked.

“The dansko shoes have great support. She pointed to the front of the store. Those by the window are all the latest ones we have.”

I walked over and grabbed one clog after another. They were ugly and looked like an odd-shaped box. How I could wear these?

“Why don’t you try them on. See how you feel.” Sales woman said.

I nodded. “I guess these in a size 8.” I held up a reddish-brown clog.

While I waited for her to return. I looked at my phone. I had forty-five minutes before I had to pick up my son at soccer practice. My eyes wandered to the display next to the dansko clogs. Doc Marten combat boots lined up a tiny corner of the front window. I reached for a pair of maroon combat boots, and traced my finger around the yellow thread around the bottom of the boot. My mind drifted to freshman and sophomore year of highschool. Obsessed with Doc’s, I wore them with everything, my school uniform, jeans, shorts, and even long dresses. Loved the echoes that followed my footfalls as I walked. Stomped. And I felt heard.

“I have a size eight and nine for you. They don’t come in half sizes.” The sales woman said.

I sat down.

She placed the shoes by me.

I pulled off my sneaker and slipped on the clog and walked around the store. One sneaker on and one clog, with each foot set in a different world, I hobbled around the store. I hated how I looked in the clog, and ignored how comfortable they felt. I didn’t wait for her to ask if I liked them or wanted to see another color or style. “I hate them,” I said. Still up, I yanked the clog off. I walked over to Doc Martens and asked for a size eight. “I want these.”


Those were the words that played on an endless loop in my head as I tried on the maroon boots. I want them. What I heard when she told me the cost. I want them. And when I asked to wear them out, and stuffed my sneakers in the Doc Marten box. I want them.

I didn’t think about how they were not in my budget. Nor did I think about the fact that I was forty and bought Doc Martens to wear like a seventeen year old.

A mother of two, financially responsible for three, owner of my apartment in Brooklyn, married, and a school teacher for seventeen years I have little space for rebellion. My schedule is rigid, packed tight by places to be and events to attend. I must show up. But, my Doc Martens are me showing up for myself, the biggest rebellion I have stomped for.

The Brave Essay I Wrote For Myself

Leave your soul on the page. Evelina Galang

Those were the words that struck me the most after my first experience at VONA, 2015. For two years, the words refused to peel themselves from me, certain there could be no better writing advice. But, then Evelina offered something else during VONA 2017. Words, not her own, but given to her, ones that moved me, and made me want to be brave.



Saturday night, my husband, daughter, son, and I went to a bookstore in The Lower East Side, called Blue Stockings. I left my daughter’s soccer game with a copy of Evelina’s Galang’s latest book, Lola’s House,tucked under my arm, ready to be signed by my two-time fiction VONA teacher. During the thirty minutes it took to drive from the soccer game in uptown Manhattan to the bookstore in lower Manhattan, I thought back to my week at VONA this past summer. The first time I saw a copy of Lola’s House, Evelina passed it around to the nine of  us, whom made up her class, like a proud mother. Later that week Evelina read from Lola’s House at the at the faculty reading. And I recoiled as these Lolas, Filipina elders, recounted their stories, of abductions and rapes. Their brave souls seeped out of the book, and settled in my chest. Women raped over and over by Japanese soldiers during WWII, referred to as comfort women, these Lolas survived being sex slaves. I wondered how they could speak about their pain, tell their stories, and not collapse under the weight of it all.

My story, a love letter to myself, nowhere as harrowing and graphic, yet being unable to speak it, pressed itself into a sharp edge, and cut at me. No, greater ache than a story untold. And in order to tell my story, I had to look at the oppressed and oppressor in me, my interactions in the world as a woman. No, great crime, no torrid infedility, just a betrayl of self. All in my quest to be noticed and wanted, never seeing that the reflection I most wanted to see was my own.

Little by little it leaves your heart. Evelina Galang

On the last day of class at VONA 2017 I read my writer’s prayer, and overcome with emotions. I wept. Buckled by the weight of years spent policing my words, being silent, as I choked under all of the things that I have left unsaid. Swallowed. And when I looked up, Evelina quoted one of her Lolas’ words: little by little it leaves your heart. First in Tagalog, and then in English. Filled with relief I sighed, as the echoes of all the Lolas invaded my heart, and believed that one day I too would be brave.

But, bravery does not happen in one single act. It’s little bitty acts, which build on one another, and bulge like muscle. And the heart is just that, a muscle.

In the web page, Inner Body I found this definition of Cardiac muscle, and at first it read text-book and boring, but after a closer reading. I saw the poetry that is the human body, the heart itself, something of great beauty. Cardiac muscle tissue is an extremely specialized form of muscle tissue that has evolved to pump blood throughout the body. In fact, cardiac muscle is only found in the heart and makes up the bulk of the heart’s mass. The heart beats powerfully and continuously throughout an entire lifetime without any rest, so cardiac muscle has evolved to have incredibly high contractile strength and endurance. And because the heart maintains its own rhythm, cardiac muscle has developed the ability to quickly spread electrochemical signals so that all of the cells in the heart can contract together as a team….

The fact that the heart beats powerfully and without rest its entire life, and that in order to pump the way it does it relies on the cardiac muscle tissue. A muscle tissue, individualized and wrapped around the heart to be strong, be fierce. Hearts, are made to seem so fragile, shattered, broken, and achy with pain, but the heart, the heart is so much more. The heart can grow strong again as you release your pain, the muscle will stregnthen.

Upset and unsure about a particular situation, I set out on Friday to write an essay that I knew I could not share on this blog. Freed by the fact that my essay would not be seen by others, and would live in my laptop, I wrote my bravest essay. Uncensored, the dark shadows that creep alongside my soul and mind, found themselves on the page. I dug. And when I thought I had exposed this other side of myself, I worried I would no longer be able to find my way back to the Connie that tucks and hides. Ashamed of the layers that had fallen by my feet with every truth I typed, I looked for a penance.

Penance from my VONA sisters, Yesenia and Elizabeth. A writing trio, bonded by our roles as mothers, wives, Latinas, and writers. I sent out a batman signal in form of a messenger text: I just wrote the rawest essay ever. My bravest one. Can I send it to you both? Quick were the responses of: Yes! Of course. I warned them that it was deeply personal, that I trusted them with my writing. What I meant was, please don’t judge. I wanted to be brave, like the Lolas, because I believed, little by little it leaves your heart.

But, to write an essay that kicks ass, you must write that sentence that is hard. That line that you shrink back from, the one you don’t even whisper to yourself in the dark. Ann Hood’s Tin House podcast on How To Write A Kick Ass Essay lists among her Ten Commandments on essay writing, that writing brave is the road to writing those essays, which take the writer on a journey.  The writer starts one way in the essay, but by the end they are someone altogether. And that is what I did.

After I wrote my last sentence Friday night, I hit save on my document, and shut my laptop down. The waves of truth forced me to stay awake. I waited for the relief to come. It didn’t, not until days later. Once truth and fear had been confronted. A new Connie has emerged since then, one not afraid to draft around the darkest corners of herself. And, yes little by little it leaves your heart.


Time and Teaching and Joy

This past week marked the first full week of teaching. Sixteen completed years. And, with the lapse of seven days came a greater sense of time, how it sifts through, and accumulates.

I have been obsessed with time for so long, can’t pin point when it started, but it started early. As a child I laid on my back, my Raggedy Ann and Andy sheets beneath me, my red-headed Cabbage Patch doll named, Cindy on my side, my arms crossed over my stomach, and ankles to match. I stared at the ceiling in a trance, and wondered where time went: how could movements, conversations, and incidents all disappear? They had to keep existing somewhere, on a perpetual reel, I hoped. If not it all seemed so unnecessary, irrelevant, and worthless.

And as a teen I was desperate for time to gain speed, weave in and out of the years that unfolded before. I gave many of my friends birthday cards, and inscribed my fear: one more year closer to death happy birthday! All around me I saw time dwindle, as if a joke about time and death made it cool and less scary.

In my early thirties I read this book called the Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. It was filled with great tidbits and quotes, but I lacked the motivation to search for my happiness. It did not seem important, my to do list had greater priority, and happiness seemed only to grace others, and not so much me. One quote in that book haunted me, seemed to whisper to me in the dark, and rattled my insides. The days are long, but the years short. I would sign my emails to my brother-in-law, Al, while he was in prison like that. And for a lot of his time inside, we wrote back and forth, about time. Time, he was serving, and the one slipping from my grasp.

He once wrote me: sis you sure love that line.

I responded with a simple: I do. But unsure why.

“The days are long, but the years are short.”

This summer I was the oldest group member in my VONA fiction section. Some, as young as twenty-three, the closet to my age, Salima at thirty-six, I was a few weeks shy of turning forty. The only married one and with kids, somehow I felt older than forty, but also younger in other ways. But, my fiction members saw, not what I lacked, but the abundance of my experience. And long ago, I realized if people expect you to be a certain way, you do what is expected, and I did. I dispensed advice like Lucy Van Pelt in Peanuts.



I wanted them to succeed, and sat next to every one of them: Amanda, Annie, Anum, Bobuck, Nia, Noelle, Ruben, and Salima, and in our conversations I left them scraps of myself, and listened to their story. At the very end of every conversation I told them one thing, which I had learned: time had legs, and it ran from you. Go! Do! I urged them all. I needed them to listen.

But, what we tell others is what we long to tell ourselves.


My last night at Las Dos Brujas I drank a beer at a local bar and spoke to Michelle and Tomas, both VONA alum I met in 2015, now we met again at Las Dos Brujas, two years later. Young poets I asked about their dreams and marveled at all the time that laid at their feet. I did what I had done at VONA, and urged them to see time as a gift, but one that quickened its pace with years. They nodded.

“You know,” I looked at both Michelle and Tomas. “Time has legs, it runs from you.”


I repeated myself again, knowing that poets follow the echoes of words.

They told me their plans.

I smiled. I urged. I reminded them time was on their side and not to let it slip.

“What about you, Ms. Time Has Legs?” Michelle asked.

I laughed. Stalled, as I waited for the puncture of my words repeated back to me to fade. “I’m going to write. Writing is my joy,” I said.

“Ok.” Michelle shook her head, her smile wide. “Because time has legs, Connie.”


This week as I drove to work and listened to an audio by Dr. Wayne Dywer he quoted one of my favorite books, one I read long ago, required reading for Sociology. The Death of Ivan Ilyich. A sophomore in college, nineteen at the time, I read the book on the train ride the day it was assigned, horrified. How could someone live their whole lives without purpose, and their last thought be a deafening scream, as Ivan realized time had slipped from him. The agony of wasted time a torture for Ivan and Tolstoy’s readers.


Suddenly some force struck him in the chest and side, making it still harder to breathe, and he fell through the hole and there at the bottom was a light…Just then his schoolboy son had crept softly in and gone up to the bedside. The dying man was still screaming desperately and waving his arms. His hand fell on the boy’s head, and the boy caught it, pressed it to his lips, and began to cry. 

Naive and young, I declared that I would never be Ivan. I knew what I wanted more than anything in my life. I wanted to write. This I was sure of.


Time has legs, and it runs from you. But, since I’ve spoken those words I have learned that there is more to it. Where you stand matters. And, if you are angled in such a way, those legs can look like more of a trot than a run. You can fool yourself. Stronger now, I can run alongside time. My own voice has been the shot in the air, the one that has signaled me to run.


Time seems to be everywhere. The trees are changing colors, the hues are subtle, only a few scattered leaves have fallen, but I notice. And like the seasons note the passage of time. School, notes the transition of time for me, a signal for me that another year has left me.  Seventeen classes, not including the two from summer school I taught those early years, before being a mom, When teaching felt new, like a coat. A coat, not broken into, no crumbled receipts in the pockets, loose change in the lining because of the small tear in left corner, and frayed cuffs.

I catch my reflection as a teacher, teaching sits on my shoulders, hangs off my arms, wraps itself tight around my chest. It’s familiar. But, it weighs on me.

On the first official day of school, I asked my students to write goals about what they wanted to accomplish this year. They had to write academic as well as personal goals, and while they shared their goals, written out in colored index cards. One particular student turned in my direction, and asked me what was my goal. I did not hesitate, and answered in one breath: I want to find joy everyday I teach. I wrote out my goal in black sharpie and placed it beside theirs.

Later that day, as I walked home from school towards my car, I saw a former student. Now, a freshman in highschool I asked him what school he attended.

“Stuy,” he said.

We walked next to each other the whole length of the block before we parted ways. But, not before I asked him about what he was reading, and how he felt about being in one of the best high schools in the nation. Shy and matter of fact about his accolades, I rejoiced for him. This was one of my favorite parts about being a teacher, my former students, and learning about their current lives. Not one student has failed to remember me, but sometimes I must slow down and stare at a former student’s face for a long time, their name always come back to me. And once I have a name, the memories come, flood and invade.

My oldest students are now twenty-six, some twenty-seven. They seem to stick closer to my memory, and I think about them, sure I have made a difference in some of their lives. And, while this fulfills me, I want something greater. I can’t help, but want to grow, and make my students proud of me. I want them to say: Ms. Meza was my teacher before… she went and followed her joy.

I recently got a writing mentor. He came into my life when I asked the universe to send me light and love. We have begun emailing back and forth.

Today I wrote him an email, I asked him if I could be so bold as to ask him when he realized that writing was his joy. I told him that I was eleven when I feel in love with writing, but only during these last nine months did it become clear, writing is my path to joy. And as I typed my email to him during the warm up of my son’s soccer game, I couldn’t help, but look up every other sentence. The bright blue sky above me, the hot son on my legs,  as ants crawled up my sandals, the world seemed perfect. I was content. Everything seemed to come together. Holden played soccer on the side, with my friend, Kristen’s, six-year-old daughter. Rubencito jogged the field with his knees high up in the air. My husband sat close to the sideline ready to cheer our son on, and I emailed my mentor about writing. I described the way the grass moved in the light breeze, and how shiny it looked under the bright sun. I confessed to him, writing makes me giddy, and forces me to look at life and those around me different.

Writers, write above your imagination. Laleh Khadivi

Laleh Khadivi dropped so many quotes and lines that fucked me up. In a good way. Her words, continue to unfurl from my mind, and they slant my vision, and I’m left in awe by her knowledge and wisdom.

I’m doing the work. I’m digging. I let Vanessa Martir words on the first night of VONA this summer guide me. Under the lamp-post by the restaurant, Copacabana I stood with V. She squinted her eyes in my direction, and said: “Connie, we are not so different. I’m no different from you. I made a choice to live this writing life… that’s all.”

Her words have played over in my mind, and I know she’s right.

And on Friday I was tagged on a post by one of the writer’s I studied alongside with at New York Public Library Cullman Scholar Writers Center, for a week in mid July, under Salvatore Scibona. Kelly, inspired by my weekly essays, has begun to write an essay a week, and created her own blog. Filled with joy, my eyes watered, and I knew for sure then, what I wished for at eleven, to write, was my path to joy.