I dumped out of the blogosphere after only a few months. I don’t have any real excuses except I got busy with other things and never returned to it. I look at it once in a while and check my stats. I have about ten views a week on one post or another. That’s more than I had when I was more actively blogging. I wonder what people are Googling that brings them to the site?
I hate admitting that I can be a bit of a dilettante. I start off great guns on some project or other and dive in so deeply that I overdose on the obsessiveness and inevitably flame out. Most times those short-lived hobbies have involved exercising and dieting–activities that lose their shine awfully fast. Blogging involves writing, an activity I enjoy very much. I didn’t think I’d neglect my blog for as long as I have, but I did. The “before pic” is none too flattering.
Life lately has been full of experiences that are devastating, ludicrous, or pretty wonderful by turns. I’m not sure any of it is blog-worthy. I certainly can’t commit to blogging every day or even every week, but no one says I have to. I’m a writer. Even if I’m not a very good or successful one, I’m still a writer. I write every single day. I teach it. I study it. I do it.
I enjoyed a big, fat lunch today. So I’m snacking on homemade and healthy kale chips while I write this. And okay, I’ll probably hit the gym this weekend. I’ll give it another go. Maybe I’ll blog about it.
A person in the online class I’m taking said something interesting. It’s a course on the “Politics of Narration.” So as expected, we are discussing “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin. In the discussion one person said that she thought the character of Richards–the friend of Brently Mallard–was “feminine” and “like a woman” because he was a “gossip.” Actually, if you go back and read the story, the character says nothing. Certainly he has been the purveyor of the bad (or good, depending on how you look at it) news that Brently has been killed in a train accident. At the turn of the century, certainly the newspaper biz was a man’s world. But here’s my gripe. The idea that he is a “gossip” makes him feminine? That’s a bad rap for women. I often hear people describe gossips as “viejas.” That’s a double whammy of a bad rap if I ever heard one. And look again….A vieja? Is gossiping just a woman thing?
I decided to catalog the people I know given to chisme. The most unrepentant chismosos I know are men. The women I know who do partake in gossip are a kind of bully. They wallow in the chisme, spread it around good and thick, because they are so unhappy in their own lives. Oh, yes, I know this to be true. It makes me sad and angry at once. Is it oh, just so human to want to gossip sometimes? I don’t know. It certainly feels wrong when we do it, doesn’t it? But I’ve gotta say, women do it and men do it. By the way, mean people suck.
At a soundcheck for the Macondo Writers’ Workshop reading on Wednesday, the Sterling Houston Theater was dark. A tiny spotlight darted across the space like an apoplectic bee. A figure entered stage left and the light expanded to reveal a radiant Sandra Cisneros.
“That’s the theme of this reading,” she told my daughter and me. “In dark times, art brings us light. Writing is la luz, the light, that transforms the darkness.”
That’s the story of Sandra Cisneros inSan Antonio—the tireless champion for literacy in our town who organizes readings, donates books and her all-too precious time to schools and libraries, and mentors other writers.
In passing, she mentioned there is much to do before she leavesSan Antoniosome time in the next eighteen months. I hadn’t heard that news. My heart sank, and yet I felt glad that she’d just come out and said it out loud.
For as long as I’ve known her, murmurs and gossip and strange fabrications have swirled around this celebrity persona of La Sandra. She seems almost ignorant of that fact and unwittingly counters the chisme with her simple truths.
But now begins the speculation about her certain departure. I dread the next couple of years could be a time marked by an attitude of “What’s-your-hurry-here’s-your-hat” as far as our collective anticipation of this inevitability goes. It’s difficult not to start thinking about the unthinkable—a San Antonio without Sandra Cisneros. [To read the rest of this, please click on the link.]
I’m old enough to have celebrated a quinceañera three times over, but I’m not as experienced as you might think with the traditional Sweet 15 celebration observed by Hispanic families in the United States and throughout Latin America. New trends are changing the soft, supple features of the quinceañera as we know it, eschewing schmaltzy sentimentality for in-your-face millennial-generation merry-making.
I didn’t have a quinceañera. Before anyone asks me to surrender my Mex-Am card, the quinceañera was not en vogue when I was growing up; moreover, it just wasn’t a financially feasible family project.
Around here, most of us have heard the story of La Llorona. Maybe some of us have even prudently, if sadistically, shared the story to deter younger siblings from swelling arroyos after a storm. Maybe we’ve even considered the legend of the star-crossed wailing wretch during this summer’s unexpurgated, unabridged Casey Anthony Carnival Cruise. Fact is, with the tragic stories of filicide in recent history, La Llorona has become the go-to metaphor folks pull out as if it were some novel idea no one’s thought of. It’s become as predictable as tomorrow’s rainless forecast. The irony is that what we can’t foretell or even begin to comprehend is a mother murdering her child. […MORE…To read the rest, please click on the link. http://plazadearmastx.com/index.php/culture/106-columns/1231-casey-anthony-is-no-la-llorona]
Last summer we received a letter from the state with a daunting directive. Seventh graders were required to have the Varicella (chicken pox) TDAP (tetanus, diphtheria, and acellular petussis), and the meningococcal vaccines.
I felt reticent to brandish my daughter’s bare shoulder for needles full of chemicals.We braced ourselves for weeks. The dread-filled pall of the doctor’s appointment hung over our heads, as did the amount of money we would be charged for all three vaccines—upwards of 300 dollars. Two words: necessary evil.
We’re in the blind-followers camp when it comes to the government. I’m less inclined to question and more inclined to follow the letter of the law. But this felt like a Big-Brother invasion of privacy—and an expensive one. For the first time in my adult life I researched a loophole.
That was my first mistake. I researched the diseases the vaccinations fend off—but not the CDC website itself. I walked around like a disease-ridden wretch, cursing the school, the state, diseases and vaccines. A little knowledge really is a dangerous thing. But information is power.
Lucky for us, our nurse practitioner was patient. My daughter chattered nervously with her for the duration. Before we knew it, she’d received all the vaccinations.
The nurse practitioner was where we received the best information one-on-one. She also directed us to the CDC website. My daughter asked a lot of questions and was suitably relieved that she’d not suffer unduly for her sincere efforts to follow the law. The nurse reassured us that the shots fend off untold troubles related to these diseases. Fortunately, my daughter did not suffer side effects. A little tenderness here and there was the worst of it. Priceless.
Now all that’s left to dread is high school. Ay, dios mio.
At the I-35 checkpoint between Laredo and San Antonio, I turn off the car stereo playing Marco Antonio Solís’ “O Me Voy O Te Vas.” I remove my sunglasses so the agents can see my eyes. I prompt my daughter in the backseat to put her shoes on and sit up tall. “Answer him clearly when he asks you,” I say to her.
“Okay, mom,” she replies, closing her book.
“And don’t say, ‘Okay.’” I tell her. “And no ‘Yeah.’ Say ‘Yes!’ Just like that.” I turn to my husband who is driving. “And, you, don’t joke with him,” I instruct. “Sit up straight, would you? Why didn’t you shave this morning? Oh, man, they are so gonna bust us!”
When the agent peers in, I feel myself transformed, my hair in two long black plaits, and my skin the caramelized pecan color of my forebears. “Please don’t shoot me,” I want to say. Instead I nod vigorously and squeak “yes” as if I’m responding for the first time to a new language. But it’s the same question I’ve heard hundreds of times before: “American citizen?” […To read more, please click on the link: http://plazadearmastx.com/index.php/culture/106-columns/1207-crossing-the-checkpoint]