family

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#instyle

SAMSUNG DIGITAL CAMERAHave you ever wondered where you get your sense of style from and why you choose to dress the way you do? As of today, after reading a piece – Women & Clothes. Discuss. – in September’s issue of Glamour, I found myself considering my own personal style.

Suddenly my thoughts raced back in time.

In my mind’s image, I see four young kids. Me, the only girl, and three of my brothers, two older and one younger, looking like quadruplets. Each of us had some version of long, blond hair, angular faces and blue eyes. But the best part of that image is that the four of us were wearing blue jeans and white t-shirts.

As that youthful tomboy, I wasn’t thinking about style. I just wanted something to wear that was functional while I crawled in the dirt, navigating my way through nature-made tunnels in the local park. Or, when, on hot summer days, I’d drop down onto my hands and knees, dirtying my clothes, when inspecting trapdoor spiders.

Without realizing it then or for many years thereafter, it was those no-nonsense blue jean days that had determined the way I choose to dress.

When I became a mom and started dressing Liz, my daughter, I began incorporating the concept of layering cotton shirts and blouses, not only for her, but for myself also, giving our outfits a more creative look. While she was dressed up in layers of colorful concoctions mixed with her personal style of pretty headbands and interesting necklaces, I preferred, and still do, simple layering of two or three different pieces of clothing over my jeans. Different colors. Different prints. As Liz grew, adapting her own style, she too maintained the layered look, only she preferred to add a touch of interest by using unique accessories and standout stylish shoes.

The clothing I wear, the clothing we all wear, tells our story. Mine is that I am a simple person, a person who lives one day at a time, not taking anything for granted, instead living, as best as I can, a positive, carefree, no-nonsense life style.

And so it is, today, the here and now, that when asked where I get my style from, not only does it come from my youth, being a tomboy, from the simplistic look of jeans and a t-shirt, but I also look to Liz, who has perfected a style that I adore, a style that is all the rage, a style I will continue to wear regardless of a season’s must-do, or don’t.

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A Boy. A Teen. A Birthday.

IMG_3021Those of you with teens know how it is, people exclaiming how hard life must be raising a kid within the realm of disobedience, rebellion, and all together a know-it-all attitude. A kid who doesn’t care about much, except themselves.

Well, I am here to say: Not in my household, not with my kid.

(Ok, ok, I admit nobody is perfect, there are days…… but today’s writing isn’t about that.)

Because today I celebrate Bradford Ramon Antonio. Today, he turns 15 years old.

Brad defies the term of what many people describe a teenager to be.

He is very conscientious, well-mannered, respectful, helpful, polite, inquisitive, and very aware. He’s a conversationalist, open to any discussion. Brad talks about his day, his life, his dreams, desires, and overall hopes about not only his future but the future of our world.

I am his mom.

And I am here to report.

Brad isn’t simply a teenager. He’s much more than that. His voice is as valid as mine. His perspective on life is his own. And like any teen, he simply wants respect, to feel valued and heard. To know that he is surrounded by love. Love of family, friends, and a joyful life. He wants to believe that when he falls there will always be someone to help him up.

Brad is a boy. Mentally and physically working his way through his teen years. Learning. Trying. Expressing. Enjoying. Succeeding.

And so today, today is the day, to say,

Happy Birthday, to the one and only, Bradford Ramon Antonio!

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Immigrant

IMG_5573Rudy was nineteen years old when he left Honduras and came to the United States for the first time. His dad had died a few years before and though he had no real reason to leave his homeland, and especially his mom, he knew the time had come for him to be proactive about his own future. Conversations began with a sister of his who was living in Shreveport, Louisiana, and very much willing to greet Rudy with open arms. Thus began the process of applying for a Passport and a Visa, which would allow him to travel out of the country. A month or so later, before boarding his flight, mom and son embraced, each feeling the weight of a heavy heart.

The Visa, stamped into his Passport, would expire four years from the issue date. But, within the four years he was only able to travel back and forth to the states in six month intervals. Meaning, he could not stay in the United States for the total duration of those four years, but rather use the Passport and Visa as traveling documents. After about five and a half months of living in Shreveport, Rudy decided he wanted to visit some friends in California for a few weeks, before heading back to Honduras. His sister helped him apply for an extension on his Visa, which would allow him to continue his travels until he heard back from them, either yes or no. Aside from filling out paperwork, Rudy was asked to send a copy of both his Passport and Visa and the original Immigrant Declaration declaring he was legally allowed to travel. All good, but also worrisome. Rudy was worried that without the mandatory Declaration to speak for him, if for some reason someone questioned him, he wouldn’t know how to explain himself. You see, his English skills were basic, at best.

Not to be deterred, Rudy boarded a greyhound bus bound for Orange County, California. At the immigrant checkpoint in El Paso, Texas, an authority figure walked up and down the aisle asking random people for some type of documentation. Passports, Licenses, ID’s and such. Two guys were taken off the bus, never to return. After that, the man-in-charge waved the driver on. Rudy felt relief, figured he’d make it through, no problem. Little did he know, he still had San Clemente’s checkpoint to conquer. But, because he wasn’t aware of what was going to happen, he slept sweetly.

“Excuse me, Sir?” he heard a voice say, loudly, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Sí,” Rudy answered nervously. He was asked to show his documents. He gulped, cast his eyes down towards his lap. Not because he was doing anything wrong or illegal, but because he was trying to figure out how to explain why he didn’t have his Immigrant Declaration paper. Rudy’s speech stumbled. Hand signals and basic words were how he communicated. But this didn’t help as he tried to explain himself to the officer. So, the authority figure waved his hand in a follow-me motion. Outside, in a small tollbooth-like office, a Spanish-speaking translator listened as Rudy told him about the extension for his Visa. There was no computer to check the validity of his story nor were there cell phones to make a quick call. But, maybe it was Rudy’s demeanor and honest tone, because the official cleared everything, believed he was in the process of extending his Visa, and wished him “Good Luck” in Southern California.

Shortly after he arrived to my birthplace, Rudy and I met, and began to have serious feelings for each other. Soon after that he got a call from his sister stating she had received an answer to his request for an extension. “They denied it,” she told him. And then, Rudy told me the truth. That he was no longer legal in the United States. Not surprisingly, I honestly didn’t care. In my opinion, in those early days, I felt immediately that Rudy was an honest and loyal person. And I completely trusted him when he told me I meant a lot to him. And, anyway, at that point, it was the romance that meant everything.

One day, as we were driving to my brother’s house down south, Rudy noticed the very familiar San Clemente checkpoint. He stared at those officers scanning cars, looking for people entering California illegally. He swallowed hard, just as I realized I had made the mistake of thinking my brother lived further north of the checkpoint. Rudy spent most of the visit taming his nervous ticks. But, luck was on his (our) side. He now jokes that it was my blond hair and my cute ’67 yellow Volkswagen Bug that allowed us to sail right through the span of immigration officers, without a second thought. We married about a year and a half later, not because getting him an Alien Resident card was our priority, which was a definite plus, but because we knew we were meant to spend our lives together.

Seven years ago, after we had been married for twenty-one years, with the encouragement of myself and our children, Rudy finally became a US citizen.

 

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tangled

IMG_0571The windows are shut tight, yet, the faint rhythm of music that gently flows from someone’s radio is swaying over the ivy-covered walls, seeping into the crevices of the window’s frame, into our home. Other than that, the outside world seems shut off from inside this small room. Peacefulness is felt, but it’s wrapped tightly around angst.

I am at peace in the quiet confines of my sanctuary, but I worry because my son worries. He’s concerned that Rudy and I are arguing because of something he did. Something that should not have happened. But I assure my son that the anger has nothing to do with him but everything to do with hopelessness.

Rudy is drowning. On some days. Floating on others. His mood is all over the place. Aimed at everyone. And no one. And all the while I am simply trying to figure out how to hold it all together. To maintain a sense of balance so that my son will believe that everything will be OK.

The ceiling fan spins slowly, round and round, tossing puffs of air towards me. Cooling me and my thoughts. But then, suddenly, I hear a door slam from somewhere at the other end of the house. And that’s when my toes curl, my feet stiffen, and my heart seems to skip a beat.

A moment later a child laughs and a puppy barks. Over and over. So much so that my mixed emotions fade and I’m tuned into the wonderment of what’s happening beyond my life.

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I’m an Introvert.

IMG_5263There’s an article going around on Facebook, you know the kind that always have a number in the title, like this one, 23 Signs You’re Secretly An Introvert by Carolyn Gregoire | The Huffington Post.

Well now, I zoomed right in, only to confirm what I already knew. I’m an introvert. And it’s no secret, unless of course you don’t know me, then well, maybe it is a secret, by default.

The article basically explains to the reader how to spot an introvert, that they aren’t always so obvious, and it even goes on to say how an introvert may not know they are indeed introverted. So here I sit, wondering, How is it that someone who’s shy, or withdrawn, or engaging with an inner hidden feeling of anxiety due to socializing, doesn’t know they are an introvert? I am guessing here, that the first ones to read such an article do so because it relates to them. Meaning, an introvert reads this article because it’s fun to read what they already know. Everyone enjoys things that pertain to them, personally. Right?

I’ve known forever, or at least as long as I began socializing, that I am an introvert. In my younger years, I was very uncomfortable with the prospect of being in situations with groups of people. Rather than engaging, I stood back worrying what everyone else was thinking and anxious about joining in. But as the years have passed, and though I still consider myself drawn-in, I socialize, hold conversations, and am overall content around others. Yet, rather than trying to be a person I’m not, someone others would probably feel more comfortable around, I have embraced my listening skills, rather than trying to overuse my voice. I now understand it’s okay to speak when I feel like it, rather than talking because others expect me to.

As a child, almost all my teachers told my parents I was too quiet, that I needed to participate more (that’s probably when I began to feel I wasn’t as awesome as everyone else seemed to be). And because of that, as a teacher of young kids, I never tell a student he or she needs to ‘come out of their shell’. They will discover their own voice, in their own time.

I remember being invited to a birthday party when I was about 10 years old. It was a sleep over, my first. And even though it should have been an exciting time, it actually brought out a tremendous amount of anxiety. Having to socialize and talk nonstop, tell secrets and giggle, was way too difficult for me. I never wanted to participate in that kind of gathering again. And I don’t think I ever did. Now, take me back to that time, but with the grown-up me, the person who now understands who I am, what I have to offer. I would have made the most of being an emotionally in-tune person. Also, time and again, it seems so many people are striving for what I, and many introverts, possess. Simply, quiet calmness. Someone who is balanced. A person who can interact with others when deemed necessary, even if it’s not always easy, but who is also comfortable being alone.

I suppose the article is simply bringing an introverts traits into the limelight, to our attention, so that we – well, not me – can be sure to understand the personalities of the quiet, or not so quiet, ones; the obvious introverts and the hidden kind, and make sure they are not overlooked but rather included, graciously.

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He Caught Me. Cheating.

IMG_2090Rudy has been, for the past year or so, questioning himself. Wondering if there is any meaning behind the fact he can’t just seem to find a job, in his field of expertise, or anywhere else. With every phone call about his resumé, listing his superior qualifications, to the several interviews, leading nowhere, he’s gone from a high of believing he can do anything to a low feeling he can’t.

People occasionally ask me how I am dealing with his situation, without much complaint. The thing is, I do complain, if that’s what you want to call it, to him, where my words should be aimed. I don’t talk in a way that makes things worse, rather I express how I am feeling, hoping he’ll understand that we are both affected by his lack of participation, in life. His desire to succeed has diminished. He’s frustrated, angry, and overall disappointed in himself. I handle it by looking beyond what I actually, physically see and go deep, observing what is not so apparent. Taking clues from what’s not being said.

The other day, Rudy and I were in the kitchen, talking, but not really, when he needed to tell me about a dream he’d had.

In the dream, he began, I saw you, hanging all over some young guy, your arms wrapped around him, and you were laughing, having fun. I never could see the guy you were with. He was so young, but you were you, the age you are now. 

As I was listening to his tale, trying to understand his reason for telling me his love affair dream, his knees suddenly gave out. He began to breathe rapidly and his eyes widened liked someone experiencing a traumatic, unexpected moment. He grabbed a chair, sat, and lowered his head between his shaking knees. He seemed lost, unsure. I thought for sure he was going to faint, so I walked over to him, coaxed him into a sitting position, cupped my hands on both sides of his face, and gently told him to breathe.

Slowly, I told him. Slow down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slow.

I wanted to calm him, soothe him, let him know everything was okay. But, also, inside my mind, behind all my kind words I wondered who the heck I had an affair with that caused Rudy so much turmoil. Once his breathing was, again, under control, he looked at me with eyes full of sadness, a kind of heartbreak I had never seen before.

The guy, he continued, never looked in my direction, and when I asked you what you were doing you shouted at me ‘That’s your problem, not mine!’ and that’s when the young guy finally looked my way, looked right at me. And I couldn’t believe who he was.

Again, Rudy cried, smashed his palms into his eye sockets. I stooped, rested my hands on his thighs, and waited for him to tell me more.

It was me! he shouted. It was my 21 year old self! You were having an affair with me!

Tears once again filled his eyes, reflecting the overhead lights, before splashing down his cheeks.

You? It was you? I asked, just to confirm.

Yes. Me. When I was probably only 21. When we first met. You were you, your age now, and you were cheating with me, but a young me, he answered.

That’s pretty intense, I told him.

All that I could think about was the symbolism within the dream. How it was full of meaning. His internal story. But, I didn’t say anything. I remained quiet, wondering what he thought about it. Yet, Rudy couldn’t control his crying. His blubbering. As if he realized the dream was trying to tell him something. I embraced him. Held him tight. Knowing this may be a breakthrough. A turning point. A new beginning.

And then he spoke. It means you miss the young guy I was, he told me. That I have left that not-a-care-in-the-world kind of guy, the ambitious one behind and have forgotten about him. And that is what you are seeking. The real me.

I do miss him, I honestly said, the person I met all those years ago. The guy I’ve grown up with. But, I needed to add, just so we’re clear here, if I was going to cheat, it’d be with you.

I laughed, but it was his smile that brightened the room.

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Grave Plots, Cremation, or Tibetan Sky Burial

IMG_1934I don’t know about any of you, but for me, when I die, I want to be cremated. Cremation is a choice I made many years ago, and have expressed as much to my family. I am not sure of the exact moment I decided this – was it after watching intriguing shows about death, like Six Feet Under, where the details of what to do with a body after a person dies is the focal point? Whatever the reason, what I know for sure, is that the idea of having my remains sprinkled into the strength of the ocean’s movement combined with its serenity soothes my soul.

When I was 16 years old, my brother Bill (one of my nine brothers) was killed in a car accident. At the time, amongst severe grieving, my parents purchased not only a grave site for my brother to be buried, they also bought plots for each member of our family, all thirteen of us. A little less than ten years after Bill died, my brother Scott passed away during a seizure. His body was laid to rest in a shiny casket, directly above Bill’s. And then about fifteen years after Scott, my Dad departed from this earth. He was quietly placed in the ground, next to Bill’s coffin, diagonal to Scott’s.

As one might expect, over the years, I visited the graveyard, and wondered which plot would be mine. Until I married and became a mother. Wait, I’d say to myself, while wandering over the low rolling hills. How do my husband and children fit in here? At some point, while considering options about where we should be buried, I also received, filled out and have carried around for what seems like forever, the organ donor card, which eventually became a permanent pink dot ingrained on my driver’s license. The want to be a donor furthered my thinking about where I wanted my body to go after I passed on. Ultimately, all this in-your-face information, and lots personal consideration, I knew, being a simple, no-nonsense, matter-of-fact person, that cremation is for me.

Simple. No-Nonsense. Matter-of-Fact.

And then, I was unexpectedly introduced to another, very raw and natural, way to finally let go.

Recently, I was reading Oprah’s June 2014 magazine (the theme being Age Brilliantly!) when I came across a snippet about reckoning with death by Caitlin Doughty, who also is the creator of the YouTube™ series “Ask a Mortician”. Interestingly, she talks about the ancient art of Tibetan sky burial, in which the deceased body is placed outside for vultures to eat and taken into the air with them. (Ms. Doughty does give more vivid details on her series – Episode Three, in case you’re interested). “It is one of my favorite death customs because it’s just beautiful,” she begins. “The idea of your body being taken apart and flown into the air is really powerful.”

Talk about simple, no-nonsense, and matter-of-fact.

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Mars or Family? Which Would You Choose?

mars-one-colony-astronauts-2As I was driving to work, listening to the antics of Heidi and Frank, this question was posed on KLOS 95.5, a radio station in Los Angeles, CA.

Would you? Could you? Is an unexpected-fantasy-come-to-life more important than the fate of your stable family union?

Mars One Project, a nonprofit organization, has been taking applications from anyone interested in establishing a permanent settlement on Mars, 10 years from now. In other words, applicants could be the winner of a one-way ticket to the red planet, establishing a new world. 200,000 people applied. 1,058 have made the final cut. 24 people will eventually be sent.

Among the 1,058 chosen is a 38 year old man from Utah. Problem is, he forgot to mention his desire to travel far and away to his wife and four children.

A light-hearted discussion ensued between Heidi and Frank, about the pros and cons. As I was listening, thinking about if it was me, and the husband was Rudy, and our children would be affected by their dad taking off forever, and while Frank thought it wasn’t that big of a deal, that the guy is just following his dream, and what is he supposed to do, not go?, Heidi stated, “…divorce him…”, just as I made the same claim out loud to myself in the confines of my car. The wife would need to begin thinking about her future without a husband, or maybe with a new one, someone she hoped to grow old with, hold hands with, share the end of her life with. The guy basically told his wife and family they are not his priority, so why stick around with someone whose choice is another life, a different path?  Frank considered the fact that it wouldn’t even happen for another 10 years, and that he may not be among the twenty-four finalists. So why punish him for a dream?

Would  you? Could you?

Mars or Family? Which Would You Choose?

(By the way, the wife did, or is planning to, divorce her husband, stating she didn’t want to stand in the way of his dreams.)

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Who Am I?

I like neatness,

yet,

here I sit,

in a messy room.

And I am fine with that.

I like quiet,

yet,

here I sit,

surrounded by sound.

And I am fine with that.

I like friendship,

yet,

here I sit,

without a friend.

And I am fine with that.

I like dreaming,

yet,

here I sit,

feeling dreamless.

And I am fine with that.

I like teaching,

yet,

here I sit,

without any students.

And I am fine with that.

I like marriage,

yet,

here I sit,

without my husband.

And I am fine with that.

I like the present,

yet,

here I sit,

thinking about the future.

And I am fine with that.

I like writing,

and,

here I sit,

without much more to say.

Except.

I like love,

and,

here I sit,

knowing,

 love surrounds me.

And I am grateful for that.

IMG_2036

 

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Parenting 101

There’s this fine line between disciplinarian and friend, when it comes to being a parent. Kids need rules, yet, they also need someone they trust. Someone to talk to. Someone like me.
I’ve never grounded my kids. Rather, I find quiet moments to talk about a situation, without making a big deal. Which in turn develops a bond between us. A solidarity.
One day, when Brad was at a friend’s house, I took the opportunity to clean his way too messy room. As the pile of clothing, and other junk, began to diminish from the top of his dresser, having settled back into the drawers, I spotted the Kindle Fire. I had forgotten about the electronic reader, as I had given it to Brad to use for school; so, for me, it was out-of-sight-out-of-mind. During the summer, he said he wanted to spent some time getting acquainted with the gadget, to just play with it, learn how to use it.
Sounded good to me.
I picked the Kindle up, which was tucked into the black leather jacket I had bought, to protect it. I stretched the elastic band off the cover, flipped it open, turned it on, and browsed through items Brad had downloaded. Just checking in, one might say. Games, Facebook, and a few magazines.
I should have guessed, but I hadn’t. Nor was I surprised. Or even mad, that one of the magazines included lots of photos of girls; young women, actually, in teeny-tiny swimsuits. HOT women, emphasizing breasts and rear-ends.
I laughed. To myself.
Later, when Brad was lounging on his bed, I walked in, asking how his day was. It was fun, he told me. And he thanked me for cleaning his room.
“Oh, and by the way, I was looking at the Kindle,” I began.
Brad gave me a sideways glance, narrowed his eyes, and smirked a bit.
“I saw the magazine you downloaded. The girls,” I continued.
He just looked at me. Waited for me to do some more talking.
“I see you have good taste,” I joked.
He smiled, and looked down.
“And, well, anyway, I have no problem with you looking at those pictures, but a word of advice.”
He waited, patiently.
“You need to delete them. The Kindle is for class books, for reading, and I don’t think your teachers would like those photos on campus.” I finished.
“OK,” Brad answered.
The night before his first day of school, I asked him if he had everything he needed. If he was all packed up.
“Yep,” he responded. “And, yes, the magazine has been deleted.”
I am sure he will not be surprised when another respect for women conversation drops into ours lives somewhere down the road.
I am building a lifetime with him. A trusting relationship, so that he knows that no matter what, he can always count on me.