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What’s a 5th grader doing with a condom?

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Alert! Alert! What’s a condom doing on an elementary campus? Who knows? Except for the kid, who was clutching it in his fist, dug deep into his pocket. Clutching it deep until he got caught. Not by a teacher. But by some other kids. Kids who screamed eeww! and gross! They kept screaming as they ran away, looking for someone to tell. As they were running, breathing deep, trying to get the word out, the kid quickly ran to the boy’s bathroom and flushed that plastic encased circular-shaped rubberized gadget – could it be considered a gadget? – down the fastest flushing toilet. Whew! he sighed. Gulp! he swallowed when he was approached just outside the door, by an angry looking adult, who whisked him away, straight to the man in charge.

During the lunch hour, an innocent kid, someone without a clue, but someone who was considered a witness, was asked what he saw. That poor kid felt nervous, didn’t know what to say, until, well, he just blurted that the other kid, the one who was in trouble, had something gross, something I don’t want to talk about. Oh, the poor kid. He just wanted life to go back to normal. Back to normal 5th grade things, like foursquare and climbing on the jungle gym.

The condom kid cried. Said he found it, at his home, in his much older brother’s truck. He didn’t think it was a big deal, until it became one. He thought it’d be funny, maybe blow it up like a balloon. Boy was he wrong. That’s not a funny, entertaining thing to do. Not at school, anyway. Not in front of adults trying to teach morals and values. No way. No how. Not there. But, oh my goodness, did that one little, or maybe it was big, condom start the buzz of conversation of other interested youngsters. Kids who were curious. Curious about things like that. Things like condoms, and what they are meant for. Oh geez! Later in the day, when all was dealt with, the kid, the one who caused all the ruckus, returned to the man in charge, full of tears and regrets. And was told to ‘never ever ever bring something like that here, to school, ever again. Never.’ Okay, is all the kid could say, a tear dribbling slowly down his cheek.

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call me

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Back in the day.

Long ago.

Five days after Rudy and I met.

He called me.

Called me at home.

Where I was living with my parents.

…

I’m almost certain we met on a Saturday night.

At a Tupperware™ party.

Of all places.

…

We talked.

We laughed.

I gave him my phone number.

…

So.

The next week.

When I said hello.

Talking into the house phone.

He murmured into my ear.

Do you remember me?

Of course I remember you, I said quietly.

…

We talked.

We laughed.

And agreed to chat again.

On the following Thursday.

…

Always on a Thursday.

…

On and on it went.

For several weeks.

…

Until.

One night.

We had an unexpected encounter.

…

We sat together.

We talked.

A lot.

About life.

…

As simple as that.

…

When he called.

Again.

After another week’s passing.

I agreed to an official date.

…

Because.

Well.

My instincts told me to.

Told me.

That Rudy was my future.

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best friends

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The classroom was in full swing. The party was on, and the students were enjoying themselves. They were laughing, talking, playing board games, reading, and eating brought-in high calorie snacks.

Pajama day is the coolest! someone hollered.

Under the table, behind the blankets, within the class-made tent, a secret was forming. An innocent secret, but an activity the teacher would never approve of. A girl kissed a boy. And the boy kissed back.

I have a secret to tell you, the young girl told her best friend. And don’t tell anyone!

Tell me! Tell me! the bestie excitedly responded.

Seriously, the young girl firmly told her most cherished friend. You cannot tell anyone what I am going to tell you! The two girls were standing under the shade of a tree, outside, near the playground. The classroom party had transitioned, under the day’s sunshine, thirty minutes before the end-of-the-day bell was going to ring. Cross my heart, her best friend responded, making an X over her rapidly beating organ.

I kissed him, she smiled. And he kissed me back.

Her friend responded in an expected way: surprised, curious, and maybe jealous. What the young girl didn’t know was that her best friend was already making plans about who it was she was going to tell this news to. That there was no way she could keep this to herself. So, when the school bell rang to signal the end of the day, she ran off to spread the news. Each of those people she told, told another person, and on and on. By the next day everyone knew the secret.

The young girl looked down, after giving her supposedly best friend a mean look, as she walked towards her teacher, who was calling to her, saying they needed to talk.

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siblings siblings and more siblings

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Sometimes, when I’m sitting around, in a group of, I don’t know, people discussing the subject of families, you know, the size of them, the effects of the first born, the middle child, and the baby I often hear the sentiments Oh, I’m an only child, there was no one to compete with someone might say, or Me? The typical middle child, I’ve been overlooked most my life, or What about the baby? Yep, someone will announce, I was spoiled and, of course, the oldest child pipes in with I had to do everything, help out and was expected to be the perfect role model. I usually just listen until I feel ready to contribute. And, of course, that depends on how much time I have, or how truly interested anyone is.

Say what!? most people exclaim when I casually tell them that I am one of 11 siblings. Oh, yes, it’s true, I tell them. I have 9 brothers and 1 sister. And then I go into my whole spiel. I guess I would be classified as the youngest, except I am not. I have a brother who is three years younger than me. Seriously, someone might say. Seriously, I respond. And of course they always want to know why my parents had so many kids, but, honestly I can only guess because I don’t know, that that is really something only they know the reason why. So wait, really 9 brothers? And what about your sister? Are you close in age? Really, 9 brothers, I say, in my mind, nodding my head up and down. And no, my sister and I are thirteen years apart. She’s number one, I’m number ten. I guess she’s your classic first born, someone who innately is able to take charge. Well, wait, I backtrack, I definitely have 9 brothers, but two of them have died. Both unexpectedly. Sometimes other people don’t add the lost sibling in their total count. But I do. I always do, I think to myself.

Life must have been crazy, loud, chaotic, an interested person may ask. Nope, I state. Not in my recollection. Everyone seems to basically have had a calm attitude. Just like my parents. And honestly, I’m guessing here, but I think a house full of no-drama-boys is a lot easier than a house full of chatty girls. I don’t know, maybe I am wrong, I think to myself. Then, someone wonders, You must have lived in a big house, with enough bathrooms? I shake my head. That would have been great, but no. Just a three bedroom house, and one bathroom. My brothers were piled on bunk-beds in one room, my sister and I shared another. Mesmerized listeners can’t seem to believe it. So, you’re one of the babies? someone asks. Well, sure, but I’d probably be, personality wise, more of a middle child. I’ve always figured, that with big families you really need to divide them up. In our case, by groups of three, although one group would be a foursome. Then kids are classified. First. Middle. Baby. But wait, let me think about that. No. Never mind. I take that back. I honestly don’t know how to divide us. Rather than first (well, okay, that one is obvious, and so is the baby) but there is no middle. Or are there? Middle kids? Yes. No. Maybe so.  Middle kids in big families are basically in the middle. Just that. Middle. Kids.

I can’t seem to fathom the idea of so many kids, someone lacking siblings may move the conversation along. Well, I state, honestly, when I was younger, I used to say, wholeheartedly, that someday I would have a large family too, that I would have 11 children. Wide-eyed people listen. But, you know, the reality is, as I came to that point in my life, the time to plan a family, it just wouldn’t work for me. I wanted to be able to give each and every one of my children my undivided attention. That’s hard when there are almost a dozen kids to attend to. Makes sense, someone states. But, I will say, I did enjoy growing up as a tomboy. Boys are fun. My brothers let me tag along when they were catching spiders and salting snails. And even though my sister, a teenager when I was small, never felt the urge to teach me her hair and makeup tips, she did let me tag along to the grocery store, letting me pick something, anything, I wanted to add to the almost full basket.

Just to clarify, someone questions So, where do you stand on the rung of first, middle, and baby? I think for a minute. I think about me. About who I am. About how I deal with life, with people. I seriously think about if I take charge, have I been overlooked, or am I the spoiled sort. And then I answer. I am a first born – I can take charge, but don’t need to be in charge. I am a middle child – It is easy to overlook me because I am quiet and reflective, yet when I need or want attention I will seek it. I am the baby – the youngest girl, that is. But, you might think being the second girl, being the baby girl, would have rewarded me tons of rewards, spoilage of all sorts, but it didn’t. Therefore, I think I can safely say, and truly believe, I am an accumulation of more than just a place within a large family.

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Are you with the one you are meant to spend a lifetime with?

Rudy and I have been married for 27 years. I’d say long years, because some felt that way, but mostly the years have zoomed along quite rapidly. Through our many ups, and our many many downs, we have managed to hold our relationship together for the simple reason we have chosen to. Most importantly, for us anyway, is that we really really like each other. So much so that when something negative intervenes into our life we, like many couples, drudge through the hard times, always smiling at each other when all is said and done. I really like you, I will tell Rudy. And I really like you, he will respond. Or vice versa. Maybe he says it first, and I am the one to reply. Either way, we know we are each others person, the one you can count on, for better or worse.

Back in the early days of our I Do’s, my nephew John once mentioned something about how Rudy’s last name Romero, and my maiden name Palmer, had the same meaning. I listened and understood what he was saying, and over the years had thought about the alignment of the universe in our world, but I never delved into what he told me. Not completely. During any kind of conversation, when people, mostly women, would speak about surnames, married names, maiden names, and any other kind of name, I would think about what John had told me, but never divulge the information. I held onto it, because, oh my goodness, what if I misinterpreted what he meant. That I was completely wrong. How embarrassing would that be? And every time I thought I should to simply search the information myself, to gather the truth fully within me I was always at the wrong place, at the wrong time. I never ever thought about it when I was working on a computer, or browsing through words in a dictionary. No, ironically, I would think about our surnames in the middle of a conversation with others, never in a place where the internet was running hot.

Never until a few days ago, in our 27th year of marriage; twenty seven and one half to be exact. I must have been thinking about Rudy and I, and our relationship, and how we always seem to forge ahead, maintaining what’s most important. Simply the fact we are together. That we are lucky enough to enjoy each others company. I am sure that was the moment I finally remembered to compare our surnames. I quickly turned on my phone, clicked on the blue Dictionary icon, and plugged in Palmer and Romero.

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So, I finally confirmed that not only are Rudy and I meant to be together, but our names tell us so. And, well, it seems we’ve been on some type of religious, or better suited to us, a spiritual, journey – together.  Now, I can have an open conversation about our pilgrimage, a journey of our destiny. Yay!

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homeless

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The first time I saw her she was an overweight, average looking woman, walking the streets in a small town. An old-style place, teeming with college students and retirees. She could have been someone’s mom, a parent visiting her child on campus.

Yet, the overloaded shopping cart, filled to the brim with what must have been her treasures, gave her away. She flailed her hands, using them to make a point, while she chatted with another weathered woman. Her laughter infiltrated my car, seeping into the half-open windows one breezy Autumn morning as I slowly drove by.

As the months passed, I would see her walking, sometimes sitting, and other times sleeping within the deep recesses of a curbside alcove. Her weight was diminishing, as were her once-chipmunk-cheeks, replaced by boney facial features and sunken eyes.

She’d begun to look like she’d lost herself, her identity, her spirit, her relationships. She’d walk up and down a quarter mile radius shouting to passing cars, bopping her head, talking to no one.

She was alone. In her world. In her mind.  She was a homeless woman who had lost her way.

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what do you do when a man cries?

You listen, of course. You listen to him tell you he can’t figure out what is wrong with him. Wonders why he doesn’t seem to care. About much. All you can do is listen until there is a pause, a break from his stream of words.

Then you tell him what you think. Where the problem might lie. You tell him that it is most likely not something current that has caused him grief, to give him the feeling of giving it all up. No. You tell him you believe it may have to do with a time long ago. During his youth. That for some reason, as a small boy, he seemed to feel not-so-very-loved. That specific moments could have dirtied his mind. Ingrained themselves into his psyche.

You also tell him that maybe he’s spent his life trying to please someone who is no longer around to please. You tell the crying man he needs to find it within himself to believe, to know, that he is indeed worthy. Worthy of everything he’s accomplished. And that if he can find it in his heart, his mind, and his soul to believe how valuable he is to the world. To his wife. To his children. He will feel rewarded. Happy. And full.

That unless he discovers his value, deep down, he will always have a hole where all the good things get washed out, plugged up by the bad.

It’s psychological you tell him. That it’s absorbed in his mind.

So, you make a suggestion.

Find that person in your memory. That person you’ve been trying to please. Find his face. And tell him you are okay. That you no longer need anyone’s approval. Only your own. And then you will see. Life will brighten. Feel lighter. Less harsh. And only then will you be truly happy.

In response, the tearful man will say to you, I think you are right. I think I am holding onto something from long ago. Something that is hurting me. Hurting my life. And my relationships. Then he will breathe deep. Wipe away the tears that have fallen. And embrace you. Hold you tight. Because you are the person he trusts the most.

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aggrevation gone wild

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Trying to be nice.

Kind.

Helpful.

Understanding.

Respectful.

Seriously trying.

Putting things into perspective.

Aware of the innocence.

Of the impressionable minds.

Yet.

Reflecting.

Wondering.

Why it’s so hard.

For others.

Regardless of age.

To do the same.

To return the respect.

That has been earned.

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The Best Thing I Learned From My Mom

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One afternoon, not long after Rudy and I first met, we drove out to Los Angeles, to an old-fashioned house complete with antique furniture, old-time dishware, and original wooden floors. To the house where my mom was living, where she was caring for her aunt. Rudy remembers being very nervous about meeting my sweet mom for the first time, not sure what to expect. Not sure how his broken English would sound. After introductions, and an offering of cookies and coffee, my mom carefully began asking Rudy questions. Questions about his life growing up in Honduras and about why he came to the United States, by himself, at the tender age of nineteen. Rudy seemed to have forgotten that his speech sounded very foreign, as both he and my mom laughed throughout their gleeful conversation.

I watched with interest as my mom would look Rudy in the eye and ask a nonthreatening question, naturally providing a level of comfort for Rudy, who not too long before had been wringing his hands, feeling anxious. Rather, he felt comfortable, knowing my mom truly was interested in what he had to say, resulting in his talking much more than he expected. His fear had disappeared, replaced by animated stories. Simple everyday, growing-up stories. Question after question, and not once did Rudy feel that my mom was being nosy or overbearing. Like the way any mom might be when questioning the boy who is dating her daughter. She was simply interested in what he had to share.

I looked at my mom. Stared at her, a gentle smile on my face. It was then I realized that that’s how I am with people. I ask questions because I care, and I listen because I’m interested in what they have to say. The best thing I learned from my mom that day was how easy it is to communicate with others. To feel engaged, without being overbearing. I learned that if you show even a bit of interest in someone, look them in the eyes, truly listen to their words, and ask questions to allow them to expand on their previous response(s), people will talk.

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the mellowing of a man

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Rudy has worked hard. Worked all kinds of hours. Hours throughout the day. Throughout the night. But now he finds himself at home, domesticated. Cooking. Cleaning. And caring for the kids, specifically Brad, who continues to depend on us. All the while I scamper off to work.

Rudy’s becoming more patient. Taking the time to talk. To really talk. To talk about feelings. Both good and bad. To talk a lot.

Tension is released.

For both of us.

An already deep connection deepens. Respect and friendship take on a new path. The stress of life is replaced with the joy of communicating.

He’s calming.

Embracing life in a simply simple way.

He’s engaging himself.

Enriching himself.

His being.

His psyche.

His approach.